8. Nilsa
NILSA
1985
A light rain pattered onto the roof of the moose stand. Nilsa’s eyes were fixed on the bog below, the rifle leaning against the railing. He had seen moose in the distance the night before, but couldn’t shoot them in the dusk. Too risky. He never missed; he would rather not take a shot at all. No way would he ever call his hunting club and drag them out to search for an injured moose. He was the best shot of the group and had bagged at least one moose per year—three last year.
He fished a tin of Ettan tobacco from his breast pocket without taking his eyes from the bog. He pinched a lump of the snus and tucked it far up between his cheek and gums. A little ran down his throat and he spat. Wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked off toward Láttevárri, where ominous clouds were rapidly gathering. Moments ago it had been sunny, but then the drizzle came. The wind was picking up. A breeze was no good; when the moose couldn’t smell properly they grew still and watchful. He’d heard moose give a massive snort, emptying their nostrils so they could sniff out danger. At least the wind was blowing the right way; the moose usually appeared at the edge of the bog before moving on to the river to drink.
He liked being posted at the bog; he had bagged the most moose right here. His brother had been there, too. Until he wasn’t anymore.
The two of them had built the stand together, around the trunk of a sturdy pine, three meters up. A proper plank floor and a safety railing six planks high, partially covered with a stiff tarp. The floor was in the shape of a triangle and fit two people, or even three, but of course it was best to be on your own. They’d built the ladder out of long planks and added ten rungs. Nilsa had also added a hatch you could close behind you, so the stand was protected from the wind. They’d even hauled up an old office chair. The roof had been the most complicated part, but they had built it with hefty studs. That was the part of the build he was proudest of.
He supposed it was about time to check on some of the other hunting stands that had decayed over the years. Someone in the club claimed that the wood was rotting on the stand across the road to Láttevárri, but it wasn’t that bad. Nilsa weighed around 85 kilos and he felt perfectly safe up there.
A creak sounded among the trees and he took hold of his gun. No stress, just focus, even as his eyes scanned the birch forest. His pulse rose, but never too high. Right now it was hard to see; there were way too many leaves left in early September, but in a few weeks the trees would be bare and the view clearer. The willow scrub and the bogs were already bursting with shades of yellow, orange, and red. Along the path to the moose stand he’d seen plenty of blueberries and lingonberries, but there was no time to pick any. Maybe Sire would want to come along one of these days. His wife was good at keeping quiet in the forest, even when she was picking berries in the middle of the hunt. The boys should have been there today, but school didn’t care about the moose hunt. They would be with him this weekend.
The rain stopped, but the wind was a warning ahead of the oncoming black clouds. He should climb down and go home, no point in waiting for moose if it was going to storm. But as usual, his defiant streak won out. He just got mad—he would leave when he was good and ready.
Today he had parked by the cemetery and walked from there to the moose stand. He seldom swung by his brother Aslak’s gravestone, and when he did, he stood there feeling stupid. He’d never understood the point of visiting a grave, but he went just so Sire would stop complaining that he never did. What was he supposed to do? Say hi to his brother—his viellja? Say he hadn’t forgiven him? It wasn’t like Aslak was there. He was nowhere. Yet his brother wouldn’t let up. He ate his way into Nilsa’s mind, took over his thoughts every day.
Annoyed, Nilsa rubbed the back of his sweaty neck; he’d worn too many layers. Now the sky above Láttevárri was black and clouds seemed to fall in sheets, a downpour. But there wouldn’t be any thunder; it was autumn and the birch trees had just begun to turn yellow.
His enná was terrified of storms. She got under the kitchen table and whimpered when a clap of thunder rattled the house. If they were up in the mountains she panicked, saying that the goahti wasn’t enough shelter and that she’d learned as a child that the fire should be put out and everything metal, like knives, axes, and even belts, should be hidden under the reindeer skins so they wouldn’t attract lightning.
She always brought up the time a ball of fire fell through the chimney into their house. The size of a tennis ball, hissing, Enná had claimed, but in Nilsa’s memory it hadn’t made any noise. The ball of lightning had traveled around the kitchen and suddenly dissolved into nothing, leaving Enná, Nilsa, and Aslak astonished. It was lucky that there were three of them, that they could confirm to one another it had really happened. After that, Enná was even more afraid of lightning, and fled to the cellar each time a thunderstorm passed over the village.
She never talked about Aslak’s death, not with Nilsa, anyway. They hardly discussed him at all, never reminded each other about memories, good or bad; if someone happened to mention him, the conversation would stop short. Enná had aged overnight after she lost her youngest son. What she couldn’t or didn’t want to talk about emerged as changes in her body instead; her hair turned gray, she lost weight, her shoulders slumped, and the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes deepened.
Nilsa rocked his torso and hunched over; his lower back ached from standing too long. He put down the rifle and stretched his arms above his head, leaning backward to release the tension. All of this happened in silence; he seldom let out even the tiniest noise. Only those who could be perfectly quiet were allowed to come with him. Aslak was the only one who had been able to match Nilsa in this skill.
And there he was in his thoughts again. Aslak. He could picture him, the time it was pouring rain, five boys running along Láttevárriv?gen, the road that led away from the school. Nilsa at the front, the others following. His viellja had fallen behind, and Nilsa slowed down for his sake, even though the other boys shouted that they had to hurry. They planned to break into some sheds in the cemetery. Jon-Ante had gone white as a sheet with fear at the suggestion. Nilsa had an idea to scare the shit out of that little brat. He deserved it, he was from a family of reindeer thieves. Everyone knew his father marked other people’s reindeer as his own. Isá had once attacked that bastard in a pasture, socked him in the nose. But reindeer kept going missing. And Nilsa had gotten revenge, for Isá.
A movement in the birches made him squint, then take out the binoculars: sure enough, it was a moose. A cow and calf, too, a spindle-legged skinny little thing. He had to shoot the calf first. Aslak was in his ear, exhaling and asking him to let them go. Not a calf, viellja . Nilsa didn’t listen, had already raised the rifle. Not yet , he thought. It was too far, too many birches in the way. He would have to hit both. They were standing still, wary of something. He was downwind, so it shouldn’t be him. His index finger stroked the trigger and he tried to get the calf in his sights, but it was far, too far. Not yet , he reminded himself. Aslak never shot calves. Nilsa knew he’d let cows with calves pass him by more than once. Aslak believed he was saving them, but the crude fact was that he was giving them up to another hunting club.
Now the cow was moving, and it would be easier to take her first, but that wouldn’t be right. Then again, who was there to see him? When the rest of the hunting club arrived and saw a dead cow and calf, no one would ask which he’d shot first. No doubt he could shoot the cow first, he would never miss the calf after that. Not the calf, viellja .
Goddammit! He blinked a few times and stared into the scope again. Rain struck the roof and the wind made the planks tremble. He held the rifle steady, tensing every muscle and clenching his teeth. But he couldn’t see for shit anymore. He tried the binoculars, but that didn’t help either. The moose were gone. He roared along with the storm. Raindrops blew in from the sides and pelted his face, wetting his hands and coat. The chill and the rain made him furious, but he wasn’t about to hunker down to get away from it. The moose must be far gone now, frightened by his cry, or maybe they had found shelter under a tree to wait out the rain.
What would his hunting buddies think if they’d heard him? He was sure the walkie-talkie would crackle any moment now, but he would play dumb. What was that? No… he hadn’t heard a shout.
The roar still lingered in his chest, throbbing and wanting out, but no. It was bad enough that he’d lost his edge and hadn’t pulled the trigger like he should have. It was unnerving, but it would never happen again. He scooped the snus out from under his lip, digging with his index finger, and cruddy saliva flowed as he spat down from the stand. He ran his hands along the smooth fabric of his pants and cleared his throat, then spat again.
As quickly as the storm had moved in, it was over. The winds carried the clouds away from the bog, chasing down the next area. At last the silent surroundings were back. He wiped his wet cheeks.