Song of Sampo Lake

by William Durbin

  The one pure joy for Matti was the sun. After crouching all winter in the dusty darkness of the mine, the light and the earth scents and birdsong were a constant gift.

  On the morning after they’d skidded and peeled the last of their sauna logs, Matti woke to a tugging at his feet. Thinking the bear had come back, he turned to reach for the gun. Then he saw Black Jack’s dog.

  “What’s this?” a coarse voice called. “Are we catching up on our beauty sleep, Mutti Boy?”

  Matti looked up at Black Jack’s scraggly beard and yellow teeth. He wore the same wool pants and half-buttoned wool underwear shirt.

  “Ah! Company.” Father crouched by the fire. “Coffee for you, sir?”

  Black Jack took a cup of coffee. “I thought I’d lend you fellows a hand,” he said, stumping over to inspect the foundation stakes that Matti and Father had driven into the ground. A flat rock was bedded at each corner, and leveling strings were stretched between the stakes. “Looks like you’re set to go. Now we need to roust this loafer out of the sack. Hasn’t Mutti heard that a lazy boy is the devil’s pillow?”

  Matti groaned. Father’s quotes were irritating enough in the morning, but now he had to put up with Black Jack. Matti gobbled some dry bread while their neighbor walked back to his boat.

  Black Jack returned with two axes and a peavey, a sharp-spiked tool mounted on an axe handle that makes it easy to move logs. He unbuckled the leather sheath from his broad axe and said, “Need a shave?” Black Jack held the polished steel so that the sun glinted into Matti’s face; then he dropped the axe. Matti’s eyes widened, but just as the blade was ready to bite into Black Jack’s leg, he turned the head and let it clang against his wooden stump. “Now”—he handed him the peavey—“fetch us some logs.”

  Matti hurried after Father, who had already walked up the hill to harness Maude and Katie. “We’ll need the longest and straightest logs to start with,” Father said as he hooked a log chain to the mule hitch. “Can you skid them down for us?”

  Matti nodded. He looped the chain around the first log and started down the hill. But the mules were used to longer pulls and didn’t want to stop at the foundation. “Whoa,” Matti yelled. “Whoa.”

  “I thought those mules understood Englanninkeili?” Father said.

  “For a minute Mutti looked like he was going for a morning swim.” Black Jack laughed as he helped Father set the log on the cornerstones. Then Father and Jack each made a pencil mark on their end and picked up their axes. Matti was amazed at how fast Black Jack cut his notch. With his peg leg planted firmly on the ground, he set his boot on the log and swung with all his might. Wood chips were soon flying.

  Matti knew Father prided himself on keeping his axe sharp, but Black Jack’s was sharper. Black Jack also didn’t have to worry about cutting himself. Once he swung his axe so close to his peg leg that he cut a shaving from the tip. “I’d better be careful I don’t sharpen that stub,” he said, “or I won’t be able to walk without getting stuck in the dirt.”

  “Ready?” Black Jack called as the last chips flew to rest at Father’s feet. Father nodded and said, “Get the cant hook, Matti.” He waved toward the long-handled tool with the hinged hook.

  Matti buried the point of the cant hook in the middle of the log, and half a turn later, the first log fell into place.

  Father and Black Jack both knelt to check if their ends lined up with the rock. Then Black Jack called, “Let’s have another.”

  Once the four sill logs were in place, the work fell into a rhythm. The mules soon learned to stop on their own, and Matti helped the men hold each log in place while they scribed the corners for their dovetailed cuts.

  Matti was surprised that Maude, the quiet mule, took a liking to Black Jack. Whenever she stopped with a log, she nudged his back until he turned and scratched her ears. “Hey there, gal.”

  The whole time Black Jack swung his axe, he whistled a strange tune. Matti tried to place the melody, but it sounded like nothing he had ever heard. When Matti got ahead with his skidding, he asked, “What’s the name of that song?”

  Black Jack said, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” and handed him a second axe. It had a single-bitted blade and a curved handle that made it possible to flatten the outside of the logs without skinning his knuckles.

  “A hewing ax?” Matti asked.

  “So Mutti Boy knows some tricks already?” Black Jack raised his eyebrows. “But work on the side opposite us. My legs don’t need any more hewing.”

  Matti was impressed at how fast the walls rose. Father had guessed it would take a week to finish the log work, but with Black Jack’s help, the time would be cut in half.

  By lunch the wall got so high that the men had to cut their notches standing on top of the corners. Black Jack showed Matti a neat trick. Pulling a headless nail out of his pocket, he tapped it into the bottom of his wooden leg. When Black Jack pressed his weight down on the log, the nail anchored him so firmly that he could swing as hard as he had on the ground.

  The sun was getting low by the time Father and Black Jack called it a day. Black Jack declined Father’s offer of dinner and started to walk down to his boat, but he stopped halfway. After frowning at the sky, he stumped back up the hill and said, “I think we’d better move that shelter of yours, Mutti Boy.”

  “Why would we do that?” Matti hated being called Mutti Boy.

  “Listen to your elders,” he said. Then without another word he took Father’s mall and knocked loose the pole of the lean-to.

  Father looked up from his fire. “What in the devil?”

  Black Jack grinned. “Mutti Boy and I have a little job to do.” He rolled up the canvas as if it were Matti’s idea.

  Father frowned at Matti, who could only shrug his shoulders.

  With the big hammer still in his hand, Black Jack walked a dozen paces up the hill. “We’ll nail it right here,” Black Jack said, motioning for Matti to hold the crossbar between two trees. “Now you can move the bedrolls and the supplies up here.” Then with a gruff good-night he was gone.

  “I have no idea what that was all about,” Matti said.

  “Maybe he’s just strange like Eino Saari claims,” Father said.

  They walked to the lake to wash up. Matti took off his shirt and shook out the wood chips and sawdust. He knelt at the shore and splashed water over his arms and chest. His hands were coated with cedar sap, so he used sand to cut through the grime. As he washed, Black Jack’s strange tune kept playing over and over in his head.

  “Don’t get yourself too clean,” Father called. “The mosquitoes love a well-washed fellow.”

  After Matti crawled into his blankets, his back itched as if he’d been rolling in a hayloft. He shook out his shirt again, but the itching wouldn’t go away. He thought he would never get to sleep. Then a pair of loons started calling to each other across the bay. Their song surged up the scale in pure, clear notes, rising in volume, until it reached a wild, laughing frenzy that echoed off the rocky hills above Sampo Lake. Suddenly the song fell away, only to rise again and again. In the quiet between the loon calls, an owl hooted up the ridge and mosquitoes began their nightly hum. In the midst of this wilderness chorus, Matti’s tiredness overtook him, and he drifted off to sleep. The next thing Matti knew, Black Jack was walking toward him with a bright-bladed axe. “It’s time for a shave, Mutti Boy,” he mumbled, offering a seat in a barber chair. Before Matti could say no, Jack grabbed his hand. Matti woke to a loud rumble of thunder. Whitecaps were crashing against the shore, and the canvas roof was rattling like a flag.

  Father sat up and shouted, “You okay?”

  “So far,” Matti yelled as a wall of rain blew into shore. Just then a lightning flash lit up the lake, followed by a thunderclap and the shuddering crash of a tree falling near the sauna.

  Crouching near the low end of the tarp to stay dry, Father and Matti peered into the dark. Matti couldn’t tell if the walls were still standing. The wind and r
ain kept pounding down.

  When Matti woke the next morning, Father was studying the big red pine that had fallen in the night. The root ball was twice as tall as a man and tangled with rocks and dirt.

  The crown had fallen right where their lean-to used to be.

  Beneath the treetop Matti could see the depression of his old bedroll in the pine straw. “Would you look at that?” Father shook his head. Matti nodded, wide-eyed. One of the wrist-thick branches had buried itself right where his chest would have been.

  Just then Matti heard a small, squeaking noise. He knelt to see a baby crow lying on his side, his feet pinned down by the crisscrossed branches. Matti pulled away the twigs of a crushed nest and picked up the bird. His head was all beak, and his spindly feathers were plastered to his back. Matti was surprised when the bird wobbled to his feet and cocked his head. His eyes were pale blue like a baby’s. Then he stretched out his wings and cawed weakly.

  “That’s a tough little critter,” Father said, “but he sure is ugly. I don’t see the mother anywhere. I wonder if—”

  “So our young slugabed is up for a change,” a voice boomed behind them. Matti turned to see Black Jack stumping up the hill. “Looks like you’ve had a little blowdown.”

  Matti looked into Black Jack’s eyes. “How did you know that tree was going to fall?” he asked. “You saved my life.”

  Black Jack ignored the question. “I see you’ve been bird hunting. Are we having crow for breakfast?”

  “There was a nest in the tree.”

  “You’d better set him off by himself in case his mother comes back.” Then he nodded toward the sauna. “So are we gonna gawk at baby birds all day or do some log work?”

  The little bird balanced himself in Matti’s palm and cawed in a high-pitched scratchy voice as he carried him to the edge of the clearing. He set him beside a tree stump where his mother could find him.

  After a quick cup of coffee, Father and Black Jack picked up their axes. The air was soon filled with cedar chips and Black Jack’s strange whistling. Between skidding logs and hewing the walls, Matti never got a chance to rest.

  When they took a break, Black Jack visited with Maude while Matti walked over to check on the crow. He looked more listless. Since there was still no sign of the mother, he picked him up. The crow cawed weakly. “What could we feed him?” Matti asked.

  “Try some oatmeal,” Father said. But when Matti offered the bird a tiny piece, he turned his head.

  “Let’s try it like his mother would,” Father said. He put a bit of water-soaked oatmeal on the tip of his little finger and pried the bird’s beak open with his other hand. With a quick poke he shoved the food down its throat. Matti was afraid that Father would choke him, but the little crow’s eyes suddenly opened wide, and he cawed for more. Matti couldn’t believe how huge and red his throat was. When Matti held out the next piece, he snatched it so fast that Matti jerked back.

  “If that bird had teeth he’d take your finger off, Mutti Boy.”

  “He’s got sisu for sure,” Father said.

  By the third day, the crow was strong enough to hop after Matti, and he had to be careful not to step on him.

  During their lunch break Black Jack pulled out a bright penny and set it on the toe of his boot. The crow hopped over and grabbed it in his beak. Then he carried the penny to the base of a pine, scratched a hole, and buried it.

  “You’ve either got yourself a thief or a banker, Matti,” Father said.

  “Same difference,” Black Jack said.

  Once the wall was chest high, the log work got trickier. Not only was it harder to hew the sides, but it was also harder to lift the logs and scribe the notches. Using two poles for a ramp, the men looped a rope around the middle of each log and rolled it up the wall. The first time Matti tried pulling from inside the building, the log came up so quickly that he tripped and fell. Black Jack tipped his cap. “That’s some fine dancing.” The little crow cawed from a nearby rock, as if he too were laughing.

  By suppertime Black Jack and Father decided that the walls were high enough. “A few rafters and roof boards,” Black Jack said, “and you’ll be ready for your first sauna.”

  Father nodded. “We’ll get to the roof when we can,” he said, “but Matti and I are working on the road tomorrow. When my eldest son, Timo, comes on Sunday, the three of us will start corduroying the low spots.”

  “That’s one job I’ll leave to you folks,” Black Jack said.

  Father invited Black Jack to share some fried side pork and beans for supper. Black Jack used his puukko to eat instead of a spoon. As he cut his bread into pieces and dipped them into his beans, Matti noticed white scars on the back of his hand.

  When Black Jack saw him staring, he said, “It looks like an animal got me, doesn’t it?”

  Matti nodded.

  “The tar makers used to play a game when I lived up in Oulu. They were a strange bunch who spent their winters back in the forests, boiling pine tar and packing it into wooden barrels. When spring came they built long, narrow boats and rode the rivers all the way down to the harbor. They raced one another the whole way, shooting rapids that no one else dared and yelling like crazy men as they passed under Oulu’s sixty bridges. We called them puukkojunkkarit, or knife wielders, because they got liquored up and played a crazy game. Being young and foolish, I joined in. They started by stabbing one another in the hand. Each thrust went deeper, and to make it more painful, they pushed the blade real slow. You weren’t a man unless you could take a knife right through your hand.” Black Jack held up his palm. A line of scars matched the ones on the back of his hand.

  “How could you stand it?” Matti said.

  “It hurt plenty,” he said, “but like those old sword fighters in Germany, we looked on our scars as tokens of pride. It’s a wonder that we didn’t bleed to death.”

  When Black Jack stopped and took a sip of coffee, Matti asked, “So how did you know that tree was going to fall?”

  He paused as if he were thinking hard. Then turning with his eyes wide, he said, “A bear whispered in my ear.”

  Black Jack and Father both laughed.

  By the time Black Jack said good night, the moon was already rising in the south. “Looks like it’s gonna be a pretty day tomorrow,” he said, checking the sky as he climbed into his rowboat. “But I don’t make no guarantees when it comes to weather forecasting.”

  Since Matti hadn’t hobbled the mules yet, Maude walked down to the shore to see Black Jack off. She waded into belly-deep water and eeoowed until he patted her one last time. “Good night, Mistress Maude,” he said. Then just before he pulled on his oars he tipped his cap to Matti and called, “Good night, Kapteeni.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Just before sunrise Matti woke with claws digging into the top of his head. The bear! His eyes popped open. The baby crow was pulling at his hair with his beak.

  “Ow!” Matti yelled. As he sat up, the crow hopped to his shoulder.

  “Looks like your friend wants breakfast.” Father spoke from the far side of the fire pit.

  Matti wanted to sleep another hour, but he got up. The sky was gray, and a fine rain was dappling the surface of the lake. While Father walked up to check on the mules, Matti balled up some bread and offered it to the crow. He opened wide and cawed. His throat was red and ugly and glowed like a cave.

  Father returned, dropping an armload of wood beside the fire. “Mr. Black Jack was smart not to guarantee his forecast,” he said.

  Matti grinned. The rain offered proof that Black Jack couldn’t predict things any better than he could. Yet when Matti looked down the hill and saw the huge pine, another part of him wanted to believe in Black Jack’s powers.

  “You ready to clear the trail?” Father asked, flicking the last few drops of his coffee into the fire.

  Matti nodded. Though he didn’t like the idea of working in the rain, he knew they needed to open a trail before Timo arrived on Sunday. According to Fath
er’s plan, they would first build a sauna, which would serve as a temporary house. Next they would plant their crops, improve the road, and build a root cellar. Only then would they start on the main cabin.

  “We’ll cut a rough trail to that logging road,” Father said. “Then Timo can help us widen it into a proper wagon road.”

  Father made it sound as simple as drawing a pencil line, but as Matti recalled the swamp, he knew it would not be so easy.

  The first part of the road went through mixed birch and popple where the brush mainly needed to be cut back. A fine mist fell, making the mosquitoes and gnats vicious. “Sisu, Matti,” Father said when he slapped at his face, “they’ve never bled a man to death yet.”

  By midafternoon their work slowed to a crawl. As they hacked through the tightly spaced spruce and tamarack trees, pitch stuck to Matti’s hands and tickled his nostrils with a sweet acid smell.

  The main road was within sight when they reached the lowest part of the swamp. The ground was pockmarked with puddles, but Father was still excited. “Now we’ll see what we’re made of,” Father said. “The woods, she gives us the full test.”

  The last hundred-foot stretch was more work than all the trail they had cleared so far. Father decided that this section would have to be corduroyed by laying logs side by side to build up the roadbed. The water was so cold that it numbed Matti’s legs and feet. Once his boot kicked up a loose chunk of ice.

  On the second afternoon they finished the rough clearing. When they got back to camp, the crow flapped toward Matti, cawing for food. After he ate he hopped up on a log and cocked his head. His eyes were bright and filled with mischief.

  “Do you miss your momma?” Matti asked as the crow preened his feathers to a shine with his bill.

  Matti was thinking of Mother in Soudan, and hoping she was safe, when Father said, “What do you say we take the afternoon off and rig up a fish trap? I’ll bet we can catch something tastier than pork and beans.”