The Year of the Hare - Arto Paasilinna [56]
The yelping hounds tore across the ice in hot pursuit. The hare took to its heels, and, seeing it on the run, the hounds broke into a fierce baying. Their big paws slithered on the ice as they hurtled past Vatanen and vanished into the trees across the bay.
Vatanen pursued them to the headland, wondering how he could save his hare. What he needed was a gun, but that was hanging on a nail at Läähkimä Gorge.
Several men came running out of the villa carrying guns. Bellowing as they ran, they were like the hounds they’d set loose. The ice bent under their weight.
Vatanen concealed himself among the trees, because as soon as they got to the headland they fired in his direction. He was lying in the slushy snow, hearing the peevish mumbling of drunken men.
The hare was already far away, the baying of the hounds scarcely audible. Their cry was actually a howl—so the hunt was still on, the hare still alive.
Vatanen’s brain was working overtime. This savage chase must stop, but how? How could such men exist? Where was the pleasure in roughhousing like this? How could human beings lower themselves so viciously?
The poor hare was circling back in its terror. Suddenly it burst out of a gap in the trees, saw Vatanen, and dashed straight into his arms. Two drops of bright-red blood had oozed from its mouth. The baying of the hounds was getting louder.
He knew the hounds could rip the life out of him if he stood there in the forest with a hunted hare in his arms. Should he reject his beloved beast? Send it on its way to save his own skin?
No—the thought shamed him as soon as it came. He ran for a knoll, overgrown with thick-trunked, gnarled, and twisted pines. Quickly he clambered up one. It was tricky, climbing with a hare in his arms—bits of fur got stuck on the bark—but he was out of reach when the hounds came whirling up, snorting and sniffing the hare’s traces. They soon found their way to the foot of the tree and frenziedly reached up on their hind legs, yelping into the branches, clawing at the red bark with their paws. The hare thrust its head under Vatanen’s armpit, trembling all over.
Boozy voices were again drawing nearer, and soon five men stood at the foot of the tree.
“Sit, boys, sit! So he’s perched up there, is he, our friend—in the tree?”
They cackled. One kicked the tree trunk; another tried rocking the tree to make Vatanen fall down.
“Losing his nerve, is he? Drop that damned hare down here or we’ll have to shoot it in your arms!”
“Fire into the tree! Go on, go for it! Hell of a good story that would make. Can you believe it? Karlsson shot a hare in a pine tree!”
“And got a guy with the same shot!”
They were having a grand old time. They pounded on the tree. The hounds lurked around the men’s legs. Vatanen was so incensed, tears came to his eyes. Someone noticed.
“Shit, let’s go, the guy’s crying. That’s enough fun for one Sunday, anyway.”
“But let him have the hounds for an hour: that’ll teach him to speak more politely next time. Come on. Sauna’s waiting. It’ll be hot already.”
They left. The hounds prowled on guard at the foot of the tree, barking and howling. Vatanen thought he was going to vomit.
Shortly before dark, someone whistled the hounds away. They loped off reluctantly. Vatanen felt dizzy; the hare was still trembling.
He went back to Helsinki the same evening. At first he thought of pressing charges, but in the end he didn’t. To Leila he said: “I’m going back north, to Läähkimä Gorge. It doesn’t suit me down south.”
And off he went.
21
A Visit
Spring was here. Time flowed by pleasantly in the clean-aired northern climate. The chairman of the Reindeer Owners’ Association had offered Vatanen a job constructing an enclosure for reindeer, and now he was hewing palings. The work was agreeably heavy, and free of constraint: he felt like his own man. The hare was enjoying its existence at Läähkimä Gorge; the wild surroundings were scattered with its traces.
Leila kept him posted with letters; sometimes they arrived two at a