Then he added, “You look like honest Savo folks. From the north I’d wager.”
Father nodded and shook hands. “That we are,” he said.
Black Jack invited them inside. Along with a pile of dirty cups and plates, his kitchen table was cluttered with woodworking tools. The air smelled of freshly planed pine, and curled shavings were piled up around the table legs. A lard can beside the table served as a spittoon, while a second can at the foot of his bed stank like a chamber pot. The only other furnishings were a cooking range, a three-legged table, and two half-log benches.
“Coffee?” Black Jack offered.
“No thanks,” Matti said as Black Jack wiped out a cup with his shirtsleeve and filled it from a stained iron pot. Matti tried not to grin as Father struggled to swallow the thick black brew. Even less appetizing was an open kettle of stew that looked as if it had been standing on the stove for many days. Black Jack saw Matti looking at the food-encrusted sides. “You hungry? I keep a stewpot cooking all the time. When it gets low, I just toss in more venison and potatoes.”
When Matti shook his head, Black Jack poured himself a cup of coffee and said, “What brings you fellows to Sampo Lake?”
“We’ve filed a homestead claim,” Father said.
“I suppose those fools in the courthouse forgot to tell you about the swamp on the north shore, eh?”
Father nodded his head sheepishly. “I should have looked closer,” Father said, “but when I saw Sampo on the map, I couldn’t resist.”
“That’s why I came here myself.” Black Jack grinned. “I figured a Finlander had no choice but to settle in a place named after the Kalevala. It would be a lot quicker for you fellows to row across the lake. If you’d like to borrow my boat to haul your tools, you’re welcome to it. It’s no more than a half mile across, and it would save you the trouble of wading through that bog.”
Black Jack showed them to the edge of the lake. Three large boulders were set in a half-circle beside his overturned boat. Each was supported by three smaller stones. Matti said, “You must be from the east?”
“That so?”
“We studied pictures of stone cairns like this in school.”
“This is just my little rock pile,” Black Jack said.
As they helped Black Jack turn his boat over and push it into the lake, Matti stared at the weird stones. They looked too heavy for five men to lift. Black Jack might pretend that this was just a rock pile, but Matti’s teacher had told him about ancient monuments like these, built by Finns said to have magical powers, and to worship animals and trees.
Black Jack poked a pair of oars into Matti’s stomach and said, “Make yourself useful.” After Matti and Father had loaded the boat, Matti climbed into the stern and fit the oars into the oarlocks.
As Father pushed off the boat, Black Jack said, “You fellows take all the trips you need. I’ll row her back the last time.”
It took Matti only fifteen minutes to row across the bay.
He nosed the boat into the one pocket of sand in the rocky shoreline. Father jumped out and jerked the bow forward, nearly tipping Matti out of his seat. “Have you ever seen a finer piece of land?” Father called.
Matti turned to look. Nearly every stick of timber had been cut down. Matti was used to the green slopes of Puijo and the stately pines that surrounded Lake Kallavesi, but this shore was a tangle of brush and hundreds of gray stumps. The few big pines that were left stood on a rocky ledge to the east.
“Why didn’t the county office tell you this land had been logged off?” Matti asked Father. “They let you file a worthless claim!” But Father was striding up the hillside so fast that he hadn’t heard a thing. “You’ll just have to return to the courthouse and explain the mistake,” Matti called.
Ignoring the brush and the clouds of mosquitoes, Father knelt halfway up the hill and touched the matted grass. “Look, Matti,” he said, “a deer bedded here last night. There must be game everywhere.” His eyes scanned a forest to the northwest. “There’s birch for firewood and pine for a log cabin.”
“But what about these stumps?” Matti frowned at the rocky, root-laced ground.
“We’ll plow between them,” Father said, turning his eyes to the west. “And look at that low cedar swale.”
Matti smacked two mosquitoes on his forearm.
“Cedar means logs for our sauna, and birch means vihtas aplenty,” Father said. Matti finally smiled at the word vihtas. Father was famous for the fine sauna whisks that he tied out of birch branches.
On their way back to the boat, Father praised everything from the “gentle slope of the ground” (in Matti’s opinion, steep and rocky) to the “perfect pitch of the goldfinches” (Matti heard ordinary birds). He stood at the water’s edge and placed his hands on his hips, and said, “We even have our very own beach.” Matti shook his head. Father’s “beach” was a five-foot-wide patch of sand surrounded by lichen-covered boulders.
It took four trips to row their tools and supplies across the lake. Black Jack came along on the last trip. “I’ll troll a hand line,” he said, “and catch us some dinner.” Though Black Jack smelled worse than his crusty old stewpot, he did catch two gold-speckled walleyes. Every time Matti splashed an oar, he cackled, “Thanks for the shower.” Matti felt like telling him that a little water would do him good.
When they got to shore, Black Jack knelt at the water’s edge and ran a short piece of twine through the gills of the fish. Then he tied the line to a root. “Now you and sailor boy will have fresh fish waiting when you get back.”
Matti jerked on a logging chain that he was dragging up the bank. The hook hit his shinbone. “You all right?” Father asked.
“I’m fine.” Matti clenched his teeth together and tried not to limp as he felt blood run down his leg.
As Matti rowed back to Black Jack’s cabin, the pain made him pull crookedly. “If Mutti Boy had captained the ship that brought you to America,” Black Jack said to Father, “you’d still be trying to make landfall.” Matti ignored him and rowed as hard as he could. He hated Jack’s evil laugh. “Mutti Boy”? What right did he have to tease him about being a captain? Only Wilho could do that. Wilho was kind and good and everything that this man was not.
Black Jack caught a bass for his own dinner on the way back to his cabin. After Father thanked him for his help, he and Matti parked their wagon under a big pine and unhitched the mules. Katie planted her feet and refused to move. When Father tried to pull her forward, she jerked the bridle out of his hand and trotted back to the wagon. “Why don’t I start down the trail with Maude first?” Matti said. “Katie might decide to follow.”
Matti’s plan worked, and Father said, “That’s using your head. As the old saying goes, One hour of thinking equals two hours of work.”
As they passed by the depot at Sampo Junction, Eino Saari called, “Good luck swimming through that swamp.”
The road was covered with the cleft tracks of deer, and huge pine stumps stood on both sides. It was easy traveling at first, but suddenly the road narrowed to a shoulder-wide trail.
Father studied the thick stand of spruce that loomed ahead. The ground was cool and mossy, and the air had a fresh pine smell. Chickadees twittered in the shade. Matti would have enjoyed the relief from the heat, but the mosquitoes and gnats made it impossible.
As Matti swatted the bugs away from the brim of his cap, he heard a loud snort. Katie jerked back and brayed hoarsely. A huge cow moose and her gangly-legged calf stood no more than thirty yards away. The moose flicked her black ears and stared. The calf had enormous ears and a huge, blunt snout. “There’s a face only a mother could love,” Father said as the cow led her baby away.
Soon they were slogging through ankle-deep mud. Just as Father said, “This isn’t too bad,” they reached a still pool. Father probed the water with a stick and frowned. “We can’t risk one of the mules breaking a leg.” He peered toward the higher land to the north.
“Ma
ybe we should leave the mules at Black Jack’s?” Matti asked.
“We need them to skid our cabin logs,” Father said. He stared at the swamp. “It looks like our only choice is to go around.”
“Through that?” Matti grimaced at the twisted mass of tamarack and alder. His shin was throbbing from the cut.
“Sisu.” Father winked. “After coming all the way from Finland, we can’t let a little detour slow us down.”
An hour later Matti’s face was swollen from bug bites and cut from thrashing through branches. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and his pants were spattered with mud. He was ready to give up hope when he saw a glimmer of blue.
A few minutes later Father and Matti knelt at the shore and splashed water over their faces. Matti cupped his hands and drank deeply. “Leave some water for the fish,” Father said. To cool the bites, Matti dipped his whole head under. Katie waded into the lake and plunged her nose in, while Maude drank more delicately, wetting only her front feet before she tasted the water.
While Father was looking over the property again, Matti soaked his handkerchief in the lake and rinsed off his bloody shin. Though the cut wasn’t deep, a red-and-purple lump had swollen up.
“We’d better make camp before dark,” Father called. He chose a flat area between two white pines that was carpeted with fallen needles. To make a lean-to they cut a ten-foot-long pole and nailed it between the trees. Then they tied a piece of canvas around the pole, stretched it at an angle toward the ground, and weighed down the end with rocks. Finally they piled their tools and supplies under a second tarp.
“Do you want to clean the fish or build the fire?” Father asked.
“The fire.” Matti hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He gathered some fist-sized stones from the shore and arranged them in a ring. Then he collected birch bark and a pile of dry twigs and branches. A single match got the blaze going. Father set a flat rock inside the fire ring for his copper coffeepot. Though Mother had to leave all her cookware back in Kuopio, Father had insisted she bring their coffeepot. “Why don’t you do the honors?” he said, tossing Matti a sack of coffee beans and clamping his coffee grinder to a log.
“No wonder that pack was so heavy.”
“A man can’t live without his coffee,” Father said.
“But you just had a cup with Mr. Black Jack,” Matti teased.
“All the more reason for you to get cranking. I can’t wait to clear the taste of that awful mud out of my mouth.”
When the fire had burned down to coals, Father got out a cast-iron pan and dumped in a scoop of lard. Fresh walleye fillets were soon sizzling. Next Father sawed off a hunk of rye bread from the loaf that Mother had sent, laid a golden-brown piece of fish on top, and handed it to Matti.
The smell of birch smoke and the hot iron pan made Matti homesick. On summer days his family used to have a fish fry on the shore of Lake Kallavesi. They cast their lines from shore and swam and played. Toward evening Father built a fire, and Wilho told stories. Matti could see his uncle walking up from the shore. “Give me a plate quick, Helmi, before Kapteeni eats up all the fish.”
When supper was finished, Father sat back against a pine tree with a contented sigh. He pointed up the hill. “Our house will go there,” he said, “and”—he waved his hand back to the left—“the hay and horse barns there. But we’ll put the first and most important building right here beside the lake.”
“Our sauna,” Matti said.
Father smiled.
In Finland their savusauna, or smoke sauna, had been built by Matti’s great-grandfather out of hand-hewn logs and stone. For four generations Matti’s family had used that same sauna as a bathhouse. Over the years it had also served as a gathering place on Saturday nights, a birthing room, a place to heal the sick, and in sadder times, a room to prepare the dead for burial.
The sky was lit with purple-pink streaks of light, and the treetops burned red gold. “The daylight hangs on just like back in Kuopio,” Matti said. Matti had loved to climb the old wooden tower on Puijo. With the sun still at his back, he used to watch the moon rise over the green islands of Kallavesi. The whole sky glowed as rowboats made their slow way home, and the tall steamships from Savonlinna turned to silvery ghosts on the horizon.
“It’s like the land of the midnight sun,” Father agreed. “And there’s a sight sent straight from heaven.” He pointed toward the tallest of the pines. “That tree reminds me of the golden fir of the Kalevala. Remember the one with the flowering crown that Väinö felled to bring light to the world?”
“How could I forget?” Matti said, grinning at how Father called the epic hero Väinämöinen “Väinö.” As if he were his personal friend.
“We’d better sack out,” Father said, “if we intend to skid logs tomorrow.” After checking to see that the mules were safely hobbled, they washed their faces and brushed their teeth with rough birch twigs. Then they rolled out their blankets on the pine straw. The lake was silver black and dimpled with rings from fish that were rising to take bugs.
Matti was so tired that he didn’t even bother to unlace his boots before he lay down. As he closed his eyes, a mosquito droned past his ear and landed on his temple. Matti smacked himself hard.
“Be careful you don’t knock yourself out.” Father chuckled. “Just think of it as your bedtime song.” Matti gritted his teeth when the buzzing started again. “The critters should go away after dark,” Father continued, “but we’ll have to live with them until we get our sauna built. It’s too bad that Timo can’t be here to help us tomorrow.”
Father’s last words sounded slow and sleepy, but they burned Matti like a slap. Timo, Timo, was all Father ever thought about. A moment later Father was snoring.
Every time Matti relaxed, another mosquito attacked. Even though the air was hot and muggy, Matti was ready to pull the wool blanket over his face. Then the buzzing suddenly stopped. Father was right. With the coming of the full dark, the mosquitoes had left.
CHAPTER 8
Sometime during the night, Matti felt a tugging on his boots. He turned on his side, but the feeling didn’t stop. Matti was confused by the smell of pig fat and rancid garbage that burned in his nostrils. Where could such an awful stink be coming from?
Matti opened his eyes. Father was snoring deep and ragged, but the woods beyond their bedrolls were silent. What was that awful smell? Was someone trying to steal his boots?
Turing to his left, Matti blinked in the moonlight. A dark shape came into focus, and he froze. A bear was licking the side of his boot. Matti wanted to jerk back his foot, but he held his breath and stared as the rough tongue drooled over his ankles. Soon his socks were warm and sticky.
Should he whisper to Father? Should he reach for the rifle he’d leaned against the tree? As Matti’s mind raced, he remembered that he and Father had just greased their boots with waterproofing oil. Maybe the bear only wanted a taste of the fresh oil.
The bear sat back on his haunches and licked his left paw. Now that he was done with his boot grease snack, would Matti be his main course? The bear dropped back down and leaned closer to Matti’s face. The stench gagged him. At the first glint of teeth he would grab for the rifle.
The bear shook his head and sniffed. Warm spittle dripped onto the back of Matti’s wrist, but he forced himself to remain still. Finally the bear ambled off toward the woods. Matti’s heart pounded long after the shuffling had faded into the underbrush.
The moment Matti turned to wake Father, Maude and Katie started braying. Matti took a deep breath for the first time in what seemed like an hour. Though he was angry at the mules for calling only after the bear disappeared, he couldn’t help admiring their wisdom. Hobbled mules—even old tough ones-might be tempting.
Just then Father sat up and blinked. “What is it?”
His eyes widened when Matti told him about the bear. Father lit a lantern and made sure the Springfield was loaded. As they walked to check on the mules, Matti imagined the bear crouche
d just beyond the yellow light, staring at him.
Matti slept fitfully after that. Father always said that a bear never hurt a man unless he got between a mother and her cub. But what if this bear hadn’t heard Father’s theory?
“Rise and shine,” Father called.
Shivering, Matti opened his eyes. Father had already started a fire and was crouched beside the rock ring, stirring a steaming pot of porridge. Matti looked at the ground beyond the lean-to. The pine straw was dusted white. “Did it snow?” he asked.
“It’s just a little frost.” Father brushed the log beside him. A cool breeze blew across Matti’s blanket. “Are you tired from wrestling bears all night?”
It hadn’t been a dream, then. Matti looked down at his boots. Though they’d been spattered with mud when he went to bed, the bear had licked them clean. “We’re lucky he didn’t get into our food cache,” Father said. “This evening we’ll string our knapsacks up in a tree so we don’t have to worry about him pilfering our food.”
Right after breakfast Father and Matti began to cut and skid logs. Since their sauna would only be eight by sixteen feet, Father chose smaller cedar from a low area on the west edge of the property. “We’ll save the bigger trees for shingles,” he said.
Matti’s sore leg made it difficult to keep up. They felled the trees with a crosscut saw, and while Father skidded the first logs back to the homesite, Matti limbed and topped the remaining trees with his axe. Father grinned all day long. If Matti slowed down, Father prodded him up with old sayings. His favorite was “Hard work is the mother of happiness.”
The hot weather and the bugs made the work doubly hard. By lunchtime the air had turned humid. Despite the heat, Father needed his coffee several times a day. At lunch he warmed it up over the fire by “kicking the pot,” or adding a spoonful of fresh coffee to his breakfast brew. Matti preferred water, but no matter how much he drank, he was always thirsty. The scent of pitch burned in his nostrils and gave him a dull headache. Tiny black flies swarmed everywhere, hungry to bite every inch of exposed skin.
Song of Sampo Lake Page 4