Punished

19. Nilsa

NILSA

1985

They chugged along on their snowmobiles; they had been riding for a long time, herding the reindeer from the summer grazing grounds in Norway to the winter grazing grounds in Sweden. The journey had been relatively smooth despite the temperature creeping down toward thirty below. Like a living, flowing stream, the herd had billowed across the land, over mountains and bogs, across ice a meter thick that had tolerated the weight, and soon they would be home.

Sire felt the trip was too hard on the boys, that they were too young. How could she not see the expectation in their eyes, the look that said this was all they wanted?

Nilsa had watched his sons pack their belongings; they couldn’t walk next to each other without shoving or pinching. It was just like Nilsa and Aslak had been, the same playful squabbling that could easily spiral into a fight. And there was never any doubt that stuora viellja would win. The younger brother always gave in and could never hold back his tears. There were hardly eighteen months between them—Nils-Ola was older and Juvva younger. They were two peas in a pod, and both took after their father. Muscular even in their early teens, dark hair, black eyes, sharp cheekbones. Nilsa himself was going gray early. It was on account of grief, his wife said, but he didn’t know what she was talking about. He buzzed his hair short and the gray patches at his temples glinted like shards of light.

No, he didn’t listen to Sire when she said their sons were too young. When it came to reindeer herding, he was in charge. The boys shadowed him, watching, learning, their bodies and hands quickly becoming as deft as his own. Above all, they weren’t afraid. He had taught them early that fear would get them nowhere.

It was inconceivable, how two brothers could be as different as him and Aslak. But he would never allow it to happen with his boys. Unna viellja would eventually catch up to his brother in strength. Nils-Ola, too, understood it wouldn’t be long before they were evenly matched, and Juvva was already doing a better job of showing a stiff upper lip after their fights. Nilsa only had to shoot him a look.

Nilsa and the boys wore balaclavas and two pairs of gloves, but hands and faces always got the worst of the cold. The vibrations of the handlebars tired his arms, and his shoulders would ache tonight. The boys rested one knee on the seats, their arms straight, hitting the gas lightly. Nils-Ola was driving Aslak’s snowmobile, and Juvva had Isá’s. Nilsa had been planning to sell them both, to avoid being reminded of his viellja and isá while out with the reindeer, but their value on the secondhand market was poor, so the boys might as well run them into the ground. He would just have to deal with it, although he didn’t want to think about all the memories linked to those snowmobiles, all the reindeer separations and long migrations, how much fun they’d had together and also how arduous it was. But fragments of events and conversations popped up, the jargon they’d used, how Isá would tease Aslak for buying a narrow-track instead of a wide-track. Isá had taught them everything, had imagined the three of them as a strong trio in their reindeer collective for decades to come. But none of that came to pass. Nothing turned out as anyone had imagined.

For the past few years, the full burden had rested on Nilsa; it was his job to care for the family’s reindeer. But soon the boys would be old enough to take on greater responsibility.

Nilsa had often heard the tale, even as a child, of how Enná had nearly died when Aslak was born, and after that the doctor said there wouldn’t be any more babies. Just two sons, which was, of course, painful. But now Nilsa was part of a new trio, one that would be stronger than the first. He wasn’t the type to brood, but after Isá’s endless talk about their trio during his childhood, only to have it all go to hell in the end—well, it prompted the occasional dark thoughts. Nothing was a sure bet. He had told Sire that they should have more children, but she wouldn’t listen, just got herself an IUD and declared she was done.

“I’m sure it would just end up being a daughter, which you don’t want anyway,” she had said, claiming it was just a joke, but he knew she meant it.

A dog’s bark brought him back to the present. Their two hounds were dashing back and forth over snowmobile tracks and snowbanks, yapping and keeping the herd together, ensuring no stragglers were left behind. The dogs were his everything. One was getting on in years, less spry than she had been; sometimes she jumped onto the snowmobile behind Nils-Ola. Nilsa had half a mind to pull her off, force her to continue.

They made their way across the lake. The herd wanted to spread out, and Nilsa signaled Nils-Ola and Juvva to keep close behind. Nilsa and the uncles would stick to the edges, guide the herd along the migration highway. Two of the men were getting old, wanted to take too many breaks. The boys, though, never complained. They drove on until he told them it was time to stop.

The reindeer’s grunting couldn’t be drowned out by the snowmobiles, and their breath turned to fog in the cold air. You had to keep an eye on the animals, too, couldn’t drive them on indefinitely.

A dozen or so reindeer suddenly turned around, veering to the right, and Nilsa shouted. Both sons looked at him and he waved at Nils-Ola, pointing at the escapees. It wouldn’t take much for the other reindeer to join them, and once a herd had turned it could be difficult to get them on the right track again. Nils-Ola zoomed off after them, trying to cut them off, get them to turn ahead again.

Nilsa realized he needed help and headed the reindeer off from the other direction. Now they had no choice but to turn back and follow the herd. He could see only his son’s eyes; they were grim. Nils-Ola tossed his head and resumed his position behind the herd. He probably thought he could have handled it himself, but Nilsa knew better.

Nilsa rolled his shoulders and his chilly snowmobile suit crackled along with the cartilage of his neck. The wind in his face made his eyes tear up and he blinked repeatedly. His balaclava was getting cold and wet from his breath.

They had passed villages where people stood in their yards, watching them go by. They must have been able to hear the reindeer and the snowmobiles coming from far away. Onlookers were curious—how big was the herd?

Nilsa called over to his oldest uncle, letting him know it was time for a break. He nodded, making a gesture that was probably a thumbs-up. He wasn’t wearing a balaclava, and his face seemed frozen in a grimace. The snot had frozen on his mustache. His face sported white spots left from previous years’ bouts of frostbite.

They chose to stop on a large open bog with a good view. The reindeer were tired enough that they wouldn’t get it into their heads to start walking. Even so, two of Nilsa’s cousins had ridden up ahead of the herd, just to be safe.

Nilsa took off his balaclava and filled his guksi. The thermos hadn’t entirely managed to keep the coffee hot. Even though it was only lukewarm, it slipped right down. His bread was frozen; he bit off a chunk and let it melt in his mouth.

Nils-Ola quivered as he held his guksi—either he was cold or his arms had taken a beating. Nilsa wasn’t about to ask.

“Well done, boys,” said Nilsa’s uncle, smiling at them.

They lit up, lapping up the praise.

“A couple almost got away,” said Juvva.

“But they were no match for Nils-Ola.” Uncle nodded and held both hands around his guksi. His fingers were gnarled with rheumatism.

Nils-Ola nodded, wouldn’t look at Nilsa, ready to take all the credit for himself. Nilsa was fine with that. He listened quietly as the boys talked about who would see Guorpmit first. The mountain was their guiding point, as they lived on relatively flat land cut off by its impressive height. Nilsa often allowed his sons to drive their snowmobiles up the steep slopes. One time Nils-Ola overturned his, but the deep snow saved him from tumbling all the way down. The boys had to dig out the snowmobile. Nilsa, meanwhile, sat on his Yamaha, looking on. They grumbled, saying they would never get it free on their own. At that, he started his snowmobile and rode home.

They arrived two hours later. Sire had been furious when he pulled into their yard by himself. “How could you leave two boys behind with a stranded snowmobile!”

She knew perfectly well that they had to learn, had to make it on their own. There was no calling for Isá when you were alone in the forest.

Nilsa took out some jerky, cutting small pieces with his knife. His thumb was numb. He ate the salty meat straight from the blade. He cut a few more pieces and gave them to his sons. They had smoked the jerky together. It had bothered Juvva’s eyes, which turned red and runny. The smoke goahti in the yard needed their attention every fifteen minutes and his son went inside without complaint, his eyes shut tight as he turned the pieces of meat. His eyes were red for a whole day afterward.

Nilsa looked out at the reindeer, who had lain down. Isá would have been proud of such a big herd.

He dug in his inner pocket until he could pull out the green container of Tre Ankare. Pre-portioned snus didn’t quite do the trick, he needed two packets tucked beneath his upper lip.

The temperature was rising; it didn’t feel quite as bitter now.

The boys sat straight and tall. If their heads had drooped at all during the hours spent on snowmobiles today, it was forgotten now.

His warriors. Their trio. Better than he, Isá, and Aslak had ever been.