To Sleep With Reindeer Page 4

  Her family had come that way last year, and the year before, and the year before that. Her ancestors—well, her mother’s ancestors at least—had moved for thousands of years along the same stone-age trails across the vidda. Their destination, the winter feeding-grounds close to Sweden, would keep them nourished until the following spring, when they would reverse course.

  In the long twilight, the snow radiated a blue-gray light, and although the vidda was largely featureless, her grandparents and Gaiju were familiar with every boulder and crevasse. The herd dog panted toward her and brushed briefly against her leg, confirming their teamwork. He belonged to the Tuovo family but knew and answered to most of the herders.

  “Hey, Chammo,” she said, admiring the bright spots over his eyes that legend said gave him the power to see the wind. “How are things in the spirit world? Any sign of them showing interest in getting rid of the Germans?”

  The dog glanced up at her balefully through bright-blue eyes.

  She bent and patted him on the side. “Not really their area of expertise, is it?” Chammo trotted off to bring in another cluster of reindeer that was edging toward the north.

  She strode along on her skis, hearing the soothing shish shish, her own breath, and the distant tinkling of bells on the lead deer. From time to time she could hear Gaiju call to one of the dogs. Grandfather’s brother, widowed and childless, Gaiju had made the migration almost as many years as he was old.

  She followed the ridge that gradually emerged, and when she reached its highest point, she swept her gaze over a mass of some eight hundred and fifty deer, herded by three families. When they marked the new calves in their ears later in the year, Maarit reckoned her family would gain another thirty. Not a large herd, but respectable, though if the damned Germans kept shooting them to feed their troops, that number could decline rapidly.

  So far, the deer looked good. Many had lost their antlers, and some of them looked a bit comical with a single antler that had not yet fallen off. They would migrate, Sami or no Sami, as they had done for thousands of years, northwest in the spring and southeast in the fall. All that she and her kin did was supplement their food in the sparse patches and guard them from predators.

  Something caught her eye, and she recognized an eagle swooping toward one of the calves. It was a rare white calf, a small female that had fallen behind its mother. She was surprised to see an eagle so late in the season, but there it was, enormous and hungry. The powerful raptor even managed to lift the poor creature off the ground for a moment. But the calf was simply too heavy, and it thrashed until it freed itself from the eagle’s grasp.

  Its mother turned and galloped toward her baby that lay now in the snow. Angry at herself for not noticing the stray calf sooner, Maarit rushed toward it, focused on the blood staining its white coat. She helped the calf to its feet, but it collapsed again, trembling.

  Overhead, the thwarted raptor shrieked outrage and flew past a row of boulders out of sight.

  The other reindeer, spooked by the attack, had increased their pace, and Maarit had no choice but to carry the wounded beast. Taking both ski poles in one hand, she hauled the calf up and draped it over her shoulders.

  “Oof!” she groaned, as the full weight of the calf dropped like a yoke. It would slow her, but she was determined not to lose a single deer on this trip, least of all the precious white one.

  She plodded on, straining her muscles, for two more hours, the mother trotting alongside her. With exhaustion creeping in, she slowed her pace and fell behind. She was in little danger of losing sight of the herd, since they kicked up a mist of powdered snow she could see for kilometers.

  But the herd itself had begun to gather in denser masses. A bright whistle drew her glance over the bobbing sea of reindeer backs, to the spot where Grandfather stood. He pointed with his arm toward a cluster of boulders. Grandmother was already unloading the tent poles from the first sled.

  She waved back, and at both their whistles, the dogs galloped to the front of the herd to stop its forward motion. The lichen were abundant under the snow here, so the reindeer were already slowing to graze. They would have enough to feed on through the night, and guarded by the dogs, they would soon lie down in the snow to rest.

  Her burden and her aching muscles delayed her, and when she arrived at the campsite, Gaiju stood in front of it. “So that’s what held you up.” He lifted the lame calf from her shoulders so she could bend down to remove her skis.

  The tent poles were already tied together in tepee fashion, so all that remained was to pull the canvas covering around the frame and lash the tent down. She knew the order of construction, and while Alof chopped wood and Gaiju unloaded their provisions, Maarit tramped down the snow inside and laid out the twigs they’d brought for flooring. Moments later, Alof bent through the opening with an armload of wood and lit a fire, while Jova tied a branch crosswise between the support poles and hung the kettle on its chain. With the lavvu fully erected, Maarit fetched in the calf and laid it down.

  “What’s wrong with the calf?” Jova dropped handfuls of snow into the kettle. “You been carrying her long?” She unpacked yesterday’s bread and the dried meat that would be their supper.

  Maarit was about to unwrap the woven cloth from around her leg and tug off her deerskin shoes when she realized she had to go out again. “Attacked by an eagle. Lucky calf was too heavy, and it let her go, but she seems to be injured.”

  “You can leave her there while we eat, but the tent’s too small for all of us to sleep and keep her, too. You’ll have to put her in the sled.”

  “Well, we could make a stew out of her,” Gaiju said, half serious. If the calf turned out to be lame, slaughtering it made the most sense. But a female calf was doubly valuable because she could have her own calves, and her white coat gave her an almost mystical aura. “Let’s give her a chance tonight. I’ll carry her out to let her suckle.”

  “Suit yourself, dear.”

  Maarit stepped back outside to search for the vaja. As she’d hoped, the mother stood close by, obviously anxious for her calf. Alof followed her out and grasped the deer by her antlers while Maarit held the calf against the mother’s warm belly. To her relief the injured animal still had an appetite. But immediately after suckling, the calf collapsed again in the snow, so she carried it back to the sled and covered it with a deerskin.

  Inside the lavvu again, Maarit sat down to remove her shoes with a sigh of relief. Even though her shoe-grass lining kept her feet warm enough, it didn’t prevent the ache of a ten-hour forced march. She hung shoes, leg-cloths, and damp shoe-grass overhead on the crossbeam that held the cooking-pot chain. Grandmother’s shoe-grass was already there. Everything gave off a sour odor of unwashed body and damp wool.

  “I’d forgotten how hard the migration is on the feet,” she remarked, drawing up her legs.

  Across from her Alof lit his pipe with a cinder from the fire. “Living in Trondheim has made you soft, child.”

  “I’m sure it has, Grandfather. But it has also made me smart. If I can ever finish my medical studies, I can help the Sami as a doctor.”

  “You’re just like your mother, Maarit. Stubborn. Determined. Reckless.” He blew out a puff of smoke. “Never satisfied with the life up here. She had to go into Trondheim and take care of the white people’s children. Look what became of her.”

  Maarit massaged her toes. “Yes, but that’s how she met my father and made me and Karrel. She was very happy with a Norwegian husband. And she did come back to the Sami. She died because she was a good Sami mother trying to save her son from the Germans, not because she married a Norwegian.”

  Ignoring the conversation, Grandmother set about melting the frozen meat over the flames.

  Gaiju lit his own pipe. “Germans!” He spat toward the fire. “Without our help, they wouldn’t last one week in their shiny boots. They know that, so they steal our reindeer and grab our young men for guides.”

  Maarit stared into the f
ire, brooding over what had after all brought her back to her mother’s people. The Sami tried to stay out of the conflict, but their ability to find their way across the barren, featureless arctic landscape rendered them useful. And the seizure of the young men meant that women and the elderly bore the burden of the migration.

  The conversation stopped when Jova poured coffee powder into the kettle of boiling water. A few moments later, she passed around the steaming cups. There were only three—an enameled tin cup shared by her grandparents, a wooden one used by Gaiju, and a ceramic one Maarit had been wise enough to save from her student days. A private cup was a luxury.

  The lavvu did little to keep out the creeping frost, but Maarit warmed her hands around the cup, then sipped its contents and winced. She appreciated the warmth, but it was even more bitter than normal.

  Without looking up, Jova poked at the heating deer meat. “It’s all they had at the trader’s. Because of the war. Here, try it this way.” She cut chips of now-warmed reindeer meat and handed them around.

  Soaking in the scalding coffee, the reindeer cooked slightly and added a saltiness to the drink. Maarit sipped and nodded at the familiarity. Salted Sami coffee that she would forever associate with the migration.

  Finally, the bread had also heated, and they tore off steaming shreds of it to dip into the coffee stew. The long, comfortable silence that was essentially Sami fell over them and gave her time for introspection. What was she going to do? Although Sami only through her mother, she was fully accepted into the family. And besides, they obviously needed her.

  But she was also her father’s child, and she felt guilty withdrawing into the tundra while the Germans installed themselves all over Norway. Wilderness and civilization had equal claim on her. She hated the invader but had no idea what to do about it.

  Finally, Grandfather knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fire, signaling the end of the evening. The tiny lavvu scarcely allowed room for four, and when one person lay down to sleep, all had to do so. Without commentary, Jova began to put order in her tiny kitchen to make space for her own bed. Gaiju tapped out his pipe as well and slid over next to Alof, then wrapped up in one of the deerskins.

  With her head directly under Jova’s feet, Maarit adjusted the hides around herself and wondered again about the calf that lay curled up in the sled. If it could still not walk the next morning, she would have to surrender the poor creature to the natural order and let it be butchered.

  Drowsiness was already overtaking her, and she submitted to it, vaguely sensing one of the men who had begun to snore.

  Chapter Four

  Kirsten sensed stinging cold on her face and pain in her jaw. Worse, when she tried to lift herself up on her elbows, the jolt of pain in her side suggested broken ribs. She heard moaning and forced herself up again to assess what had happened.

  Obviously, they had crashed. The glider lay at the end of a long trough with both wings broken off. She’d apparently been thrown some distance from the wreck, as had most of the others. Some of them lay motionless, while a few were on their knees and struggling to stand.

  She lay next to a mound of churned-up snow, and as she tried to clear her head, she heard groaning behind her. With effort, she turned to look over her shoulder. Reggie was nearby, higher on the mound, alive, though one leg was bent grotesquely to the side.

  Before she could help him, she had to assess her own injuries. Her left side hurt with every deep breath. Her head ached, but her vision was good. Mild concussion. She clenched her hands inside her gloves and moved her arms slightly. No broken bones there. Both legs could bend at the knee and pivot at the hip, but as she tried to rotate her left foot, pain shot up her leg.

  Sudden activity among the staggering men near the wreck drew her attention. A shot rang out and one of them fell, the reason for their panic soon becoming clear. A German ski patrol had spotted the gliders as they crashed and was arriving to capture them. Shit.

  “Hide!” Reggie called down to her from his exposed position. “Under the snow. You’ve got a chance.”

  She hesitated for only a moment, wanting to save him as well, then grasped the impossibility. Instinct for survival, and the memory of all the times she’d hunted with her father in the woods, urged her to claw a sort of tunnel into the mound she lay next to. Desperation gave her strength, and just as she heard the first German voice call out, she had excavated enough space to roll into, gritting her teeth against the pain in her foot and side. She swept down handfuls of snow over her, leaving a hole the size of her forearm at the side for air.

  Panting from exertion and fear, she listened to the sounds of capture only a few meters away. German voices shouted, while the surrendering British sappers were mostly quiet. What would they do with the injured, she wondered, but the answer came immediately. Gunshots. Unhurried. One sounded right next to her. “Noch einer,” a soldier said.

  Reggie’s voice above her, clear and unmistakable, “Fuck you, bloody murderers!” followed by another gunshot.

  Grasping her sidearm, which she knew would be useless against a whole platoon, she waited for them to discover her. But after agonizing long minutes, their distant voices told her they’d overlooked her. They seemed to be leaving—with prisoners or without, she couldn’t tell. But either way, they’d surely seen that the glider was full of supplies and would soon return with a sled to collect them.

  She waited until every sound had stopped. No voices of the soldiers, no moaning from the wounded. She began to shiver from the cold and knew she had to emerge soon or freeze to death. Taking a deep breath, she raised both arms to push off the snow that covered her upper body and sat up.

  It was an appalling sight. Men lay scattered around her, unmoving. Reggie, too, had been executed. Of the other dead men, she counted eight. Five men had been taken prisoner. She hoped their British uniforms would give them POW status but had no way of knowing, and she had her own life to worry about. She had to get away from the glider before the patrol returned, but could she walk? Or even stand up?

  Laboriously, she drew herself up, first to her knees, and then, supporting herself on her good leg, she tried to take a step. The sharp pain in her left ankle caused her leg to buckle, and she fell back onto the snow. She crouched for a moment, gathering determination, then hauled herself up again. She could stand but not walk.

  Crawling, she dragged herself over to the largest man she could see. It was Fitzsimmons. Turning him over was a struggle and wrenched her rib muscles, but she finally managed to remove his overcoat. After taking off her backpack, she drew the coat on over her own. Its greater size allowed her to button it across her chest, making a double layer against the cold, although the thickness in her armpits made it difficult to move her arms.

  Gathering her strength and dragging her pack, she crawled turtle-like with splayed arms from corpse to corpse, trying to avoid looking at their faces. Each one still wore a backpack, and each one contained a field-ration kit. She could stuff no more than seven into her own pack, which, with her own, made eight. If she couldn’t find help in eight days, she was doomed. But for now, her main concern was her foot. How bad was the damage, and would it support her well enough to flee?

  Another arduous trek brought her back to the wrecked glider, where she located the emergency kit. It held a wide roll of bandage, scissors, iodine, and morphine syringes, but nothing to serve as a splint. The only object remotely useful was a spade she slid out from under a seat. It was fortunately a short one, so the handle came no higher than mid-thigh. Gritting her teeth, she laid the spade head against her foot and wrapped her lower leg from ankle to knee with a strip of bandage. The splint was ridiculously primitive and did nothing to reduce the pain, but would at least allow her to take a step. She considered using one of the morphine syrettes but feared it would make her groggy and slow her down. Instead, she dropped one into her pocket.

  What else would she need? The tents were too heavy, and so were the tommy guns. The radio tra
nsmitter, which she might have tried to drag away, was smashed. A metal box carried ration cards, useless until she reached civilization, but she slid a couple into a pocket. A zippered wallet held Norwegian cash, which she folded and shoved in next to them.

  She labored, panting, for another twenty minutes to locate maps, a tarp, and snowshoes, and she managed to force her feet into them, even with the spade head. Finally, dizzy with pain and exhaustion, she inhaled long and deep, and, with a loud groan, set out.

  Getting away from the site was the hardest, since the wreck had thrown up mounds of snow, and each deep step left her breathless. Only the simple knowledge that to stay meant capture kept her moving.

  Once she’d made it onto smooth snow, she set off in a shuffle, bending under the weight of her two coats and bulging backpack and checking her compass for direction.

  The patrol’s ski tracks showed they’d gone west, so she traveled east. After what seemed like an hour, she glanced back, shocked at how little ground she’d covered. In the eerie blue light of the polar twilight, the wreck was still visible.

  “Shit,” she muttered, and lumbered on, unwilling to expose her wrist long enough to check her watch. Time was irrelevant at that moment anyhow. She snorted softly as her weary mind played with the idea. Didn’t Einstein say time and space were on the same continuum? Fancy that. Would he say that if he were trudging with a bad foot across bloody nowhere to escape the bloody Nazis?

  She wasn’t yet cold, but she worried now about being lost. She tried to recall the map they’d all been shown, of where they expected to land relative to where both the Vemork plant and Poulsson’s cabin were located. The plant was south and the cabin vaguely east. But they had crash-landed far short of the target zone. Should she travel southeast, southwest, or due east?