‘Gone.’ I hear his voice behind me as I stand and stare at the tracks in the snow where the dogs were just seconds ago. There’s a pause. Then, ‘Once huskies start running, there’s no stopping them.’
‘Can’t you call them, get them back?’ I say through my dry throat. I’m speaking quietly, but you can hear every word, every noise here in the woods with the snow on the trees acting as soundproofing.
There’s an even longer pause, during which I think I can still hear the dogs’ pounding feet in the distance, and then, in a very measured voice, which is obviously taking a huge amount of restraint, he says wearily, ‘They’re not like pets you can get to come back on command.’
‘So what now?’ I turn quickly, in complete despair and feeling like an utter idiot, and look directly into his ice-blue eyes, but he stares straight through me.
‘Look, there’s the cabin. You go in. Get the fire going.’ He pauses. ‘You can light a fire, can’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I say automatically, whilst a voice in my head disagrees, panics and repeats, ‘No idea, no idea!’
‘Well, you go in,’ he repeats with a deep sigh. ‘The key will be under the log by the door.’
‘Just go in?’ I look at the dark cabin, then back at him.
He nods. ‘It’s fine.’
‘What is this place?’
He sighs again, clearly wanting to get on his way. The reindeer are all standing around, snuffling in the soft, powdery snow.
‘It’s my family’s cabin,’ he says. ‘But lots of families use it now. Sami families.’
I don’t say anything, so he explains.
‘I’m from a Sami family. We are reindeer herders. Only the Sami people can keep reindeer here. Our whole way of life is linked to the reindeer. Without them, we would never have survived out here. This was my father’s family cabin when he was growing up, and his father’s before that. They would stay here in the summer and then travel with the reindeer. But when he met my mother, she was a teacher, so they built a house nearer the town and the winter grazing. Now this place is used by other families when they are checking on their reindeer or following the migration. We all help each other out here. It’s the only way to survive.’ He looks at me as if to check that he’s explained enough. ‘Now go on in, light the fire, and when I get back . . . with my dogs, hopefully,’ he raises an eyebrow, ‘we’ll feed them and the reindeer and bed them down for the night.’
My teeth start chattering loudly, the sound echoing around the branches and the dark shadows beneath them. Björn goes to untie his dog team, who immediately jump into action, barking and straining to get going. I, on the other hand, want to fall down where I am with exhaustion. Every bit of me aches. But despite that, I look around at the dark forest and the reindeer contentedly munching and say, ‘Actually, no.’
‘Sorry?’ He looks at me in disbelief, then waves a hand – ‘It’s fine. I’ll be quicker on my own’ – and goes to release the sled again.
‘No, wait! Please!’ I say. ‘I want to come. I want to help.’
‘It’s fine. My dogs will help.’
‘No!’ I say, more sharply than I intended. ‘I need to come. I . . .’ I can’t tell him that the last thing I want is to be left here on my own, just me and my thoughts. ‘I lost the dogs. I have to come and help find them.’ I may be terrified of them, but I wouldn’t want anything to happen to them. This is all my fault.
He shakes his head. ‘Infuriating,’ he mutters. ‘I pity your husband.’
I catch my breath, the insult hitting me like a punch in the stomach. I feel like saying that it’s no wonder he’s out here on his own; he’s so bad-tempered probably no one would come with him. But I don’t. Instead, we glare at each other. Then he marches to his sled, rummages in a bag and pulls something out.
‘Here. Put these on. They will be warmer than the clothes you are wearing.’ He hands me a pair of trousers and a poncho, the same as his. I say nothing, but take them and slide them on. The trousers are way too big, but I just roll them up at the bottom, feeling the extra warmth they’re bringing me already. The poncho is not something I’d usually wear, but right now, I really don’t care. It’s surprisingly warm and my hands are free at the same time.
‘The reindeer should be okay for a little while feeding. I’ll leave Florá with them.’ Björn calls to the Lapp dogs. The older of the two is there in an instant, followed by the younger one – her son, he tells me as he instructs them to stay. The old dog sits immediately and the young one just a split second or two behind her, both staring obediently at their master. He touches them both on the head and says something quiet that I don’t hear and probably wouldn’t understand anyway. Then he turns back to the sled and makes a space in front of the luggage. He pulls out what looks like a reindeer hide and places it there, and then points for me to sit on it.
‘Keep your feet and hands in when we’re going through the forest,’ he instructs. ‘The light is fading. We don’t have long.’
Behind me is a pile of supplies covered with a waterproof sheet. In the short time we have been standing here, a layer of snow has coated it. Tentatively I lower myself onto the fur, feeling squeamish. I mean, this is the skin of one of the animals around us! But its warmth draws me in.
‘Okay, let’s go and find these dogs. Here, you’ll need this,’ and he hands me a head torch. He puts on his own and turns it on. I try and do the same, but have to pull off the big mittens I’m wearing, and even then it’s a job with my hands shaking, still furious over his quip about Griff. But I know we have to find the dogs. I couldn’t bear it if I’d lost them.
Björn stands behind the sled, releases the brake. ‘Hike, hike!’ he calls to the dogs, but they need little encouragement.
I grip the lip of the sled just in front of me as we set off across the snow under the darkening sky. Björn says nothing; there’s just the sound of whooshing as the dogs pant and their feet pound, and I can finally look at the countryside around me instead of focusing on the fear I’ve felt for the last few hours. The reindeer hide wraps around me like a great big hug.
We follow what looks to be the line of a frozen river. It’s getting darker, and I’m getting more anxious. Björn is looking around for the dogs all the time. He switches on the lanterns on the sled and hands me a big torch, which I use to scan in between the trees. I find myself talking nervously non-stop, but I can’t seem to shut up.
‘Is there a chance they could have gone back the way they came, to the cabin? And you’re Sami, you say? How many Sami are there? Is reindeer herding still big business? I expect you get asked questions like that all the time.’ My mouth just keeps motoring as the sled keeps on moving.
‘Shh!’ he says finally, pulling the sled to a halt. ‘Out here, we respect the forest and everything in it. We don’t disturb it and hopefully they won’t disturb us.’
‘Wh-what kind of things don’t we disturb?’ I say in a dry whisper, the silence more nerve-racking than any loud city I’ve been in. Way more scary than New York, with its sirens wailing and alarms going off all night. I was only there for a night, but I found the constant noise and bustle of people a comfort in a way. This, though, this is a long way from comforting! I shine the light around the trees, their branches thick with snow.
‘Moose mostly,’ Björn says, looking about him. ‘They can be dangerous if they have young ones. And of course wolverines. They’re the worst. They’re a real danger to the reindeer.’
I think briefly about the vargtimmen, the wolf time that Matty told me about on the train. The hours of darkness before dawn. The hours I hate the most. I shiver.
‘And sometimes golden eagles . . . they can take a whole deer.’
‘A whole—’
‘Shh!’ He cuts me off abruptly, and I stop mid sentence, my mind whirring about what might be lurking in the shadows of the trees.
He jumps down, pulls off his lasso and secures the sled to a tree. The dogs are more passive now. Even they must be getting tired. Björn grabs a lantern and looks down at the snow, bending over. Then he steps into the woods, following something on the ground.
‘This way.’ He holds up the lantern. ‘The dogs have been through here, but there have been moose here too, earlier today, heading that way.’ He points over his shoulder in the direction we’ve just come; to where we’ve left the reindeer, with only his dogs to guard them. ‘Let’s go quickly.’
He unties the sled. ‘Hike, hike,’ he calls to the dogs. ‘Haw! Haw!’ and the team veers off the path to the left between the trees, Björn ducking down as the snow falls from the branches around us, landing in big plops on my lap and head.
It’s not long before we find them, standing by a tree, the sled on its side and caught against the trunk. He pulls up, jumps off and secures his team, then runs over and checks each of the dogs. I follow, feeling useless and frankly a complete liability.
‘Dammit!’ he says, throwing his hat down on the snow, revealing a head of curly reddish-blond hair.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I . . . I shouldn’t have jumped around like that. I should have tied the dogs up and not got so over-excited.’
‘No, you shouldn’t.’ He pulls his knife from his coat pocket. ‘Do you have a knife?’ he asks.
‘A knife? No.’
‘You’re nothing out here without a good knife,’ he says, cutting at the tangled line, unwrapping it from a tree and the huskies, checking out each dog as he does so.
‘Dammit!’ he repeats, and I feel the same fear I felt when the dogs started barking and baying. He runs his hands over the lead dog, the bitch, and is suddenly talking and soothing her.
‘Shh, shh,’ he says, and then something in Swedish that sounds a lot like ‘good girl’.
‘Is she okay?’ I ask, clenching my fists, squeezing them hard. He looks up at me.
‘She’s on heat, by the looks of it. I should’ve realised. I was so keen to get going whilst the weather was good and when I thought that you’d be able to help . . . I should’ve taken more time. Thought it through. Checked each dog again before leaving. I shouldn’t have agreed to let you come. It’s my fault. Some things can’t be rushed.’
‘No, it was my fault. I said I could drive the team. I shouldn’t have agreed to push on.’
‘It’s my team. My mistake,’ he says, shutting down the conversation, clearly furious with himself. ‘She’s on heat and this boy obviously made a lunge for her, tried his luck. That’s what made them so lively . . . apart from the fact that some idiot didn’t tie them up.’
I bristle, but I know he’s right. I was an idiot. Too busy celebrating the fact that I’d done what he didn’t think I could do; that I’d proved him wrong.
He rights the sled and hands me the supplies that have fallen from it, and I stack everything onto the one sled, grateful to be helping out with something. Then he goes to work, clipping the dogs to a new line until they are all one team and then attaching the damaged sled behind the one we’re riding.
‘Let’s get them back before anything else happens. I need to be with the herd. There are all kinds of dangers for them in the forests.’ He nods back in the direction of the cabin in the clearing on the other side of the trees.
‘What about Helgá? I mean, will she be okay?’ I may be terrified of the dogs, but I really don’t want her to suffer because of my silly mistake.
‘She’ll be fine. She just needs to be kept away from the boys. Given some space. We’ll put her in between a couple of other bitches until she’s ready to mix again.’
Finally, with the dogs reunited as one team and the damaged sled ready to be pulled home, we set off across the snow back to the cabin. If I wasn’t so terrified and cold, it could almost be a magical trip through the forest with the snow falling, being pulled by a team of dogs. But it’s not magical. I’m freezing and worried we’re going to be eaten alive. I try and remember all the details to write in my journal when I’m reunited with it, though.
When we pull up in the clearing, Björn looks relieved to have all his charges safely back together. He checks on each and every one of the dogs again before making a fuss of Florá and her son, presumably thanking them for doing such a good job.
‘Right, let’s get the supplies inside,’ he says. ‘We don’t want to be leaving food out here to attract wildlife. Then we’ll feed and bed down the dogs.’
I nod and realise that feeding ourselves is right at the bottom of the list for Björn. His animals come first. And that can’t make him all bad, can it? He may care about his animals, but he clearly doesn’t feel the same about me. In fact, I think I’m more of a hindrance to him than a help, slowing him up. Let’s hope his real helper turns up soon. The sooner the better for both our sakes.