Maarit laid a hand on her arm. “Come back with me to Udsek. We were headed there anyhow, before you were arrested. In a couple of weeks, we’ll check in with London again.”
“Isn’t everyone on the migration?”
“Alof, Jova, and Gaiju will be with the reindeer, but the village is never empty. We’ll have the goahti all to ourselves.”
The solution was reasonable, even obvious. “How far is Udsek from here?”
“About half the distance to Sweden, and I know every bit of the terrain. With the right equipment, we can camp on the plateau and never need to worry about being seen.”
“I can give you some of the deer meat I have frozen, enough for a few days, some wood for a fire, and a tarp. Just promise to report back here in a couple of weeks. I’ll radio the update in to Tronstad, and you can return my tarp.”
“I guess it’s decided, then. Udsek it is.”
* * *
The Hardangervidda, in winter a vast region of snow broken only by rocks and crevasses, no longer frightened her. They’d skied at a moderate pace since dawn, circumventing the dry ground, and when Maarit judged that Kirsten was fading, she called for a rest halt.
The sun was high, and Kirsten gazed out over the white expanse toward the distant mountains. Clouds covered their peaks as a harmless slash of dusty gray, dark clusters of hardy small fir or spruce on their flanks. The wind was mild and soundless, stirring up particles of ice that sparkled in the air. She squinted at the swirling specks of light that seemed like minute creatures. The vidda was being kind today.
They started off again, setting a rhythm of two hours skiing and fifteen minutes resting, and managed to cover some two-thirds of the way before Maarit called a halt. Though it was night, the snow radiated back the moonlight, creating a vast blue landscape and providing ample light to set up camp.
“Camp,” as before, was a shallow pit and a low wall that curved slightly over them. The tarp isolated them from the wet snow, and their deerskins, under and over them, as well as their winter coats, kept them from freezing. Automatically, they slipped into an embrace, back to front, with the exhausted Kirsten lying in Maarit’s arms.
“I see what it is you love on the vidda,” Kirsten said.
“Yes, its purity. It was here before the Germans, before the Norwegians and the Sami, too. It knows no evil.”
“It’s heartless, though. It kills you innocently while the Germans do so malevolently. Either way, you’re still dead.”
Maarit chuckled, and Kirsten felt her warm breath on her neck. “Probably why the Sami have their religion—Hahtezan, the winter night, and Njavezan, the fae of warmth and light, fighting for our souls. And don’t forget Aigi, the crippled boy who fights the darkness and takes back the magic waters.”
“I haven’t forgotten him. Poor little guy. His facing Stallu the child-eater makes me appreciate how easy I have it. I have only Germans to worry about.”
“The Sami would say a little bit of Aigi and his fox lives in you.” Maarit tugged her tighter.
“Nice to know you see Sami virtues in me. Since your family took care of me, I’ve felt part of them…of you. Of the reindeer, too.”
“Reindeer. That would be me.” Maarit snickered and kissed the back of Kirsten’s head. “Now let’s try to sleep. We have another eight hours of travel tomorrow.”
* * *
Eight hours was a good estimate, for after seven, Maarit halted. “There it is, Udsek,” she announced, pointing with her chin toward the east, where a few black dots were just visible in the distance.
“You’ve got an awfully good eye. I never would have spotted it.”
“I know it because we passed a frozen stream a while back, the one we use in summer, and I recognize those rocks over there toward the north. If you look closer, you can see a few lines of smoke. The people will be keeping by their fires.”
They skied on for a while as the sky darkened, and Kirsten half expected to be met, if not by one of the villagers, at least by barking dogs. But all was silent, and the first goahti they passed was empty. So were the next two, and only when they reached what was more or less the middle of the settlement did someone step out in front of them.
She recognized Aibmu, an elderly man who owned no reindeer but served the community by building sleds and traps. He held a lantern up in front of them to identify them.
“Maarit,” he exclaimed. “And Kirsa.” He used his own variation of her name.
“We’re here only for a couple of weeks. And if the herd isn’t too far, we might join Alof and Jova.”
Aibmu dropped his glance. He spoke in Sami, but his gesture was clear to Kirsten. They were to follow him.
Maarit held back and pointed toward her own goahti, but Aibmu took her by the arm and shook his head ominously. Something was wrong, she translated to Kirsten.
“He says his wife will make us coffee, and he has news to tell.” Her tone suggested she was ill at ease, too. Removing their skis and dropping their packs outside, they stepped inside the hut after him.
He spoke to his wife, whom Kirsten knew as Livli, and Kirsten recognized the words for coffee and bread.
Livli’s expression changed rapidly from cheerful surprise to solemnity, and Kirsten was suddenly filled with dread.
They sat on the left side of the fire while Aibmu took up his proper place on the right, and Livli set a tiny battered pot on the fire. No one spoke, which added to Kirsten’s fear, and she let Maarit take the lead in finding out what was wrong.
They sipped their bitter coffee and stopped the rumbling in their stomachs with bread dipped into the salty brew. After what Maarit obviously judged to be a polite length of time, she spoke.
“Alof and Jova are with the herd? Is Gaiju with them?” They were all phrases Kirsten understood.
Aibmu dropped his glance again. “Gaiju lives,” he began. “He was not here when they came.”
His answer made no sense. “When who came?”
“The Germans, because of the dead soldiers.”
“Alof and Jova.” Maarit insisted, her voice dull with dread. “What happened to them?”
Aibmu narrated slowly, gesticulating and shaking his head.
Ashen, Maarit explained in Norwegian. “He said the Germans came, looking for their two men. They threatened to burn down everything if no one talked. So someone, he didn’t say who, told them what Jova had done. The soldiers shot Jova and Alof too, then went with their machine guns and killed all the deer that were anywhere near. About fifty. When Gaiju returned the next day, the people buried Alof and Jova, then started the migration early. They were afraid the Germans would come back to shoot the rest of the deer.”
“How could Gaiju leave that way after losing his family, as if nothing had happened?” Kirsten asked.
“How could he not leave? The deer are all he has left, and he wouldn’t have known we were coming back.”
Aibmu was speaking again, and it appeared he was offering to shelter and feed them both as long as they needed. Livli nodded, her expression full of concern.
To Kirsten’s relief, Maarit shook her head and made some explanations as to why they couldn’t accept. She set down her cup, and Kirsten followed suit, leaving the expressions of sympathy and bereavement to the Sami.
Aibmu handed her the block of desiccated reindeer meat that hung from a hook near his shoulder, and Livli added a bundle of roots for firewood.
Maarit accepted the gifts, and murmuring thanks, she stepped through the door with the bundles cradled in her arm. Stunned, Kirsten repeated the thanks and followed her out.
Their goahti was at the other end of the village, and they trudged toward it without speaking. Once inside, they found a reserve of firewood to supplement the gift from Livli and began the practical tasks of starting a fire. They still carried food from Skinnarland, but neither one was hungry enough to prepare a meal. They sat, side by side, staring at the low flames.
“All this…” She swept her h
and across the bread stone, the pots, the utensils. “These belong to Jova. She should be making bread here. And look, there’s Alof’s pipe and tobacco pouch. He should be sitting here, smoking, telling his stories.” Her lips began to tremble.
Kirsten could think of no words of comfort and simply leaned against her shoulder.
Maarit’s voice was tight. “I want revenge for this. Simple revenge, even if I do it alone.”
“You’re not alone. Do you understand? I’m your family now.” She brushed back a strand of Maarit’s hair. “We’ll have revenge by staying with the resistance, through Milorg or SOE. It makes no difference.”
Maarit nodded. “Yes. To force the Germans out of Norway. But it won’t bring anyone back. We’ve lost so much.” She stared into the middle distance.
“We’ll start over. Together.”
“Start over. I’m not sure what that means, now. I don’t know how many reindeer I have left, but I certainly can’t make a living from them. And I can’t see being a full-time herder, anyhow.”
“Then stay with me. I want you to live with me instead of a Sami husband. What was his name?”
“Niilas. Stop worrying about him. He’s a decent man with a trade and doesn’t have a herd to care for. I wouldn’t consider being with him as long as I have you.”
“I understand. We have so many things to work out, but those decisions will have to wait until the end of the war. The important thing is that we have each other.”
Maarit lay down and pulled Kirsten close to her in the way they were used to sleeping. “Promise me you’ll stay?”
“Yes. I promise. With all my heart.”
* * *
Still half asleep, Kirsten sensed Maarit sliding out from under the covering and drawing off the tattered Norwegian sweater Poulsson had given her. Fully awake, she turned on her side to gaze at her. Half dressed, Maarit began to rummage through a battered chest at the rear of the hut.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for something to put on that doesn’t stink. Ah, this will do.” She drew on a gray sweater. “This was Jova’s from years ago. It’s had plenty of time to air out.”
“Anything there for me?” Kirsten sat up, drawing the blanket around her shoulders.
“Let’s see.” Maarit’s hands were busy inside the chest. “Yes. Try this on.” She tossed over a blue gakti Kirsten hadn’t seen before. Embroidered bands in red and yellow ran along the yoke and around the bottom of the sleeves. Best of all, it was unstained by soil or the various reindeer excretions that covered the herders’ work clothes.
“Was this Jova’s, too?”
“No. Alof’s. His wedding gakti. Looks like they never threw out anything.”
Kirsten drew it over her head. The shoulder seams hung low, and the sleeves were a bit too long, but Alof wasn’t a big man, so the fit was tolerable. “It’s very handsome,” she said. “I feel a little guilty expropriating it.” She stood up and slid her legs into her trousers.
“Don’t. Alof liked you. He might be a little shocked that it would go to a woman, but in the end, he’d be glad it stayed in the family. Anyhow, it means we can wash our undershirts and hang them out. The weather’s good, so they’ll dry without freezing. And when we return to what you call duty, we’ll change back into the other things so as not to attract attention.”
“So, we’re setting up household?” Kirsten knelt down again beside her and examined the other objects in the kitchen area. It had always been Jova’s domain, and without her death, they never would have dared to investigate what it held. Now she saw the iron pans, a stack of carved wooden bowls, a can holding utensils both modern and traditional. “Remember, we promised to report back shortly.”
“Don’t worry. I wanted to check in for news of my family and the herd, but now that I have no family, we don’t have much reason to stay. As for the herd, I won’t even know how many reindeer are left until Gaiju returns in the fall. After we’ve rested a few days, we might as well go back to Skinnarland and radio to London that we’re reporting in for duty. And if your SOE has no work for us, we’ll join Birgit and the Rjukan resisitance.”
“Fine with me. So, what should we do in the meantime?”
Maarit glanced around them, as if searching for tasks that would be purposeful. “Well, obviously the goahti could use some repair, and that will take a few days. And of course, we’ll need another to wash and mend our other clothing.”
Idly, she rummaged through the contents of Jova’s storage chest, and as she held up a leather sack full of flour, her face brightened. “Why don’t we make bread? Jova would be pleased.”
The bread, though not up to Jova’s standards, was satisfactory as a supplement to the dried meat Livli had sent back with them. Kirsten ate, pensive and adrift, and it seemed to Kirsten that Maarit felt the same way. They had both ached for a homecoming of some sort, after their life-threatening struggle, and had come home to a vacuum. The whole trip back to Udsek had been a waste. The lack of closure to the events of the past weeks was soul-killing.
Kirsten lay back in Maarit’s arms and said what she was sure Maarit was thinking as well. “If only we could have said good-bye to them.”
Before Maarit could respond, they heard a voice outside the goahti door. “It’s Aibmu. Can I come in?”
They both sat up. “Yes, of course,” Maarit said.
He stepped inside but remained standing. He spoke Sami, but Kirsten recognized the names and the sense. “Some of the elders are sitting at my fire. Old Tuovo and Paavik and their wives. Will you come?”
Puzzled, Maarit agreed, and they followed him across the largely abandoned settlement to his place.
Entering his goahti, they found a circle of neighbors sitting shoulder to shoulder around the fire. Most were elderly or otherwise unable to join the migration. Nodding greetings to everyone, they sat down, and Kirsten studied the somber faces, wondering what the occasion was.
Old Tuovo, the senior member of the village, spoke. “We want to joik. For Alof and Jova,” he said in Norwegian, presumably for Kirsten’s benefit.
“Joik?” She turned to Maarit. “To honor them?” She knew only that it was a Sami way of chanting, but its purpose was a mystery to her.
“Yes, but also to summon them, to bring them back to our minds. It’s a sort of ritual magic.” Maarit gazed around at the gathering, obviously pleased.
Tuovo added, “Our tradition tells us the fairies and elves gave the Sami the power of joiking in a time past remembering.”
Maarit elaborated. “When the Norwegians Christianized the Sami, they said joiking was savage and a sin. They associated it with the shamans and their magic spells. In a way, they were right, about the magic, I mean.”
“Are they supposed to summon people who have died?”
Tuovo tapped the cinders out of his pipe. “No. They can also summon to mind a living person, or an animal, or a sacred place. But tonight, we want to bring Alof and Jova.”
After a few moments, in which the only sound was the crackling of the fire, Aibmu began. He chanted in Sami, but Kirsten heard the name Alof, and between chants of lo…lo and a sort of tuneful mumbling, she seemed to hear the replication of Alof’s chuckle and his cough, and recognized a few words that seemed to describe him. To her surprise, when she closed her eyes, she could even visualize him, with his pipe and his piercing, intelligent glance.
The joik came to an end but was immediately taken up by Livli, and it was soon clear that she joiked now for Jova. Words came through for “bread” and “hands,” and in the middle of what seemed meaningless luuling and laaaling, she heard the unmistakable replication of Jova’s infectious cackle. For a brief moment, and with closed eyes, Kirsten could imagine her close by, making bread.
It seemed the chanting was over, and Kirsten watched Maarit for a signal that they should leave, but to her surprise, Maarit, too, began to hum. Kirsten recognized none of the features she imitated and only a few words, such as “bra
ve” and “steadfast,” and it wasn’t until the end, when Maarit’s eyes glistened and her voice broke, that it became clear she joiked for her mother and brother.
Kirsten’s eyes also filled. No valediction or eulogy could have been as moving as those three solemn joiks, to call back the souls of four brave and good Sami who had fallen to war.
* * *
Five days later, they rose just before dawn and set out from Udsek, just as the winter sun rose for its brief appearance on the horizon. The cabin at Lauvhøgdi was over a hundred kilometers away, and they wanted to make good use of the light. They carried deerskins and Skinnarland’s tarp, and so made the distance in two days, with a single sleep-stop midway.
They arrived at the cabin in the late afternoon, pleased to see smoke trickling from the chimney. When they thrust their skis into the snow and pounded on the door, Skinnarland opened it, appearing surprised but obviously preoccupied.
When they were all inside, they saw a new man on a stool warming himself at the stove.
Skinnarland pointed with his chin toward the stranger. “This is Terje Martinson, head of the local Milorg.” He turned to address Martinson. “These stalwart fighters are Kirsten Brun and Maarit. Sorry, Maarit. I don’t know your last name.”
“Quite all right. We’d prefer to be known as Chemist and Reindeer anyhow.”
The three of them shook hands, and Skinnarland fed another few sticks into the stove. “I’m surprised to see you again so soon. No one would have thought badly of you if you’d stayed on with the Sami or gone onto Sweden.”
Kirsten sat down. “We’ve no reason to stay at Udsek. We wanted to report back for duty.”
“That’s fortuitous, since the planning’s been moved up, and we were just discussing how to structure the newest action.”
“Ah, so there is a new action.”
“Yes. Our sources tell us that production of heavy water is up, but since the Germans assume we’ll attack the plant again, they’ve decided to move its remaining supply to Germany. In fact, movement seems imminent. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let me radio Tronstad and let him know you’re here reporting for duty.”
To Sleep With Reindeer Page 18