2. Else-Maj
ELSE-MAJ
1985
She kept a close eye on the coffeepot over the fire, slapping at mosquitoes as she stood in the smoke, occasionally closing her eyes to get some relief. Her kerchief was tied tightly at the back of her neck, but still the gnats had left streaks of dried blood behind her ear.
Else-Maj gazed across the pasture, which drummed with reindeer walking in a counterclockwise circle. Her sons were out there. The younger one, Nils Johan, stood beside his father, Gustu, eager as always to learn from his isá. Big brother Per Duommá wouldn’t take any instructions; he wanted to appear self-taught, with his own methods. Even so, he made exactly the same flick as Gustu did when he sent his lasso sailing over the herd.
Else-Maj let her gaze wander on, stopping at an older teen boy she didn’t recognize. She usually knew who everyone was. He held the lasso awkwardly and looked uncertain. These kids showed up now and then, imagining that it would be easy to fit in, but if you hadn’t been part of this since childhood it was difficult. It wasn’t their fault; it was their parents’.
Walking past the boy was her cousin Inga, heading for the fire with her daughter, Hanna. The two had the tendency to duck their heads close together, often holding hands, even though the girl was twelve, just like Else-Maj’s daughter, Ella. She certainly didn’t hold Ella’s hand anymore. That would feel unnatural and strange. Ella was a big girl and conducted herself almost like a woman. Her nieida could do everything—cook, tan a hide, make blood sausage from scratch, weave shoe bands. And soon she would finish sewing her first gákti, or traditional Sámi outfit. Else-Maj had started early, taught her everything, and perhaps she had been strict sometimes, intolerant of carelessness. The faster Ella got the knack of things, the better, and as the years passed it would become natural. Perhaps her daughter couldn’t see it now, but eventually she would realize there was security in knowing how to take care of yourself.
Ella was a chatterbox, sometimes pushing the limits of what a person could take, and Else-Maj had to tell her to concentrate. “Don’t talk about other things, talk about what you’re doing with your hands right now if you absolutely must babble on.” That made the kid laugh, an infectious giggle that bubbled up into a guffaw. Her laugh had attracted attention since she was very small, always bringing a smile to people’s faces. She had a carefree side that was hard to comprehend, because no one else was like her, but Else-Maj had to confess it was a relief for an enná. Sometimes, when determined to be strict, she had to turn away and smile at Ella’s silliness.
Sons really were easier. They didn’t expect her to talk to them about anything but the reindeer operations. They were practical, coming to her when they needed something mended or washed. And they could handle the reindeer almost as well as grown men. She had raised her three children to be self-sufficient, never helpless, so that was one thing she could rely on.
Else-Maj and Gustu had worked hard to make sure the boys would have a future in reindeer husbandry, and the reindeer were all their sons cared about. Ella, however, was already talking about attending high school in town even though she was only twelve. She wanted to see the world, as she sometimes exclaimed. “And I guess I might as well start with Giron.” This worried Else-Maj, but it was also why she was hard on Ella and made sure she knew how to do everything. Their way of life needed to be in her bones.
Else-Maj scoffed when she heard Inga and Hanna speaking a mix of Sámi and Swedish. They weren’t the only ones. Even for people who mostly spoke Sámi, Swedish wormed its way in. Others in the family hadn’t given their children the language at all. Then they stood there facing one another, mute, for without gollegiella, the golden language, there was only silence. They spoke Swedish instead, probably thinking they sounded fancy. They blamed the nomad school and who knew what else. Ha! She’d gone to nomad school, too, but it had never even crossed her mind to let her children lose the language of her heart. They’d never heard Swedish at home, and she was proud of that fact.
Lots of folks had brought their Swedish-speaking teenagers to the pasture today. That awkward boy was probably one of them. Not even here could they speak Sámi, not even on their own land.
Inga and Hanna sat down on their seat pads and reached toward the fire to warm their hands.
“Chilly tonight,” said Inga.
“Yes, and it’s only going to get colder, so we have to hurry.”
Else-Maj had a good sense for the weather. She understood what the wind had to say, and she had taught her sons to keep an eye on the reindeer’s behavior in different seasons. The herd was affected by the changing climate, and in the spring they might start moving toward the mountains even before the calendar said it was time.
“Whose is that new boy?” she asked Inga.
“That’s Anne-Risten’s Niklas.”
“Her children are that big? Don’t think he’s been here before.”
“No, I guess it’s his first time.”
“I can tell. Anne-Risten isn’t here, is she?”
“As if that would ever happen,” said Inga, raising an eyebrow.
Hanna waved at someone and smiled. Inga liked to say smugly that her daughter was a ray of sunshine. Else-Maj looked at the girl, and sure enough, she never seemed far from a smile. Ella was the same, but that didn’t mean Else-Maj compared her daughter to sunshine. It just wasn’t done.
Else-Maj had recently sewn a gákti for Hanna. It had been down to the wire, but that was when they always came to her. Everyone knew how fast she could sew, and over the years she’d saved lots of folks who showed up in a panic, needing a new outfit for a wedding or a confirmation, or to wear to Jokkmokk Market.
“Have you started learning to sew, Hanna?”
The girl shook her head, making a show of it, putting on the sort of expression that Else-Maj had come to realize Inga could never resist.
“Enná tried to teach me, but I think it’s pretty boring.”
“She’s hopeless,” said Inga.
“Well, look at my role model.”
They laughed, pressed their shoulders together—it was plain uncomfortable to sit next to them, it was so, well, childish . Else-Maj lifted the coffeepot with a stick now that the water was boiling. She opened her áhkku’s old coffee pouch, and the scent of its leather and the grounds inside prompted her to inhale deeply, hold it in her lungs for a moment. áhkku had smoked a pipe, and she could almost smell the cloud of tobacco smoke surrounding her grandmother, too. She poured the grounds in, knowing exactly how much to use, feeling it in her hand without needing to measure. She used the stick to shift the coffeepot to a more stable spot on the logs.
She heard Nils Johan call out and glanced around for him. But she wasn’t the one he needed, out there in the pasture. Still, she would always react to his voice.
Hanna stood up. She was tall, at least a head above Else-Maj already. But that was no great feat; most kids surpassed her in height by their early teens, if not before. She waved at a few girls who turned to head their way, then took out a plastic container with a blue lid and returned to the fire to offer it around.
“I’m good at baking cinnamon buns, at least. Want some?”
Else-Maj nabbed a perfectly shaped bun topped with pearl sugar. She needed something sweet now; it was starting to get late. Soon the sun would complete its circuit, but again, the winds suggested changing weather on the way.
Hanna and her friends got giggly around the fire. But they had their lassos with them; they weren’t entirely useless. They were learning, just like the boys. What happened later would be another story.
Else-Maj pulled the coffeepot to the side and poured some into the guksi that Gustu had carved. It suited her perfectly, dainty and easy for a small hand to hold. He hadn’t made a big deal of it, but of course she had noticed the size of the guksi when he gave it to her years ago. Back when they started referring to themselves as a “we.”
She poured the coffee back into the pot—yes, it was ready, the perfect strength. She served Inga, and they sat in silence as they drank. Else-Maj listened to the girls’ conversation and wrinkled her nose in annoyance.
“Why are you speaking Swedish?”
“Huh?” Hanna was the one who looked up from the group. “I dunno.”
“You should speak Sámi. My children only speak Sámi.”
The girls burst into low laughs, whispering to each other, and a moment later they walked off.
“I think some of them have a bit of a crush on Nils Johan,” said Inga.
“Is that so?”
Else-Maj watched them approach the reindeer and her boys. Showing off. She could tell even from over here.
“Oh yes, there’s a lot of chatter about him on the phone, I’ve heard. Not that I’ve been eavesdropping. Well, no, I actually have.”
Inga smiled, but got nothing in return. The girls were only twelve and thirteen—surely they weren’t thinking of all that? Her boys didn’t have their eyes on any girls yet, not that Else-Maj had noticed. They were either with the reindeer or playing soccer. She could count the moments they spent inside on one hand; their whole lives were lived outdoors.
“I still think it’s strange that they let their children speak Swedish.” Else-Maj nodded at the mothers standing nearby, hoping that Inga would take the dig personally.
“It’s no big deal.”
“Does Hanna take home-language classes?”
“She started to, but then she quit. She really doesn’t need them since we speak Sámi at home. And you know, it’s not uncommon for them to have it rough at school on account of being Sámi. It’s just easier to be like everyone else.” Inga shrugged.
Else-Maj couldn’t believe her ears. Rough? If only they knew how horrible school could be.
“I’ve heard that some of them get teased. Not Hanna, but others.”
Else-Maj nodded, looking around for her boys. Her stomach felt uneasy. Had she missed something?
She picked up the coffee pouch and tied its string firmly. Again she thought of áhkku. In her last days, when she was at the nursing home in Vazá?, Else-Maj had decided to send her a birthday card.
But she found herself sitting with pen in hand, realizing that it was impossible. She couldn’t write in her own language, and even if she could have written it out more or less as it sounded, áhkku was even less likely to be able to read it. Swedish was the only written language Else-Maj had in her fingers, and áhkku only knew spoken Sámi. So nothing came of it.
It was remarkable, how she had taken it for granted for a moment there. At that time, she could hardly read the Sámi-language articles in Samefolket , would sit there sounding it out like a little kid until her rage took over and she threw the magazine down.
After that, she drilled her children hard, making sure they did their homework once they started school, that they learned to read and write as well in Sámi as they did in Swedish. The boys had objected, saying it was enough to learn to write Swedish, but she hadn’t given up.
Gustu didn’t care as much as she did. It didn’t matter to him that he couldn’t read or write Sámi. He wasn’t much for browsing periodicals anyway, didn’t think he was missing anything.