‘Hej!’
We pull in down a snowy driveway towards a yellow two-storey house, and on the front porch is a man in his late thirties who runs down the couple of steps to meet Björn, arms outstretched. They hug each other hard, like they haven’t seen each other for a long time. On the veranda behind him is an older man and a woman, also ready to hug him.
‘This is my old school friend Egel and his family.’ They come down the steps towards us. ‘This is Halley,’ he introduces me. ‘She’s been my travelling companion and herder. If I say so myself, a pretty good one at that!’ And I feel myself swell with pride.
‘Put the reindeer in the corral. Help yourself to saunas. Then help me with dinner, will you, Björn?’
‘I will.’
‘And we have a surprise for you.’ Egel’s father points towards the house, and I realise it’s been a long time since I’ve actually been inside a house, someone’s home. ‘Someone to see you!’
Björn frowns, intrigued, and ties up the dog sled and team. I do the same with Rocky, and the two men herd the reindeer into a corral for the night. I wonder who it is who’s waiting inside. Could it be a girlfriend? I mean, I know nothing about this man. Perhaps a wife and kids! My head suddenly starts spinning.
Björn closes the gate on the wire and wood enclosure and then walks with purpose back towards the farmhouse, pulling off his mittens. He looks at a snowmobile parked out front, then picks up the pace and starts running.
Suddenly there is a shout, and a woman appears on the veranda. I feel sick. He was spoken for all along! She is blonde like him and, I notice, curvaceous. She hugs him and kisses one cheek, then the other, like a mother to a child, hugging him again.
‘This is Halley,’ he says from her embrace. ‘She’s travelled all the way with me.’
‘What? The river crossing too?’
‘Uh-huh!’ He smiles at me.
The woman still has her arm around him. ‘Hi! Nice to meet you! That’s impressive. The river crossing is the worst part. Thank you so much for helping him out. I hope he wasn’t too much of a grump.’
But all I can do is shake my head. My tongue is tied.
‘Come in, all of you,’ says Egel’s mother. ‘There’s someone else here.’ She opens the door, and Björn and the woman go inside arm in arm. I follow behind, wishing I was anywhere but here right now. There was me thinking I was finally ready to move out of the woods and into the open tundra of life, and all the time he was spoken for! I thought I was the one who wasn’t free to fall in love, when all along it was him.
There in a chair by the fire is a small, frail man wrapped in a big blanket, which he throws off when he sees Björn. He stands unsteadily, holding his arms out.‘Pappa!’ cries Björn. The old man says something, and from the way Björn hugs him as if his life depends on it, I think it was ‘Welcome home, son.’ The blonde woman steps forward and hugs them both, and for some unknown reason I find myself with tears in my eyes at the joy of this meeting. I blame it on the smoke from the fire and rub my eyes, feeling the sting.
Finally the three of them let each other go. They are beaming and talking in Swedish, or at least I think that’s what it is, but it sounds different . . . and then I realise it’s Sami. And this, obviously, is Björn’s dad.
At last Björn turns to me, and it looks like the smoke got into his eyes too. He blinks and rubs them.
‘Pappa, this is Halley.’ He beams as he introduces me. ‘Halley, this is my sister Elsá . . . the one who was supposed to be helping me! Where have you been?’ he scolds.
His sister! This isn’t a partner or wife . . . it’s his sister!
‘Pleased to meet you!’ she says in perfect English. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for helping out and bringing the herd this far.’
Björn puts his arm around her and hugs her boisterously, and she does the same back. They are more like two pups greeting each other than a couple: what was I thinking? The old man beams at them both.
‘I knew I was letting him down,’ Elsá says, ‘but . . . well, when I got the call from the TV station to say I was in the heats of Sweden’s Singer of the Year, I just had to go. You understand, right?’ She looks at Björn.
‘I can’t believe it! That’s brilliant! Of course!’ He picks her up and hugs her, swinging her round. ‘And how did it go?’
‘I got to the finals!’ she shrieks.
‘Woo-hoo!’ Björn hugs her again. ‘Tell me, what did you sing?’
‘The songs from here, of course. The yoik; the songs in my heart.’
He smiles and nods. ‘Of course. You sang from your heart.’ He seems choked.
‘The songs we grew up with, that Pappa taught us.’ She beams at the old man.
‘I’m so proud of you, telling the world where you came from and who you are,’ Björn says.
‘Me too,’ his father agrees in a weak voice, and Björn puts his arm around him and sits him down, pulling the blanket around him again with a mix of joy and pain in his eyes, clearly shocked by the old man’s frailty.
He looks at me and all I can do is try and offer silent support. Then his father says something to him in Sami, and they all laugh.
‘He says he’s glad I’ve shaved off the beard, but that I could still do with a shower and a sauna,’ he explains. ‘How about it?’ he asks me, and the stars in my stomach come out once more.
The wood-burning stove throws out its glorious heat. The candles on the table flicker cheerfully, throwing up a warm orange glow onto the wooden walls. Björn helps in the kitchen, and we all lay the table. Elsá even lends me a charger to charge my phone, so I know I’m back in the real world, back in from the cold. My cheeks glow with the heat and the beer I’ve drunk. I look at Björn, so happy and contented with his friends and family, laughing, cooking and toasting old friends and new. He raises his glass and stares at me, and I feel my insides stirring like a storm building; faster and faster come the flurries of snow, swirling round and round.
We eat a fantastic dinner of wonderfully seasoned and spiced reindeer meatballs in thick, rich gravy, with buttery, creamy mashed potatoes and, of course, tart lingonberry jam on the side. Then there is cake, soft syrupy Swedish saffron cake, with warm glögg, like mulled wine.
‘Björn steeps the saffron in his own vodka, giving it a special flavour,’ Egel’s mother tells me. They all beam, and a niggle suddenly scratches at the back of my mind.
‘No point in having a chef in the family if you don’t get fabulous food,’ says Elsá, grinning at her brother.
A chef? I think. Maybe that’s how he knows Daniel; how he knows the inscription in the recipe book . . . That’s where I’ve heard about the vodka, I realise. The recipe book! Why hasn’t he mentioned anything about this before? I frown and look at him. He tilts his head back at me, as if asking what the problem is.
But before I can ask him about it, Elsá produces a hand-held drum and a beater and begins to sing, joining in with the drum as she does. It’s haunting, beautiful; it sounds like the wind in the tall snow-covered pine trees and reminds me of being in the forest. It makes me feel a sense of freedom.
‘I must check on the herd,’ Björn says when Elsá finally takes a break and sips at her glögg. His father attempts to stand, clearly wanting to accompany his son to see the reindeer, and Björn takes him by the elbow for support.
‘More cake?’ asks Egel’s mother.
‘I’ll get some beers,’ says Egel, standing and heading to the kitchen.
‘And more vodka,’ Björn’s sister calls, still playing gently on her drum.
‘And logs,’ says Egel’s father.
‘I can do logs!’ I jump up, wanting to feel helpful.
‘Are you sure?’ Egel’s father looks surprised.
‘Yes, it’s the least I can do,’ I say.
I pull on my boots and my coat and my hat, and suddenly wonder how I’ll feel when I’m home and all I have to do is flick a switch to turn on the heating. I don’t think I’ll appreciate it half as much.
Outside, it’s got colder, much colder. It’s snowing harder and the wind is whipping round my ears. I turn back to look at the yellow house with its white window frames and snow-covered roof. The chimney is pumping out smoke merrily. Candles fill the windows with soft orange light. I walk towards the wood store and pick up the axe. I can hear Björn and his father crunching slowly through the snow. The old man is so small and dark compared with Björn’s muscular blondness, but the love between them is unmistakable as he leans on his son’s arm for support. I can hear the two of them talking and it seems to be becoming more intense, more serious. But I can’t understand what they’re saying, no matter how hard I try.
I think of my own family, the one I have shut out for so long and kept at arm’s length when all they wanted to do was draw me in and hold me tight. I take a smiling selfie in the snow and send it to the family WhatsApp group. It actually sends! We have signal and wifi here! I’m back online. And the end of the journey, I realise again. Very soon I will be flying home, repacking and heading out to Australia. But once again my stomach refuses to do the excited happy dance I’m expecting.
I look up at the sky and a wisp of green drifts across the stars.
‘It’s said,’ Björn’s voice from behind me makes me jump, ‘that the Vikings believed the aurora was the Valkyries’ armour shining against the stars as they accompanied the dead warriors to Valhalla, where wounds are healed and health restored.’
I can see his breath against the cold air.
‘Here, let me.’ He goes to take the axe.
‘No, it’s fine. I can do it,’ I say, putting a log up on the big stump. Is this it? Is this my Valhalla, where my wounds have been healed?
I swing the axe and the wood splits satisfyingly in two. I stand the log up and swing again. Again it splits, and Björn collects the pieces.
‘Everything all right with your dad?’ I ask, picking up another log.
He sighs. ‘Yes, and no.’
‘Oh.’
‘He . . . he wants to sell the herd. He thinks it’s time. He’s happy in the retirement flat and doesn’t think he has the stamina any more to be out with the herd all the time. I should’ve realised. I’ve left it too long to come back. I hadn’t appreciated how . . . old he had become. It’s quite a shock. I’ve been stupid. He needs to sell the farm to pay for the retirement flat too. The farm and the herd; he’s decided to sell both.’
‘So have you been away for a long time then?’
‘Yes. I’m amazed Lucas even remembers me.’ He looks at the dogs in the pen. Lucas stands on his hind legs and barks. ‘But he does. I was determined to keep the line going when I got my first husky. Just like Sami people keep the herd going. When a son is born, he automatically gets a part of the herd.’
‘So part of this herd is yours?’
He nods sadly. ‘Which means he can’t sell without my agreement. I thought that, with the herd back here, things would return to how they were. My father would come home. But you can’t go back; life moves on whether we want it to or not.’
‘Will you miss it, when you go again?’
‘My roots are here. This is my home. This is what is inside me. When my parents met, my mother came here for the good terrain to run the huskies. People were very against their relationship, a Sami marrying a dog musher. They were an unlikely pair, but they loved each other and made their lives together at the farm. I lived and breathed the Sami way of life, but in school it was another matter. I stood out. Many kids said I wasn’t true Sami. But my parents taught me that it’s not where you’ve come from that matters; it’s where you’re going. And then my mother died when I was eighteen and suddenly nothing made any sense. Everyone was looking at me, pitying me. I had to get away. I just left, and went travelling. The worry I must have put my dad through!’
‘But you came back?’
‘I came back to Sweden eventually, but not here. This place still held too many memories for me.’
‘And now?’
‘It’s where I feel most at home,’ he says, and something cracks in his voice. ‘It’s where I left myself behind.’
I look at him, his face so close to mine. He knows exactly how I’ve been feeling. He knows how much it hurts to lose someone you love.
‘So will you sell the herd?’
He looks up at the sky and lets out a big sigh. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I really have a choice. There’s nothing for me here. Like you, I’ll probably have to move on.’
‘But if you had the choice . . . would you stay?’
He looks at me. ‘If I had the choice? I’d . . .’ His lips seem to be moving closer to mine.
‘Where’s the wood?’ comes a call from the door of the house. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Coming!’ shouts Björn, peeling away quickly and scooping up the logs. I do the same. He smiles at me and beckons me back into the warm.
‘Here, give me your knife handle. Egel is going to put a blade on it for you.’
I hand it to him, still wrapped in the cloth.
Later that night, Elsá takes her father home on the snowmobile, and offers to come back and help Björn with the herd. But I tell her it’s just one more day and I’ll be fine. It suddenly feels important to finish what I started.
I’m shown to my own room, where I take time to look around as I get ready for bed. A family home. There are even framed photos on the chest of drawers. One of Egel and what looks to be Björn as young men, presumably before he went travelling. They’re standing with the herd, antlers all around them, arms round each other’s shoulders. I look at his young, clean-shaven face and smile. I put the picture back and get into bed.
It’s a big wooden bed, so comfy I think I’ve fallen into a cloud. The covers are thick and I pull them up around my chin. It’s the first time I’ve slept on my own since I left the hotel. I shut my eyes, but strangely, I can’t sleep. Not like before, when I couldn’t sleep because of how anxious I felt. Now it suddenly feels odd with Björn not there. I turn to the empty pillow where last night his head was lying. I remember the contours of his face up close when he was asleep. Something is scratching at the back of my brain. The photograph. His face now that the beard is so much shorter, showing off his cheekbones. It’s like we’ve met before. But where? What is it about him that seems familiar?
I think about the meal tonight, the vodka-soaked saffron cake. And then that wonderful sauce he made to go with the reindeer loin that we ate in the Sami village. I must ask him about him and Daniel both being chefs. I can almost taste the lingonberries, and the memory scratching at the back of my mind suddenly erupts as I remember where I’ve heard about that sauce before, with that secret ingredient. Lingonberry vodka! I remember the sketches of the berries and a little bottle drawn in the margin. Daniel’s lingonberry vodka, in Daniel’s book.
Daniel is a chef. So is Björn. Björn uses lingonberry vodka and knows the inscription at the front of Daniel’s book off by heart. Why on earth didn’t I realise this earlier? How have I added two and two and made five? For an intelligent woman, I’m feeling incredibly stupid. Maybe it was the snow, the cold, the journey, the near-death experiences, but it’s only now, seeing him relaxing with his family, seeing a different side to him, a really attractive one, that I get it.
I sit bolt upright in bed. Of course I know who he is!