The Year of the Hare - Arto Paasilinna [59]
Twice the bear had lain down: it must be tiring. But each time, it had evidently heard the skis through the crisp night air and had made off. Now it was heading southeast. In a single day they’d crossed the Tanhua road; now they were approaching the great northeastern wilderness, with its fells. They’d been over many rivers that night; at one point the snow had melted and the bear had drunk the ice-cold water. Vatanen bypassed the spot carefully: it would have been death to ski inadvertently into the icy black water.
The moon set; it was dark; he had to stop. He made a fire and slept in its warmth. The hare nibbled a little and then dropped off to sleep, too.
When the sun rose, Vatanen set off again. They were somewhere in the desolate wilderness west of the tiny hamlet of Martti. Now, he figured out, they must be heading toward the parish of Savukoski. The bear seemed to be running straight to the little village itself. Soon they should hit the highway; and soon there it was, the road. The bear had crossed the Savukoski-Martti road about halfway between the two villages. The ridges thrown up by the snowplows had exasperated the beast: it had torn up the road sign as it went by and bent it over like a twig, a sort of message to Vatanen: “Human, I’ve still got all my power. Keep away!”
But Vatanen continued his pursuit.
In the afternoon, the sun turned the snow slushy. It began to stick to the skis, and the going became all huffing and puffing. The tracks in the snow were fresh, but progress was beginning to seem hopeless. Snow caked the skis to the point where he had to stop.
The snow didn’t harden till evening. Then Vatanen skied a couple of hours, but it became too dark to see: this night the moon wasn’t visible. He had to spend the night by his campfire. He guessed he was already in the parish of Salla, at most twenty-odd miles from the Soviet frontier. The hare was tired out, but it didn’t complain; it never did. Vatanen felled an aspen sapling and split the bark with his ax. The hare ate and then collapsed into sleep, legs stretched, warming its belly in the fire’s circle of light. Never before had the hare seemed so tired.
“I wonder if the pace is as punishing for the bear?”
As soon as there was light enough to see the tracks again, Vatanen continued his pursuit. The knapsack was lightweight, the food finished. Now he was in a hurry: the bear had to be killed before it reached the Soviet frontier. The trail was leading through the northern regions of the Tenniönjoki River Valley toward the hamlet of Naruska, he estimated. He’d skied off the limits of his maps a few days earlier; now he had to rely on his memory of the overall map of Finland. The village of Salla itself, he knew, was a mere twelve miles from the border.
It was a dragging, grueling day.
By evening, he was just south of Karhuntunturi—“Bear Fell”! He gave up the trail and took the road to a village, so tired he had a fall on the slippery, snowplowed road. Children came out of the hamlet to meet him, and they all greeted him, for it’s the custom in the north for children to greet adults. He asked where the shop was.
But the shop had closed down long ago. A mobile shop drove up twice a week. Vatanen took off his skis and stopped at the house next to the old shop. The man of the house was having a meal in the living room; his wife was peeling hot potatoes near the stove and bringing them to her husband one at a time.
An exhausted man looks, in a way, alarming, and yet not an immediate threat. He has rights in the north, which people observe with an intuitive discretion. The host gestured to the chair beside him and invited Vatanen to eat.
Vatanen did eat. He was so tired the spoon shook to the beat of his heart. He’d forgotten to take off his cap. The reindeer stew was delicious and substantial. He ate the entire helping.