14. Nilsa
NILSA
1954
We’re gonna run away.”
Nilsa stared at them one at a time: Juhan, Guttorm, Aslak, and Jon-Ante. Juhan and Guttorm grinned while Jon-Ante’s eyes widened. Nilsa had gathered them behind the dormitory under great secrecy. Nothing ever came of the plan to put tacks in Housemother’s bed, the witch was too clever and always locked her door. But now he’d thought up a better idea.
When he had asked, or rather ordered, Jon-Ante to follow him behind the building, the little scaredy-cat looked frightened but trudged along.
“We’re not staying here anymore. We’ve had enough. Tonight, when everyone’s asleep, we’re getting out. Go to bed with your clothes on, and on my signal it’s time.” He paused for effect. “Anyone who makes a peep and gets us caught is dead meat.”
Jon-Ante stared at the ground. “Why do I have to come?” he muttered.
“To prove you’re not a wimp. Wimps get beat up.” Nilsa puffed out his chest. He would pound the crap out of that brat for talking back. He’d punched him in the stomach once before. With no air in his lungs, Jon-Ante had sagged to the ground, unable to yell or cry.
“But my family isn’t in the village right now. I can’t run away home.”
“Eh! You’ll have to make it on your own, then.”
“But Enná said I’m not supposed to run since I just had the mumps.”
“Aslak has no problem running, and he was just as sick as you.”
He flung his arm around unna viellja’s shoulders, gave a squeeze, straightened his back in the hopes that Aslak would do the same, but when he felt his brother slump he let go.
“Should we bring anything?” Jon-Ante asked, his voice trembling.
“Whatever you want.” Nilsa wouldn’t be bringing anything, none of the others would, either. He smiled and raised his eyebrows at Juhan and Guttorm, making them laugh. This wasn’t a real escape, it wasn’t about that at all. Just as with the thumbtack plan, he had an ulterior motive and had gotten his friends to go along with it to trick Jon-Ante and make Housemother really mad at him. “We’re gonna put that little brat in his place.”
A FEW HOURS LATER , Nilsa was lying in bed with his hands atop the sheet, silently wiping away the annoying sweat that had sprung out. The excitement made him feel fluttery. Just think what it would be like to tell Isá that he, too, had gotten revenge on that reindeer-thieving family. He would be so proud. It was time to put them in their place, Isá had said last time Nilsa was home, but since he hadn’t actually said how, Nilsa thought up a plan of his own.
When the breathing in the dormitory had grown gentle and even, he looked to the side and gave Guttorm a slight nod. He slowly lifted the covers and Guttorm did the same. Juhan, whose bed was across the room, was soon up, too. They sneaked out and over to the next room, their eyes adjusting to the dark. Aslak kicked off his blanket right away and slipped out of bed, but Jon-Ante didn’t move. Had he fallen asleep? Nilsa would have to walk past several sleeping boys to get to him. He nodded at Guttorm, who had to tug at the brat’s arm to get him up. He had a white linen sack with him and his shoes in his hand. It was clear from his harried eyes that he was scared.
The hallway floor creaked, but they soon reached the front door and slipped out one by one. The brisk autumn air filled their lungs, and every fiber of Nilsa’s being was on high alert. The others looked anxious, so he had to model the opposite, live up to his reputation as fearless and strong. The gravel crunched on the drive as they headed for the road. The first stretch through the village wasn’t long. The yellow church was at their back as they picked up speed. While there was a chance someone would glance out a window, the nights were dark now. After a few hundred meters they came to the bend where the road split in two; one way led up to the village school on the hill, where the reindeer herders’ children were not welcome. Nilsa spat in that direction. Just yesterday there had been a fistfight between the village kids and the students from the nomad school. He’d gotten a serious wallop in, punching one of the ugliest ones in the nose, and the blood had flowed out thick and red. His knuckles still hurt.
“Lapp bastards!” they had shouted, and Nilsa chased after them alongside Guttorm and Juhan. They fought until two of them were lying on the ground and Nilsa couldn’t help but kick them in the back. Warning them not to tattle, he said that he would beat them to death next time if they did.
After the bend came the longest straightaway, and they could only hope no one would see them.
“Are we going to run the whole way?” Guttorm panted at Nilsa’s side.
“Yes, but when we get a little farther we can jump down in the ditch or head into the woods if anyone comes.”
Jon-Ante ran with his sack bouncing against his back, looking terrified. Aslak brought up the rear and Nilsa slowed down so he could keep up. He wanted to shout at Aslak to shape up, run faster, simply be better, tougher. It was like Aslak could read his mind, because he suddenly looked unhappy, shooting a pleading look at Nilsa, close to tears.
“I think it’s going to rain,” said Guttorm, nodding behind them, but Nilsa didn’t turn around.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But—”
“Just run!” Nilsa sped up and the others fell behind. He didn’t stop until he reached the next bend. He tried to calm his breathing as best he could, pretending to be unbothered as he watched the other boys gasp, clear their throats, spit.
Jon-Ante’s face was red and he bit his lip. “I can’t run anymore,” he whispered.
“We can walk now. We can hide behind trees here.”
“There are bears.”
Nilsa laughed. “So sing then, and they won’t get us.”
He set off at a walk and the others plodded behind but he noticed Jon-Ante was quiet. Should he force him to sing? There really were bears here. Nilsa shook it off. Ha! What did it matter? He wasn’t afraid.
The wind picked up, making the legs of their trousers flutter.
“It’s going to rain, I told you so.” Guttorm looked upset.
“So what?”
Guttorm bent close, whispering. “We can’t come back all wet, they’ll know we were outside. Where would we hang our clothes?”
Nilsa snorted. Guttorm always had to be such a know-it-all. “If you’re chicken, then go back,” he snapped.
They had several kilometers left to walk. Maybe they had gotten up too late after all. Nilsa tried to work out how long it would take to get back to school. It might be at least two hours, round-trip.
A rumble came across the mountain slopes like an avalanche of rocks.
“Is that thunder?” Aslak gasped.
There was no way. Sure, the day before had been unusually hot, with the sun blazing down as though it were summer, but they’d never heard of thunder in the fall before.
“No, dummy!” said Juhan, but Aslak looked uncertain.
Nilsa couldn’t bear to see it; he looked away, feeling uneasy. He thought of Enná, how frightened she was of thunderstorms and how she’d taught Aslak to be just as scared. Viellja was like Enná in every way, far too weak. Nilsa had tried to teach him to fight, but Aslak hit with soft fists and only ever hurt himself. Nilsa told him to clench his fists tighter, but it didn’t help. He’d brought viellja along on this escape to prove to the other boys he was tougher than they thought, and here he was, knees trembling, ruining everything.
“It’s going to pour,” Guttorm said. “I can tell by the wind.”
It wasn’t just wind anymore, it was almost a gale. They had a long way to go and needed to hurry.
“Let’s run, we’ll go to the cemetery,” said Nilsa.
This had been the plan all along. He decided that the storm had actually come at an opportune time. This way they wouldn’t have to force Jon-Ante to go there, he would come along willingly to seek shelter.
The rain began to fall, whipping his face, and his clothes were soaked in seconds, sticking to his arms and legs. His shoes squelched.
Aslak ran with his hands over his ears. He often said that the wind gave him a headache. Jon-Ante appeared to be crying.
Nilsa, Guttorm, and Juhan ran with their teeth clenched, breathing hard. They were so drenched that they might as well have taken a shortcut through the open bog. He slowed down, and the others followed his lead in relief.
They walked in silence, not looking at one another. Soon they would reach the final bend before the cemetery.
“Let’s try the shed,” said Guttorm, as if the idea had just come to him.
One last, slightly uphill climb and they reached the old stone wall that penned in the dead. Nilsa was the first to jump over it. He could taste blood, but when he tried to spit, it was only mucus that dangled from his lips.
They walked in among the graves. The rain beat down on black and gray headstones, leaving trails of tears over names and dates.
They approached a red wooden shed, and its padlock was firmly in place. Nilsa expected as much.
“Get a rock,” he said, and Guttorm lumbered off to search but had no luck. “Guess you have to check the forest, then.” Nilsa pointed along the gravel path and Guttorm stiffened. At the end of it, before the trees and forest took over completely, was the vault that held the dead who hadn’t yet been placed in their graves. It was underground, tucked away in the low hill, and who knew what kind of ghosts lingered there. Nilsa shot Guttorm a defiant look. Can’t give an inch, he knew. Don’t show the least bit of hesitation, always be the one in charge. “Go.”
“Jon-Ante can go.”
“Sure, fine, you go,” Nilsa said to the little brat, relieved to avoid a power struggle.
Jon-Ante shook so hard that he could barely stand. He sniffled and wiped his hand under his nose. “I don’t want to.”
“Do you want us to freeze to death out here? We have to get inside,” Nils said, shoving his shoulder.
“I can get a rock from the parking lot.”
“Those rocks are too small, we need a really big one.” He shoved the kid so hard that he staggered a few steps down the gravel path. Nilsa himself took shelter under the eave of the shed. The rain was starting to let up; soon it would stop. Nilsa wasn’t about to let on that he was freezing, so he crossed his trembling arms over his chest.
Jon-Ante walked off with his head hanging, and when he got to the hill they watched him climb the stone wall and vanish among the trees. Soon he returned with a rock so heavy that he had to lean backwards in order to carry it.
Nilsa banged it against the padlock, but nothing happened. The others watched as he tried again. It hurt his hands, but he wouldn’t let it show. He gritted his teeth.
“Eh,” he said. “Let’s just break the window.”
He grabbed Jon-Ante’s sack and used it to protect his hand as he struck the brittle glass with the rock. The shards tinkled as they fell, and he carefully knocked out every splinter around the edge. The window was pretty small. The little ones could get in, but he had trouble picturing how he, Guttorm, and Juhan would manage to squeeze through.
“Get in there,” he said, looking at Jon-Ante and Aslak. “Get out of the rain.”
First they boosted Jon-Ante up, and he pulled down the sleeves of his jacket to keep from getting cut as he pushed himself inside and cautiously set his feet on the glass-strewn floor. Then he took Aslak’s hand and helped him follow. The boys looked relieved; they sank to the floor among tools and shovels.
“We’ll be okay out here,” said Nilsa, and the other boys pressed up close to the shed wall.
The temperature had fallen and their clothes were like ice against their skin. His lower lip trembled even though he was biting it. Guttorm shivered so violently that his whole body shook.
The clouds had moved on toward Sohppar, toward home, and when the rain stopped it happened suddenly and everything fell silent, aside from the drops dripping off the roof.
“Should we keep going?” Juhan asked, but his eyes said something else.
“No, I think we actually need to rest for a while, dry off a bit,” said Nilsa. “The caretaker doesn’t get here until six, so we can wait without being caught. No one will look for us during the night.”
Jon-Ante and Aslak were like rag dolls in the dark, leaning against the wall, pale and quiet.
Minutes passed; a quarter of an hour. The boys could no longer stand still and began pacing on the gravel. Nilsa tried to avoid looking at the gravestones, and he hoped Aslak wouldn’t start worrying about evil spirits. They all slapped their arms along their bodies in an attempt to warm up.
“What are we going to do? We have to get back. It’s too cold,” Guttorm whined.
“Jon-Ante’s not going to fall asleep. He’s just sitting there with his eyes wide open,” said Juhan.
The plan had been to lure Jon-Ante into the shed, wait for him to fall asleep, and then abandon him.
Nilsa kicked rocks and one hit a grave. It made an ominous clunk. “We’ll make him stay.”
“How?”
Nilsa tossed his head and went to the window. It was impossible to speak normally through his frozen blue lips. “Aslak, get up!”
He bolted to his feet.
“Use that stool and come out here.”
Aslak’s hands shook as he grabbed Nilsa’s cold fists. Jon-Ante stood up and waited for his turn.
“You’re staying here.”
“But…”
“You’re staying here.”
“But—you’re going to go on without me?”
“Yep, we sure are.”
Tears sprang to Jon-Ante’s eyes. “I don’t want to be here alone.”
“This is a test. If you stay all night, we will never beat you up again. But if you follow us, we’ll thrash you every day.”
Guttorm and Juhan were grinning by his side.
“I just hope the ghosts don’t take you,” Nilsa said. “After all, I hear they climb out of their graves if visitors come at night.”
He was warmer now, his heart beating faster. He held one nostril closed and blew. Jon-Ante remained still, staring at them as if begging for mercy. Aslak lowered his head and Nilsa wanted to take him by the chin, force him to stare Jon-Ante down.
“We’re leaving now, and if we see you back at school before breakfast—well.” Nilsa brandished his fist.
“You’re not running away home?” Jon-Ante’s voice was tiny and pitiful.
No one answered. Nilsa nodded at the other boys, and they jumped the stone wall and vanished into the darkness.