‘We put the poles together at the top,’ he says, looking up at the point at which the three poles meet. He glances at me and instructs me to bring some more of the poles. I do as I’m told but inside I’m glowering, simmering, furious and sulking. A tent, in winter, in the Arctic! He puts the other poles in place, forming a tepee shape, and then gives it a good shake to test it.
‘Solid! Good! Now for the covering.’ He smiles and goes to the sled. ‘Here, take the other side,’ he says, and we pull out a tarpaulin-like sheet, which he wraps around the poles. ‘There!’ he stands back proudly, and I have to admit, it’s a pretty impressive instant shelter. It even has a doorway, a flap that he pulls back.
Next he gathers some rocks and arranges them in a circle inside the lavvu, right under the point where the poles meet. Then, like last time, he gathers moss and bark and puts it in the middle of the circle of rocks. When he lights it, the smoke curls up and out of the hole in the top of the lavvu. There is no way that’s going to keep us warm tonight. I could freeze to death out here. Camping, in January, in Lapland!
He looks up at me. ‘Take the saw and your knife and cut down some birch branches; we’ll use them as flooring.’
‘I don’t have a knife,’ I remind him.
‘Oh no, of course. Here, take mine.’ He hands me the knife from the sheath around his waist and I take it carefully, avoiding the blade.
I march out into the trees and cut some branches, shaking off the snow and feeding Rocky the lichen that I pull off. Once I’ve got a big armful, I head back into the lavvu, dipping my head and suddenly meeting a wall of warmth.
‘Great, put them down here and then get me some more,’ he instructs. I turn around and step back out into the cold, still very grumpy. By the time I return, he has spread the branches across half the lavvu floor and laid reindeer skins over them. The fire is roaring, and a pan of water is balanced on two sticks over the flames and beginning to boil. Together we lay out the rest of the branches and in the heat of the fire they quickly dry off. He fetches more reindeer hides from the sled and lays them over the top of the branches beside the fire.
‘Take off your clothes,’ he says.
‘Pardon?!’
He laughs, soft and full. ‘I meant take off your coat and outside layers. That way you’ll get warm.’ He gets up from beside the fire. ‘There’s pine tea in the pan. I’ll go and get the fish. Keep the fire going; I’ll be back with supper.’
‘I’ll come!’ I say quickly, staggering to my feet.
‘No, I’ll be quicker on my own.’ He pulls his lasso on over his long body and turns away without waiting for a response. ‘Chop wood. Keep the fire going. Florá and Erik will stay with you.’
I stand in the doorway of the lavvu, the smoke drawing up and out through the hole where the poles meet at the top, as he marches, arms swinging, over to the dog team, who start up their usual baying and barking, though this time I know they’re just happy to be going on a run and my terrified goose bumps don’t appear.
‘Hike, hike!’ he calls. He raises a hand to me, then releases the brake and he’s off, as eager as his dog team.
‘No, wait!’ I call after him. ‘Björn!’ but it’s too late: he and the dog team are zipping back along the track through the trees and I’m left standing here, surrounded by reindeer. I can’t stay on my own, I want to shout. I don’t . . . I can’t . . . I can’t be on my own. But he’s gone, cutting through the snow at speed, the dogs running faster than they have all day, still with plenty of power in the tank, Björn standing tall at the back of the sled, head torch throwing out its icy blue glow, following the moonlit path.
I can feel the panic starting to rise in me. God! I wish more than ever that Griff was with me, that I wasn’t doing this alone. My heart twists and my throat tightens. I hate it! I hate being on my own! I hate being left! I begin to feel the familiar itch over my whole body as I start to stress. I look around, see the axe and grab it. I swing it angrily a few times and then walk a little way into the trees, my head torch lighting up the branches and the reindeer. They turn from their contented munching to look at me, the rustling and snuffling making me jump as they appear around every tree, their big brown eyes looking green in the torchlight.
I remember Björn’s warning about the dangers lurking in the forest, and my heart starts racing. But I notice the dogs have followed me, obviously seeing me as one of the herd now and not wanting me to stray too far, and I feel strangely grateful to them.
I see a branch sticking out from a tree and tap it like Björn did, checking to be sure it’s dead, then swing the axe, putting all my anger and frustration into it. I chop, and chop, then step back as the branch comes down with a swish and a thud into the snow, making both me and the reindeer jump.
‘Shh, it’s okay,’ I say, trying to calm them.
I drag the branch back to the lavvu. ‘Take just enough. Respect the forest.’ I hear Björn’s words and realise with a sense of satisfaction that the branch is lagom – just enough.
I brush off the snow, rub my cold nose with the back of my mittened hand and sniff, then start swinging the axe, bringing it down onto the branch with force. The rhythm of the swing echoes the loud beating of my own anxious heart, reminding me I’m alive. By the time I stop and stand back, out of breath, the anxiety still there but quieter, I have a fair scattering of logs around me. I pick up an armful and step into the lavvu, which is surprisingly warm. Kneeling by the fire as I’ve seen Björn do, I start to feed it with the logs. They spit a little and smoke, but then start to burn. I stack the rest by the fire and dust off my hands.
Next I grab a billycan, the pot with the handle, and dip out through the lavvu door, checking left and right for noises, signs of wolves or bears. I fill the pot by scooping it in the thick snow, and go back inside thinking I’ll never take my coffee maker for granted again. Or central heating. Or hot running water. Or moan about takeaway deliveries being late. I will never complain about anything else again, ever, just so long as I get out of here in one piece! I look up at the dark, star-scattered sky and wonder if anyone can hear me, or whether I really am on my own.
I shoot back inside the lavvu and pull the door flap shut. Silence falls again, leaving me alone with my thoughts . . . where I don’t want to be. I strip off my poncho and coat like Björn has told me to do, and then wrestle my way out of my waterproof trousers, feeling like Barbarella as I thrash around on the reindeer rug. Then I pull out my little makeshift travel log from my coat pocket. It’s got bent, and I try and smooth it out, but the corners just curl.
I decide to use Daniel Nuhtte’s recipe book to lean on while I write. I take it out of his bag and run my hand over its worn, dog-eared cardboard cover, mottled with splashes and stains, drops and doodles. It’s like an old school book that bears the scars of being both well used and well loved. Slowly I lift the corner. I’ve flicked through it before, when I was trying to find out the owner of the bag. I know now that it’s this Daniel Nuhtte, the one I heard Björn mention to those men yesterday, the only thing I understood. The Michelin-starred chef with a partner back in Stockholm trying to get in touch with him.
So why would he just disappear? Why was he on that plane to Stockholm with a few belongings and this book? What sort of a man is he? I look at the newspaper cutting tucked in between the cover and the first page. It’s in Swedish, and all I can work out is that it’s about his restaurant. The first page in the book is a recipe, the title written in pencil, underlined but fading. I focus hard on trying to work out what it says, to keep my thoughts from straying and wondering about any little noise outside. If only I had my phone, I could translate the whole lot!
Throughout the book there are little pictures, more doodles and notes down the side in pen that seem to have been added later. I study the handwriting to see if that tells me anything about the man. But there are no swirls or flamboyant flourishes; just bold lettering pushed firmly by the pen into the page, leaving its mark. As I turn the pages, the writing becomes more confident, growing in size and boldness. I’m guessing this is a determined person who knows what they want. I see a word I think I recognise and run my finger under it, getting a strange feeling of connection from where he’s put his thoughts and clearly his inspiration on the page.
I wonder with a jolt if he is reading my thoughts too, in my travel log. And I suddenly feel like I’m standing in a room full of strangers, totally starkers again. Lost in my own embarrassment, thinking about the feelings I’ve put down on the page, feelings I would only share with Griff. My cheeks burn. I feel sick. I clutch Daniel Nuhtte’s book to my chest, as if to protect my modesty.
‘Hej!’ The flap of the lavvu falls open.
I let out a little shriek as a blast of cold air engulfs me. There, towering above me, is Björn, holding a handful of fish and beaming.
‘I didn’t hear you!’ I manage to say through my tight throat. Reading Daniel Nuhtte’s book certainly managed to block out any noises and sounds.
‘Everything okay?’ he asks, looking at me and then at the recipe book I’m clutching to my chest.
‘Fine!’ I lie.
He looks at the little wood pile and the glowing fire.
‘Impressive!’ He nods, and I find myself swelling a little with pride. I’m pleased he doesn’t think I’m a total waste of space out here. I’m glad I proved him wrong, I realise, after my disaster with the dogs.
‘Reading?’ He nods down to the book still held to my chest.
‘Just interested.’
We both stay silent for a moment. Then I say, ‘I was just wondering if it would give me any clues to Daniel Nuhtte, what he’s like really.’
He shuts the lavvu flap, banishing the cold air.
‘And did it?’
‘Well . . .’ I think about the question. What had I found out by looking through Daniel Nuhtte’s private thoughts? ‘He obviously loves what he does. And he has favourite recipes, where the page is more worn than others. There are some recipes that look to be home-cooked food, and then later, recipes from all over the world, like he’s written his food memories as some people might write . . . a travel log. Food seems to be his life. And he’s funny, too, he does little drawings.’ I go to show him, but Björn bites his bottom lip and looks away.
‘And what would he find in that notebook you always seem to be writing in if he went snooping?’ he asks.
‘I wasn’t snooping! Just . . . looking!’ I feel aggrieved. ‘And if he was going through my bag, he’d find the wedding rings I need to deliver to the couple getting married at the weekend and would probably realise they were really important.’ Suddenly we’re back to how we were when we first met.
‘Weddings! People shouldn’t need to tell the outside world how much they love someone. Weddings are all for show.’
‘Not at all!’ Suddenly all the anxiety I felt earlier is bubbling up and over. ‘These two people want to show the world how much they mean to each other. And those rings are a big part of that.’
‘How much you love someone should be all that matters, not how much the world needs to see it. That way, the world can’t judge you when the love isn’t there any more.’ He puts the fish down on a birch branch, takes off his coat and pulls out his knife.
I think about my travel log, and the love that is very much still there in its pages, my love for Griff.
‘You’re obviously a cynic and don’t know what it means to really love!’ I run my hand over the book. ‘This Daniel Nuhtte clearly knows about love and passion; it’s here in his book, in his food.’
‘So go on then, tell me, what would Daniel Nuhtte find out about you, other than the rings you’ve misplaced?’ He begins to gut the fish on a little wooden board with swift, precise movements. ‘What is it that means most to you in that bag?’
I pause, watching as he pulls off his hat, revealing a head of blond curls shot through with red, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve seen hair like that before. Was it somewhere on my journey here? Or maybe, it was in the recipe book I’m holding. I look down at a little doodle of a face with big curly hair in the margin of one of the pages that makes me think about it. Next to it is another doodle, a bottle and some berries and a little scribbled recipe, lingonberry vodka I think it says. I’m about to tell him about my travel log, but suddenly I stop. Why would I confide in this man about what’s most important to me? As far as he’s concerned, I’m only interested in finding the rings and delivering them safely. And that’s all he needs to know.
‘Nothing. There’s just the rings, and my travel schedule,’ I say. I slam the book shut, and for some reason it makes him flinch. He looks away quickly and back at the fish.
God, I think, I wish I wasn’t here. I wish I was anywhere but here!
‘Hungry?’ he asks after a few minutes.
‘A little,’ I say, my pride preventing me from telling him how starving I actually am, but my treacherous stomach letting him know otherwise and roaring loudly. He laughs and shakes his head, then opens the plastic box and sprinkles something over the fish – maybe salt, maybe something else, I’m not sure. Then he threads the fillets onto a long stick and rests it over the fire, the flames gently toasting them. The smell is amazing. He serves them with a dollop of cloudberry sauce and some sour cream he’s brought with him. The fish melts in my mouth as soon as it hits my tongue, and I shut my eyes. Paired with the tart, creamy cloudberry sauce, it is actually divine. We eat in silence, both lost in our thoughts.
After we’ve finished eating, and I’ve returned from the horror of visiting the pee tree, something I will never get used to, he says ‘Get some sleep. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. We need to cover a lot of miles if we’re to make it to the river in time.’
‘The what?’
He stops putting away the pan and plates he’s washed with boiled snow.
‘The river. The weather is warming. It’s a problem for reindeer herders. The rivers used to be frozen all winter, but now they are thawing much sooner. The weather is good for moving the herd, but we need to get to the river before it starts to melt.’
I swallow. ‘Why?’
‘To cross it, of course.’
I stare at him in horror.
‘Yes, what’s the matter? Suddenly not the package holiday you were hoping for?’
We seem to have gone one step forward in our working relationship and two steps back!
‘We have to cross the river to get to the farm . . . where your bag will be, I’m sure, and whatever it is that’s so important to you, your rings and your schedule.’
‘Fine! Across the river it is then!’ I say, but I can’t help an involuntary shudder at the thought of it.
‘If you’re cold, come and sleep by me,’ he tells me matter-of-factly.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, laying out my sleeping bag as far away from him as possible.
He knows nothing about me and I know nothing about him, and frankly I’m happy for it to stay that way, I think as I lie fully clothed inside my sleeping bag, teeth chattering, on a bed of birch branches and reindeer hide, which is surprisingly comfortable.
I stare out through the tiny hole at the point of the lavvu, catching a glimpse of stars through the smoke and thinking how Griff would have enjoyed this, ever the adventurer, loving the unknown. I think about Lars back at the hotel, waiting for news of my return. I picture his smiling face and his wide-open arms and wish I could turn back the clock and be at the hotel now, with the rings I need to deliver. I wonder if my boss has worked out that they haven’t actually made it there yet!
Then I suddenly think about Daniel Nuhtte again and wonder if he needs that recipe book badly. I think about the hours of love that must have been poured into it; recipes he’s gathered over the years, possibly from all around the world. He’s a Michelin-starred chef, for God’s sake! It’s probably worth a lot of money! Then another thought strikes me. If I’m looking for him, is he looking for me, for his book? But I’ve got no way of contacting him and only Björn to help me find him, and he doesn’t seem to understand the urgency. He’s just worried about the herd. Let’s hope his helper gets here before we reach the river, because the tundra has been bad enough; there is no way I’m going over a frozen river!
I curl up into a tight ball, pull my sleeping bag hood over my head in an attempt to blot out the sound of snoring, and try and suppress the urge to actually kill him.