He locates the key to the cabin under the big log with an axe wedged in it outside the door. Finally, I think, standing holding a plastic box of food, we’re getting to go inside. Every part of my body aches. I long for a hot bath and bed. I long to write up my adventures in my travel log and keep trying to replay everything that’s happened so I don’t forget. If only I had something to write on. He unlocks the wooden door and pushes it open, and I could cry with relief at the prospect of finally being warm. He steps in and I follow. But instead of it being warm inside, it’s as cold as it is outside, maybe more so. It’s just a bare cabin, dark and freezing.
I stand and shiver, feeling more alone and miserable than I have for a long time. It’s no good. I can’t go on. There’s no way I can stay here tonight, no way at all. I need to get in touch with Lars to tell him to come and pick me up. I put my hand on my phone, and then remember it’s dead. My spirits plunge even lower, if such a thing is possible. All hope of being rescued from this hell is gone. Now what am I going to do?
‘Put the box down there and we’ll get the fire going,’ Björn says.
But still I just stand there. I don’t know if it’s exhaustion, fear of all the predators out in the woods, or if I am quite literally frozen to the spot. But I don’t move. How on earth did I get myself into this mess? How do I know this man is actually taking me to Daniel Nuhtte’s farm? Although we must be heading somewhere. It’s not like he’s in the forest with a herd of reindeer for no reason.
I watch him as he walks past me from outside, carrying a bundle of small sticks and logs, and over to what looks like a little wood-burning stove in the corner of the cabin. He opens the door, which squeaks, and puts down his armful of wood. As he herds it into a neat pile with his feet, I notice he’s wearing boots made from what appears to be reindeer hide. On anyone else they would have looked like little pixie boots. But somehow on him they don’t look out of place.
He pulls a knife from the sheath around his waist, then bends over and runs the blade down the edge of one of the logs, creating little curls, like the ribbon you get on gift wrapping in smart shops in France. Except I’m as far as I could be from some Mediterranean hilltop town and its lovely gift shops and cobbled streets with the sun on my face. I’m in the middle of nowhere, freezing. Freezing to death it feels like. Why would anyone choose to live like this? Why would you choose to be a reindeer herder?
I watch as he strips some more bark from the birch branches and arranges them in the stove, then pulls out a flint from the zip-up pocket on his arm. In no time at all a flame appears around the curls of dry wood, burning brighter and bigger as it travels along the branch. Just seeing the flame ignites a tiny spark of hope in me that I’m not about to die out here in the Lapland wilderness.
‘You need a hot drink,’ he says. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ He pulls out a little cast-iron kettle from the plastic box he’s carried in and takes it outside, letting in a blast of cold air. The fire seems to respond by roaring back big orange flames. When he returns, he shuts the door firmly and puts the kettle on top of the stove.
I stand near the fire while he busies himself in the bare little cabin and look at my surroundings. There are just two beds, bunk beds. And no en suite, I’m pretty sure.
‘Here.’ He hands me a plastic cup. But I can’t move. He reaches out and slides off my mittens, and I don’t complain. I can’t. I can’t do anything. Then he places the cup in my hands.
‘Thank you,’ I manage to say, feeling its warmth. I wrap my hands around it like a comforting hot-water bottle, and hold it to my chest. Its smell suddenly hits me, reaching right up into my nostrils and down into my chest. My stomach roars loudly, and Björn, I think, sort of laughs.
‘Wow! What is this?’ I look down at the cup.
‘I guessed you were more of a tea drinker, what with you being British. So, this is tea. Pine tea.’ He nods, this time with a real smile. ‘From the trees. It is the best sort of tea. It will warm you whilst I cook.’
I slowly lift the cup to my freezing lips and let the steam start to thaw my frozen nose hair, tickling as it does. I rub my nose before it makes me sneeze, then take a sip of the tea. It’s surprisingly good.
‘I’ll check on the herd,’ Björn says. ‘When you’ve thawed out, come and help me. We’ll feed them and the dogs, and bed them down for the night.’ He makes for the door.
‘Um . . .’ I finally manage to say. He stops. ‘What do you do for, you know?’ I look around at the single-room cabin. He raises an eyebrow, and I’m not sure but I think under that beard he may be smiling. He doesn’t help me out, waiting for me to ask the question. ‘The bathroom,’ I finish.
He points. ‘Outside. And if needs be, take the shovel by the back door.’ He opens the door, letting in another fresh blast of cold air, and this time I know he’s laughing at me. Outside! This is even worse than my worst nightmare! Well, nearly . . .
I drink the tea in tiny sips, hoping that will mean I won’t need to go to the loo any time soon. Then, because I know I have to put some of the mess I’ve made right, I pull on my mittens and go back outside to meet Björn.
‘You can help me feed the dogs and settle them in for the night,’ he tells me, handing me a shovel. ‘Each dog needs a hole dug in the snow for it to sleep in.’
I listen and follow his instructions, despite my freezing nose and cheeks. Muscles aching, I dig, toss the snow and do it again. When he’s satisfied I’m doing it right, he moves away and collects up snow in a big pan, which he takes inside to put on the fire to boil, to pour over the dogs’ frozen food. ‘The water also helps them take in fluid, which they can be reluctant to do,’ he explains. As I carry on digging, the wind whips up, the dark night wrapping itself around me. At least I will be indoors with a fire tonight, I think as I look at the dogs’ snow holes.
‘Will they be okay out here?’ I ask.
‘They’ll be fine. They have thick fur. This is what they’re bred for. Not to be kept as pets in centrally heated houses. If the weather worsens, we’ll dig deeper holes. But,’ he looks up at the sky, ‘the weather’s still good. Gentle snow. They’ll be happy.’
‘And the reindeer?’
‘Their fur has hollow fibres. The cold is no problem to them. As long as they have enough lichen, they’re happy.’
No sooner has he fed the dogs than they curl up and settle into their snow holes. I look at Helgá, who looks back at me with her one eye amber, one eye blue. I wish I could go over, pat her, and say sorry, but I just can’t get that close.
‘Time for us to eat,’ Björn says, and I feel like I am finally being allowed onto the next level of an exhausting computer game, ecstatic that one level has finished but with no idea what to expect from the next. I put my hand to the cabin’s wooden door, push up the latch and let the heat from the fire draw me in.
‘Take off your outer clothes,’ Björn instructs, peeling off his. Despite the fire doing its best, now pumping out an orange glow, there are holes and draughts all around the old wooden cabin. ‘I’ll get more water boiling for drinks and to wash with. Keep a bottle of water in your sleeping bag so it doesn’t freeze.’ He hands me one.
I just want to keel over on the spot from exhaustion.
‘Here, sit.’ He nods to a simple wooden chair by the fire, pulling off his hat to reveal his curly hair, and unwinding his scarf. Then he takes a bag of tea lights from the plastic box, lighting them and placing them around the cabin. The little flames dance and light up the wooden walls and the place feels a whole lot less inhospitable.
‘I always carry tea lights,’ he tells me. ‘You can make anywhere feel like home with a bit of light; my mother taught me that.’
I look at the flickering flames as he busies himself in front of the fire, and suddenly there’s a glimpse once again of someone entirely different from the grumpy, frustrated reindeer herder who’d rather have anyone but me as a travel companion.
I sit, letting the heat penetrate my face and hands, feeling it sting and burn as it does. Björn abruptly stands and disappears outside again, and I turn anxiously as the door slams shut behind him and I’m on my own in the sparse cabin. I can feel my heart start to bang in my chest and my breathing quicken. It’s so silent here. Even the dogs outside aren’t making a noise.
My heart picks up its canter again and I look around for something to distract myself. Björn has brought in Daniel Nuhtte’s case from the sled. Maybe there are some clues in his recipe book as to where his family farm is. I pull it out and flick through it but can’t see anything obvious. Outside there is a banging sound, making me jump. It sounds like wood being chopped. I wish I had my travel log. I look down at the recipe book. There are a few blank pages at the back. I wonder if I could just tear out a couple and make a little notebook to keep me going.
I grab two and then go back and gather up a third and send up a silent message of apology to Daniel Nuhtte, wherever he might be, for what I am about to do to his book. But needs must. I’m halfway down the page, carefully making tiny tears in the thick paper so it comes out as neatly as possible, when the door opens. A blast of vicious cold air rolls in, but I feel strangely relieved that I’m not on my own any longer.
‘Everything okay?’ Björn asks, his arms full of freshly cut logs. He looks from the open case to the book I’m holding in my hand.
‘I’m . . . I’m just borrowing some paper,’ I say.
‘From Daniel’s book?’ The armful of logs he’s holding wobbles.
‘Yes. I’m hoping he won’t mind. It’s just he has my book and I need to put some thoughts down and my phone is dead.’
He sniffs and looks at the book again. ‘Tear away.’ He waves his free hand dismissively and drops the logs noisily by the fire, then feeds a couple more into the belly of the stove.
I go and sit back down by the fire and fold the three pages into a little book, using the recipe book to lean on. ‘I just needed to write some notes,’ I tell Björn as he grabs a frying pan, puts it on top of the stove and drops a lump of yellow butter into it. It froths and bubbles almost instantly and my mouth waters. ‘My travel log is in my other bag and I want to remember where I’ve been, what I’ve done. I like to keep track of things.’
‘What, like a travel reporter?’ He snaps his head round to me and looks at the book again.
‘No, no, nothing like that. It’s just for me . . . and my husband. I sort of write this up to tell him where I’ve been. Letters to him. He’s away. British forces,’ I offer by way of explanation. ‘But I never show anyone else my writing.’
He seems to breathe a sigh of relief and then pulls out his knife again and slits open a plastic bag of meat, like mince, dropping half of it into the pan. It hisses and spits and then the meat begins to cook and caramelise and my mouth waters like it’s sprung a leak.
‘Hungry?’
I nod.
‘Good. You must eat. Keep up your strength. We have a long day tomorrow,’ he says, and I wonder if I’ve heard him right. Tomorrow? He wants me to do it again tomorrow?
‘Didn’t you hear from your helper?’ I ask hesitantly.
He shakes his head. ‘Not yet.’
I think about going back on the sled and my hands shake violently all of a sudden.
‘You made a mistake,’ he says quietly and firmly. ‘It happens. Tomorrow will be different. You were scared, so you pushed on so you wouldn’t have to feel the fear.’ He’s sitting on his haunches, moving the meat around the big pan with a wooden spoon. Now he stops and looks at me. His hair covers his neck and practically touches his shoulders and his beard obscures the bottom of his face, but his eyes sparkle like snow in the moonlight. ‘Sometimes you need to feel the fear in order to get over it.’
He holds my gaze and I feel myself swallowing hard. Then he turns back to his cooking. He’s wrong, of course. My eyes sting and I put it down to the smoke from the stove. The way to deal with fear is to keep going, keep moving on, don’t let the fear catch up with you.
In no time at all, the draughty little cabin is full of the most wonderful smells, reminding me of going to my mum’s on a Friday when the family used to meet for a fry-up, or for a roast on Sundays. There was always room for all of us and enough to go around, no matter how many of us turned up. Family is what matters to my mum. Being there for each other through thick and thin. That’s why she messages me all the time and why my sister keeps sending me job adverts closer to home. They want things back the way they were, Friday fry-ups and Sunday roasts. But I haven’t done that for at least two years now. I blink in the smoke again.
My stomach roars again and I hold my hand to it, and I swear Björn smiles. Finally I peel off my coat and scarf and the waterproof trousers that were way too long and let the warmth of the fire do its job. My mouth waters as Björn warms flatbreads from a Tupperware box on the stove, then holds one in his hand and piles in some sort of red jelly and then the browned meat he’s been frying in the golden butter. Finally he puts it on a paper plate and hands it to me.
‘Here, eat!’ he instructs.
I take the plate from him and breathe in the smell of the caramelised meat and sweet sauce. I wrap the flatbread into a parcel, then hold it to my mouth and bite. Just like my dead phone needing to be brought back to life, I feel like I’ve been plugged in and my battery is being recharged at a rate of knots. My flagging spirits revive with every mouthful.
‘This is amazing,’ I finally say through a mouthful of bread and meat. ‘Thank you. What is it?’
‘Suovas. Reindeer, smoked and salted,’ he says matter-of-factly, and I suddenly stop chewing.
‘What? As in . . . ?’ I point outside.
‘Of course! What did you think? That we keep them for fun, for when Santa needs more helpers?’ He shakes his head, laughing lightly at my naivety.
‘No, but . . .’ I bristle. ‘I just didn’t expect to be eating one of the herd!’
‘Out here, we rely on the reindeer as much as they do on us. We work together to survive. We also respect each other. We respect everything in the forest. If we kill an animal to eat, we use the whole of it, everything. For the boots I’m wearing, for rugs, everything. That way, a life has not been wasted. The animal has died for a reason and we’re grateful to it. It is like having pigs or cows, except these animals are where they belong, out here in the forest, not in sheds or barns.’
I say nothing more as I put down my plate, though not before popping in the last bit of bread and leaving only a mouthful of meat.
‘Now, we wash up, wash and sleep!’ Björn instructs, picking up the plates. Once again he goes outside and brings in a billycan full of snow to boil up on the stove, stoking the fire to keep it blazing. I never imagined that eating and washing could be such hard work. I think of my practically unused kitchen back home. The slimline dishwasher. The fan-assisted oven. The fancy coffee maker. The combi boiler for hot water. I will never take those things for granted again. I just hope I don’t need the loo in the middle of the night!