The Year of the Hare - Arto Paasilinna [34]
Vatanen established camp in a clump of red pines on a marsh islet at the edge of an extensive swamp. He lived in a lean-to canvas bivouac reinforced with a covering of spruce branches. Twice a week he went to Lake Simojärvi for food and cigarettes, and to borrow a few books from the local library. He spent several weeks in the Posio marshes, and he read quite a few good books during this period.
The conditions here, near the Arctic Circle, were very primitive.
The work was heavy, but Vatanen liked that. He knew he was getting stronger, and he wasn’t weighed down by the thought of having to do this work till the end of his life.
Sometimes, as the sleet came down in the failing light of evening, and he felt very tired, he reflected on his life: how different it was now from only last spring, in those days before midsummer!
Totally different!
He spoke aloud to the hare, and the hare listened religiously, without comprehending a word. Vatanen poked the campfire in front of his lean-to, watched the winter coming on, and at night slept with his ears pricked, like a wild animal.
Right at the start, in this deserted and sleety marshland, he met a setback. While he was still fixing up his frugal camp between the little floating island’s dried-up trees, the most villainous bird in the forest was settling in, too—a raven.
Scrawny, it flew several circuits of the islet with sleet-drenched wings, then, noticing no harassment, settled on a tree near Vatanen and shook off the sleet like a rheumaticky dog. It was a most melancholy sight.
Vatanen looked at the bird and felt a profound compassion for it. Everything showed that the poor, ill-shaped bird had not been having a very cheerful time of it recently: it was utterly wretched.
Next evening, coming back tired from the forest and getting ready to make his supper, Vatanen had a surprise. His knapsack, which had been lying open on the bivouac branches, had been plundered. A considerable amount of food had disappeared from it: half a pound of butter, practically a whole tin of pork, and many slices of rye crispbread. Obviously, the culprit was that miserable flap-winged bird that had aroused his sympathy the day before. It had clearly torn open the packaging with its bony beak, spilled the contents around, and then spirited some off to a cache known only to itself.
The raven was sitting on the top of a tall pine, quite close to the bivouac. One side of the pine was covered with a shiny black mess: the raven had been shitting from its branch.
The hare was rather nervous; the raven had evidently been molesting it while Vatanen was away working.
Vatanen threw a stone at the raven but missed. It merely shuffled aside, not even opening a wing. It didn’t switch trees until Vatanen ran at the tree with an ax and started chopping.
If only he had a gun.
Vatanen opened another tin of meat, fried it in the pan, and ate the rest of the crispbread dry, without butter. As he ate his reduced repast, he eyed the raven on its branch and heard it burping.
An unassuageable black rage came over him, and before settling to sleep he moved the knapsack under his head. The hare hopped behind his head to sleep, sheltering close to the damp canvas of the bivouac.
In the morning, Vatanen carefully closed up the bivouac entrance with spruce branches, hiding the knapsack inside after making sure the cord was tightly fastened.
When he returned in the evening, the camp had again been raided. The raven had knocked the branches aside, dragged the bag outside the charred circle of the campfire, torn open one of the pockets, and eaten the processed cheese. The bird had also snipped through the cord and gobbled up the contents of last night’s meat tin and, likewise, the rest of the crispbread. All that was left was a packet of tea, some salt and sugar, and two or three unopened tins of meat.
That evening, supper was still