Excerpts

1. I wake to a complete absence of sound in a world biding its time before coming to life. Enclosed by darkness and sky, I lie with my eyes directed like conduits toward the great expanse, but there is nothing there, not even air. In the midst of the vast silence my chest begins to tremble and shake. The waves intensify; something growing inside threatens to force its way out. My ribs are pried apart like the bars of a cage. There is nothing I can do except submit to this formidable force, like a child groveling on the floor at the feet of an enraged father, never knowing when the next blow will strike. I am that child. I am that father. Before the world is fully formed, I rush out into the dawn with my knapsack on my back and the hand-forged ax in my fist. A short distance from the low barn I stop and shelter at the edge of the forest, pretending to busy myself with my clothing in case someone should see me and start to wonder; I wind a shoelace round and round, empty my cap of invisible lice, pretending to shake them onto the swarming anthill at my feet. All the while I watch the farmyard out of the corner of my eye. The first smoke of the morning rises from the cabin stove, signaling that the household is astir. And then she emerges. Empty pails swing from her hands. Her headscarf stands out, white like a winter ptarmigan; her face is a circle of light, her eyes bright, her brows dark. I imagine the smoothness of her cheeks and her small rosy lips singing softly, shaping tender little words. The cows, their udders taut, low in response and expectation when she opens the heavy barn door and slips inside. It all happens at such speed, far too fast, and I try to keep my senses sharp, to hold this picture so that I can summon it again and again. And yet it is not enough. I have to see her tomorrow as well. Her swinging hips under the apron, the gentle round of her bosom, the hand that grips the latch on the barn door. I steal closer, almost breaking into a run across the farmyard as if I were a thief, and at the door I stop. I let my hand close round the handle. My rough, sinewy hand on the place where hers, so small and soft, has just been. Inside, her fingers squeezing the cow's large teats, squirting white jets into the pail. For a split second I pull on the handle as if to enter, but I promptly turn and hurry away, afraid someone will have seen me. But I keep it in my hand for the rest of the day. The warmth from her skin. 2. At mealtimes I always wait until last. I hold back in the corner while the pastor's wife places the heavy cauldron of oatmeal on the table. It is smoking and black as death on the outside, as though fetched straight from the devil's inferno. But inside, the porridge is light and golden, slightly grainy, creamy where it sticks to the wooden ladle. Brita Kajsa stirs with the broad wooden spatula, digging down to the bottom and then up again, breaking the skin that has formed on top and filling every corner of the cabin with the aroma of hay and pollen. The children and hired hands sit waiting; I see their pale faces, a silent wall of hunger. Her expression stern, she takes the bowls and gives large scoops to the older and smaller dollops to the younger ones; she serves the workers and the visitors who have dropped in. When they all have received their share, heads are lowered and fingers intertwined across the table. The pastor waits until there is quiet, then he too bows his head and gives heartfelt thanks for everyone's daily bread. They eat in silence, apart from the sound of chewing and the licking of wooden spoons. The older want more, and more is given. The breaking of bread, the eating of cold boiled pike with deft fingers, bones piling up on the table like shiny pins. When everyone has almost finished, the mistress will chance to cast an eye toward the corner where I sit. "Come and eat too." "It doesn't matter." "But come and sit down. Make room for Jussi, children." "I can wait." I see the master turn as well. His eyes are glazed; I detect the pain in them and how he struggles to conceal it. A brief nod from him brings me to the table. I hold out my guksi, the wooden cup I crafted myself up in Karesuando, the one that has accompanied me on my life's journey. At first it was white as the skin of a suckling babe; over time it has darkened with sun and salt and a thousand washings. I feel the weight when the mistress empties her ladle and I watch her scrape the sides to gather more, but I am already back in my corner, cross-legged on the floor. The sticky, barley-tasting porridge I devour has cooled by now to the same temperature as my mouth. I feel it slip down my throat, then enclosed by my stomach's muscles. There it grows into the strength and warmth that will help keep me alive. I eat like a dog, ravenous and watchful. "Come and have some more," the mistress urges. But she knows I will not come. I eat only once. I take my allotted portion, never more. The cup is empty. I wipe my thumb like a swab round the curved surface and pass my tongue over it; I lick and suck until it is all clean. It slides gently into my pocket. The cup is what provides me with food, drawing to it the edible things that happenstance delivers. Many times, weak with hunger, I have been close to collapse. But whenever I took out my cup, it was filled with a fish's head. Or a reindeer's blood. Or with frozen berries from a mountain slope. Just like that. And I have eaten and regained my strength. Enough to withstand the day. This is all I hope for and this is how I have survived. This is why I sit down on the floor, for never would I assert myself or make demands, never snatch like a raven or snarl like a wolverine. I would rather turn aside. If no one sees me, I stay in the shadows. But the mistress, she sees me. I ask for nothing, but she provides nonetheless. Her brusque kindness, the same concern for all beings, for cows, for dogs. All living things need to survive. That is about the size of it. I might leave at any moment. As a wanderer does. I am here now, and the next thing you know I am somewhere else. I get to my feet, grab my knapsack, and walk. That is all. When you are poor, you can live like this. Everything I own, I carry with me. Clothes on my back, knife in my belt, fire striker and cup, horn spoon, pouch of salt. Their combined weight is almost nothing. I am agile and fleet of foot, in the next river valley before anyone misses me. There is hardly a trace of me left behind, no more than an animalÕs. My feet tread on grass and moss that spring back up. When I build a fire I use old firepits, and the ash I make settles, invisible, on the ash others have made. I answer the call of nature in the forest, lifting up a clod of earth and replacing it afterward. The next traveler can place his foot right on top without noticing a thing; only the fox can detect a faint human scent. In winter my ski tracks fly across the pillowy skies of snow several cubits above the ground; and on springÕs arrival all the pockmarks left by my sticks will melt away. It is possible for humans to live this way, without damaging, without disturbing, without really existing: being like the forest, like a host of summer leaves and autumn detritus, like midwinter snow and myriad buds opened by the sun in spring. When it is finally time to leave, it is as though you have never been here. 3. My master is wrought with anguish. I see his lips contort, smack, and pucker around words that will not form. His enemies are drawing ever nearer; not a day goes by without more attacks and more contempt. And the only thing he has in his defense is a pen. Against their swords and cudgels he lifts his quill, but the words will not flow. At each attempt I want to beat myself, pinch myself hard to relieve him of his burden. Anything that will let the light into his mind. He could have been my father. That is how I think of him, but when I hinted at it once it made him angry, and I saw the color rise in his averted cheek. I sink down onto the rug and like a loyal dog I wait, nose resting on paw, hour after hour, ready to follow him at any moment. His brow is furrowed by years of thinking. It is dirty, marked by tobacco juice perhaps, or soot from the lamp wick. His hair is long and hangs in greasy strands that he brushes aside from time to time, like dangling branchlets. Alone he treads a path through shadows and overgrown marshes, in places where no one has ventured before him. He is, however, not entirely on his own. I follow him in silence, padding behind him with my nose on his trail: the tarred leather of his curled-toe shoes, the rustle of their straw lining, the damp wool of his trouser legs. He pushes farther on into the unknown, but I am always there. My stomach is empty, but I don't complain. On one of our treks we sat down by a natural spring. As we slaked our thirst, he gave me a thoughtful sideways look. "What makes a good person?" he asked eventually. I had no answer. "What makes us good, Jussi?" he persisted. "What does it mean, to be a good person?" "I don't know," I muttered. The master continued to stare at me, radiating a strong light, a warmth. "But look at the two of us, Jussi. Look at you and me. Which one of us is good, would you say?" "It's my master." "Don't call me master when we're in the forest." "I mean . . . the pastor." "And why?" "Because the pastor is a priest. You give us God's words. You can give us the Lord's forgiveness." "That's my job. Can a job alone make a person good? Are there no evil priests?" "No, none at all. I can't imagine that's the case!" "Priests who drink, who fornicate, who beat their wives half to death. Truly, I have encountered them." I didn't answer, but fixed my gaze on the smoldering polypore we had lit to ward off the swarms of gnats. "Look at yourself, Jussi. You're no glutton, no drunkard." "But that's because I'm poor." "You don't brag. When something is offered, you're the last to step forward. If someone pays you a compliment, you deflect it." "I don't, Pastor. It's just . . ." "Often I don't even notice you're there. I have to turn and look at you to be sure. If you're so quiet that you disappear, how could you be evil?" "But the pastor does so many good things." "Does that come from God, Jussi? Think about it, think about it. Could it just be the devil of ambition whispering in my ear? Luring me with worldly ostentation and applause? When I die, I hope people will remember me as one of the greats. Whilst you, Jussi, will be wiped out like a phantom that never existed." "I'm happy with my lot." "Is that really true?" "Mm." "That's what makes you good. You're the kindest, finest person I have ever met." "No, Pastor." "Indeed you are, Jussi. But wait. Listen. Does that make you a good person?" "I don't think so." "No. Maybe all you can do is follow your nature. Fundamentally you and I have very different ways. And that's why I compare the two of us so often. Which of us walks the right path? How should we live, essentially? My accomplishments are significant, it's true, but so too is the hurt I inflict. I make enemies, I wound my opponents and trample upon them. Whilst you turn the other cheek." He could see that I wanted to protest and he raised his hand. "Wait, Jussi. Is that what makes you good? Is that what the Creator meant?" For several moments I gazed at a horsefly traveling up and down his trouser leg, its shimmering green eyes shining brightly as it tried in vain to bite through the cloth. "I taught you to read, Jussi. You borrow my books, you're improving yourself. I can see that you think, but what do you do with your thoughts? If someone picks a fight with you, you turn aside, you simply pick up your knapsack and walk away. You flee to the north, to the mountains. Is that how we should confront the world's foolishness? Think about it, Jussi. Are you right never to fight back?" "Wretched worm and wanderer that I am." The pastor couldn't help but smile when I recited from his favorite hymn. "You're an observer, Jussi. I've noticed it. You study the world around you, don't you?" "Yes, but . . ." "You want to understand what the world and human beings are made of. But are you putting your pound to work, Jussi, as the parable teaches? That's my question to you, Jussi. What are you doing to combat the world's evil?" There was nothing I could say. My throat tightened. I felt wrongfully accused and I wanted to run away and leave him there; I am so quick that I would be out of reach in the blink of an eye. He saw my anguish, leaned forward, and laid his hand upon my arm. That was how he held on to me: he fastened a string to my wing, as though I were a sparrow, frantically flapping. It was the pastor who taught me to see. To learn that the world around you can be transformed entirely through your gaze. All my childhood I wandered through mountain valleys and birch forests, crossed pine moorlands, and splashed over swaying bogs. This countryside was mine. I knew it inside out, this barren northern land of stony riversides and twisting animal trails. And yet I had seen almost nothing at all. Excerpted from To Cook a Bear: A Novel by Mikael Niemi All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.