Today is our last day here, and in a way, I’m relieved. The kitchen always seems crammed and Runner’s gaze too inspecting or grave. I’m longing to walk through the silent and snowy countryside with only his back facing me and neither of us speaking more than necessary.
Presently, I’m sitting on a pillow in Kaissa’s yurt. She insists on cutting my hair. She thinks orange is pretty.
Kaissa wants to be nice. But why, I don’t know.
‘Ready?’ she asks, and I nod.
She brushes my hair, then takes strand by strand as if the scrubby stuff needs testing before it can come off. I avoid her gaze in the mirror while goose bumps rake over my skin. Gentle touch makes me weepy. I grit my teeth and clench my butt cheeks.
‘How do you want it?’ Kaissa asks.
I shrug.
‘Let’s see what I can come up with.’ The scissors go snip snip snip, but each time only a tiny bit of hair falls to the floor, on my shoulders, or on my nose until I blow them off. At this rate, it will take ages.
‘Are you a real Gypsy?’ I ask. I heard about them a few years ago and it sounded like something out of a fairy tale.
‘No, I’m not. I doubt there are any Gypsies left. A lot of people blamed them for the Great Pandemic. They were dirty, they said. Decorating a stake with a Gypsy’s head was considered heroic then. My grandparents and my parents were among those who believed all Gypsies must die.’
‘How come you look like one?’
Her green eyes twinkle and she tugs a strand of silver-streaked hair behind her ear. ‘When I came of age, I expressed my disgust with my family by dressing up as a Gypsy and leaving for good. What began as a childish rebellion and a love for colourful clothes and wild adventures turned into a passion. I saw a whole culture disappearing forever, so I learned as much as I could about the Romani. Which isn’t much, sadly…’ She trails off and gets back to cutting my hair.
‘Are both your daughters from Runner?’
She laughs. ‘No. The oldest, Katharina, is from my husband.’
I begin to wonder which of the two men might be her husband when she says, ‘He left many years ago. The loneliness was unbearable. One day, I met Runner and his mentor. They were guests in my yurt for a few days. It was easy to seduce such a young man.’ She gives me a sharp gaze through the mirror. ‘He was on probation then. Your age.’
‘That is fucked up.’
‘Why? Because I’m twenty years older?’ She bends closer. The corners of her mouth are twitching. ‘Or because his daughter has three fathers?’
Both men are her new husbands? Back at home, some men had two wives, but never the other way around. Men are too territorial to share a woman. But the two guys looked happy enough last time I saw them. They even helped each other braid their beards like they were best friends. But still…
‘Don’t they freak out when you have sex with Runner?’
She laughs again, a deep and throaty sound. ‘No. They are a couple. I love them, they love my daughters, we never fight over silly relationship things, and I can invite whomever I want into my bed.’
Men can be a couple? I’m stunned. My weird brain tries to fit two pricks together and fails. Then I think of the Old Geezer and shudder. But then…these two seemed happy, and were perfectly capable of sitting down without flinching. What are they doing? Hugging and kissing? Does no one ever force them into the survival-of-the-species business? But maybe they’re already done producing offspring.
Behind me, Kaissa chuckles, and I’m torn from my virtual anatomical studies.
‘You’ve never seen a gay couple,’ she states.
I burst out laughing. What a weird choice of words! ‘Of course I’ve seen happy couples before. Are you done with the haircut?’
‘Just the front left,’ she says, grins, and moves around.
I can see part of the tattoo on her chest. A dragon and a snake, silver and red and yellow, like flame and moonshine twirling through her cleavage. If Runner was fifteen then and has a thirteen-year-old daughter, he must be twenty-eight or twenty-nine now. Did he offer me a probation because he’s missing Ezra?
Kaissa brushes clipped-off hair from my shoulders and neck, announcing that I have a decent haircut now. I don’t really see the difference, but I thank her anyway.
I find Runner in the kitchen, packing provisions for us both.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘There isn’t much else you are saying these days but “hey.” Did I shut you up?’
‘No. It’s just…’ I close the kitchen door so Martha doesn’t hear, ‘…too many people for my taste.’
He nods and stuffs more ham into my backpack. There are several new things in there, additional to all the food. I step closer and examine the contents, noticing a woollen sweater and two pairs of woollen socks. They look very nice, soft and warm. ‘Why did you pack these? They aren’t mine.’
‘Did you ever wonder why people invite us into their homes and feed us their best food?’
‘No. Well…you are here, so of course everyone wants to provide for you.’
‘Precisely.’
‘The clothes, too?’
‘Micka, Sequencers own almost nothing. All we have is either borrowed or a present.’
‘What? How can you not own anything? I mean, you have a home, so there must be a bed, rooms, clothes—’
‘You’ve slept in my home.’
It takes me a moment before the penny drops. ‘Your tent is your only home?’
‘What else would it be? I’m travelling. Carrying a house with me would be kind of stupid.’
‘But…don’t you need…stuff?’
He stops rummaging in the backpack and looks at me. ‘Tell me what precisely you missed on our hike.’
My mouth opens and clicks shut. ‘Um… A warmer pullover and a pair of warmer socks,’ I mutter after a moment.
‘Isn’t it a nice gesture of Martha and Kaissa to provide you with both?’
He must have told them that I almost froze my toes off. ‘Will we see them again when we return from the lowlands?’
‘No, we’ll take a different route.’
I nod, suddenly missing all those people who seemed to crowd my space. ‘I’ll check where our snowshoes are,’ I say and rush out the door.
I search in the small room that used to be the place where we slept, on the second floor where Martha lives with her large family, then in the bathroom, and finally I find her in the basement. ‘Martha?’
‘Yes, my dear?’ She wipes her hands on her apron. Sand and bits of straw fall on the dirt floor. The potato clamp she’s just dug through spreads scents of fresh earth.
‘Thank you.’ And then I do it. I walk up to her and give her a hug and a peck on her cheek.
‘Why thank you!’ she cries and presses me to her soft bosom. For the first time in my life, I don’t mind the proximity.
‘We are leaving soon.’
‘I know, I know. But you have to have lunch before you go. I’ll make you really fat and happy.’ She grins and piles potatoes in her apron. ‘Take these.’ She points at jars with cooked pork and I pick up two. ‘Two more, Micka. You can’t leave with an empty stomach.’
I wonder who’s going to eat all this, but if I can make a guess, more than half of it will be inhaled by Runner. His system seems to know when it’s time to stuff itself with goodies. I’m more of the constant-nibbler kind. Large amounts of food usually make me nauseous and sleepy.
I help Martha peel potatoes and cut onions. When it’s time to cook, she ushers me from her kitchen. It’s her queendom and bony people put too much pressure on her when she’s in food-production mode, she’s told me.
I try to find Runner, but all I come across is our two backpacks standing in the corridor. His boots are gone. He’ll be at Kaissa’s. I search the shelf for grease and a rag, then begin waterproofing my boots. There are a few cracks in the leather that need special attention and when Martha calls, ‘Lunch!’ I’m done.
‘Where’s Runner?’ she asks.
‘He’ll come in a minute.’ I pick up his plate that’s already loaded with food and put it in the warm stove.
Martha takes a tiny blob of mashed potato and sits down next to me. I point at the comically small amount of food. ‘Why don’t you eat more? Is it poisoned?’
She laughs. ‘I’ll eat with the others when it’s lunch time. But I can’t have you sitting here all by yourself.’
I check the clock on the wall. It’s quarter to ten in the morning. Runner said we have to leave by ten.
A moment later, he’s rumbling through the entrance door and kicking the snow off his boots. I don’t look at him when he enters the kitchen. It feels like intruding on his privacy.
‘Thanks, Martha,’ I mumble through meat and potato mush in my mouth, stand, and put my plate in the sink. ‘Have to fix something before we leave.’
‘What’s up with her?’ I hear Runner ask when I’m out through the door. His boots are wet with melted snow. I rub them dry and take care to get all the slush off. Then I waterproof them. Can’t have him wearing leaky boots and then sticking his icy feet under my armpits.
‘Thanks, Micka,’ he says and I jump. I didn’t hear him approach.
‘No problem. Are we ready to leave?’
‘Yes.’
And suddenly, it’s hard for me to go. I pull on my boots, coat, and mittens, strap the backpack on, and we are back in the snow in minutes.
‘Do you miss them?’ he asks, and I answer, ‘No.’
I’m sure he knows it’s a lie.