‘Can’t see any dark patches,’ I say and lower my rifle. ‘Is it possible to get ammunition in Minsk? I’ve less than twenty rounds left and I need target practice before we reach Svalbard.’
He nods but doesn’t elaborate.
‘Okay.’ I’m tense. Frozen rivers are treacherous. This one is mighty, more than a hundred metres wide. I would have expected a churning mass of ice and black water in its centre. But there’s nothing but peaceful white. I don’t trust it.
Katvar puts his skis on and gestures for me to do the same. ‘Aren’t we walking along the river to find a bridge or something?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and signs, ‘No bridge. Steel cable a three-day’s run from here. You can walk on it, cross it, but not the dogs and the sleds.’
‘How do you know?’
He pauses, looks me up and down, and signs, ‘I saw it.’
‘How far north have you been?’
He flicks hands and fingers and I have to ask him to write it down for me. One word: Scandinavia.
‘We’ll talk later,’ I say and strap my skis on my feet.
The sleds are heavy, but the skids are long and distribute the weight evenly. My skis do the same for me. But still, I’m nervous. I broke through a frozen river once and, hell, did the cold hurt. I’m more prone to frostbite now that I’ve already lost two toes to it.
Katvar ties the end of a rope around his hips and throws me the other end. He treats me like an aggressive or wounded animal, keeping his distance, moving calmly, observing.
He sets his skis on the ice, signals for the dogs to wait, and begins to move forward. Twenty metres in, close to the middle of the river on the most unpredictable section, he stops and whistles.
Both teams jump up, eager to race toward him. As they move, he lifts his right arm and holds it, palm down, parallel to the ice. The dogs slow down. He directs them around the rope that binds him to me, lines the two teams up a few steps from one another and stops them when the first team has almost reached him.
The ice sighs with the weight of the sleds and I can tell that the animals don’t want to be here. The lead dogs are calmer than the others. Gull has her snout in the snow, then up in the air and back in the snow again. She whines and presses her tail to her belly. She doesn’t trust the ice, either.
Katvar begins to walk again, tugging me along, and scanning the ice for snow that seems darker or lower than the surroundings. Each step produces a creak of compressed snow and sharp, but faint, sighing of the ice.
As he crosses the middle I exhale a large cloud. A few metres more and he stops, calls the dogs and lets them trot to the far side. Then he signals to me and we both begin to move again, twenty metres from one another. He’s safe now, or close to it. I’m the worm on the fishing line. That reminds me… Maybe we should fish tonight to get a little variety into our stomachs.
One loud zing! and the next time I look up from my skis to Katvar, he’s gone. The rope around my hips tightens with a snap and jerks me forward. I slither and shout until I finally get to slam the poles into the snow and bring my skis perpendicular to the rope, fighting the urge to run to the dark patch ahead of me. I shout, ‘Stay!’ to the dogs, then tune out their barking.
Then, all I do is pull and grunt, pull and grunt. Shit, he’s heavy. Rope curls at my feet. I can’t see a trace of him. ‘Katvar!’ I scream, knowing he won’t hear me. His ears are probably full of the roaring of the icy river.
His head bobs up in the water. Arms flailing, trying to grab the slippery rim of the ice. I move a few steps closer, always keeping tension on the rope, always pulling a bit more and a bit more.
The rope is wet and freezes to my mittens. ‘Come on! Help me!’ I cry, jam the edges of my skis deeper into the snow and ice, and lean my whole body against the pull of the rope, and scream again for him to fucking fight.
Suddenly, the rope gives. A dark shape lies on the ice. I move in a semicircle around him toward the far side of the river. Rope tight, eyes on the river and on Katvar. He’s moving and I tell him to stop. Close to the river’s edge, I begin pulling him in. The dogs jump at his still form as soon as we reach solid ground. Or where I believe solid ground must be. Impossible to tell with the snow cover so thick.
I touch his cold face and he opens his eyes. ‘Let’s get you out of these clothes.’ I throw my mittens aside and tug at his coat, pants, and boots. Small ice crystals are forming on his wet fur collar. He’s deathly white. His lips are blue. But he tries to help with the clothes, his breath ragged, fingertips clumsy.
I help him sit up. ‘One second, and you’ll be warmer.’ I dash to my sled and spread the furs atop it, help the stark naked man climb in, and cover him with more furs, tuck him in and tie him down with the bag straps. I’m reminded of Runner. It’s a good memory, because he and I survived. Then.
‘Okay, my friend. Hold on for a little while. We need to reach this line of trees, there’s plenty of firewood and cover. I’ll dig us a nice, toasty snow cave and cook you a stew that resurrects the dead. Okay?’
‘Hrm,’ he grunts. His lips are pulled tight over his teeth, his eyes are large and pale.
I pick up the whip and tap Balto between his shoulder blades. Off we trot, the other dog team following with Katvar’s sled.
‘It’s not far,’ I tell him. ‘Just a kilometre. Wiggle your toes and fingers, get the blood pumping. Don’t sleep now.’
Within minutes, we reach the forest. I jump off the sled, grab a shovel and dig as fast as I can. Once the snow cave is finished, I chuck armfuls of brush inside, spread it out and hurry back to Katvar.
I shrug off my coat for him. ‘Here, put this on. Katvar?’
I tap his cheek. Eyelids flutter. I tap him harder and he looks at me. ‘I need your help. Sit up, put my coat on, walk with me to the cave.’
His eyes begin to drift, but he sits up as best as his trembling allows. The furs slide off his chest and shoulders and that’s the first time I notice there’s something black, something that doesn’t belong. Quickly, I cover him with my coat and we walk the few steps through the snow. I help him onto the bed and fetch the furs he’s been lying on, then cover him with those.
Okay, what next? The dogs ate only three hours ago, so they are fine. I should make a fire and cook something for Katvar, but then it might be too soon for something hot. He needs to warm up slowly.
I nod to myself, light the oil lamp and prepare my bed next to his. He watches me strip to my underwear. ‘I’ll warm you, then I’ll make food,’ I say, slip under his furs, pull my own furs over both of us, pressing close to him. ‘Holy shit. You need to hurry up getting better. I don’t like sleeping with icicles.’
Something harsh rolls up his throat. Maybe a chuckle. I can’t tell. We shiver together and I wonder if one is supposed to rub someone with hypothermia until he’s warmer, or rather not. I decide on a tight hug and wishing I were an oven.
He rolls onto his side, sticks his feet between my shins, and grabs my hand to press it to his icy stomach. He’s trembling hard and I can hear the clatter of his teeth. ‘Just a little bit longer, Katvar. I’ll make you hot food soon. But better take it slow. Okay?’
He moves my hand to his chest. The skin there is smooth, muscular, and cold like stone. There’s something, a faint pattern of scars, maybe. ‘What’s on your chest?’ I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
‘We’ll talk later,’ I say, more to assure him that he’ll be alive and well in the morning than to make him talk about stuff he might not want to share.
The air in our cave grows warmer. I’m almost too warm now. Katvar’s breathing is shallow, but regular. He must be sleeping. I let him rest, slip out from under the covers and get dressed. Before I open the cave, I make sure he’s warmly tucked in.
The dogs are nervous. They know something is wrong with their chief. I rub their sides and talk to them, cut up meat and feed them. I chop an armful of wood and start a fire, place the pot over it and melt snow. Which gives me an idea. All I need is a bit more wood. When everything is prepared, I duck back into the snow cave.
‘Katvar, wake up.’
He groans and cracks an eye open.
‘You want a warm bath, right?’
He blinks.
‘Remember the pots we brought along to barter trade? Look, I’ve got you the biggest one. It’s filled to the brim with nice warm water. Your feet will fit in. But you have to hurry, it’s getting cold.’
He pushes himself up and, if possible, grows even paler. I help him sit, pull the furs up over his back and shoulder, and move the pot so that he can stick his feet in.
‘Good?’
He nods and lays his head on his knees.
‘Okay. Stew coming in a bit.’
When I return with the food, he’s back in the bed and the water in the pot is cold. He’s also awake and looks better.
‘How are your feet?’
A small nod.
‘Good,’ I say and place the pot on a flat piece of wood, ladle the stew into a bowl and hand it to him. He sits up, all without help, and slowly eats the first spoonful. His eyes close, the corners of his mouth tug into a smile. He places his fingertips to his lips, then moves his hand in my direction. ‘Thank you,’ is what it means.
‘Thank you for coming back,’ I reply.
He finishes his bowl and asks for a second helping. Gradually, the colour returns to his cheeks. When he’s finished eating, he lies back down and hugs the furs tightly around himself, but I can tell he’s not so cold anymore.
His gaze slides from my face to an empty spot behind me, then back to me again. He swallows.
‘You asked,’ he signs and moves his arm and the covers aside. A pattern stretches over his skin from the hollow of his throat down to his navel.
‘A knife?’
‘A ritual knife,’ he signs, reaches out and takes my wrist. His expression is calm. I shake my head no as he places my palm on his bare chest. I wait for something more to happen, but he just lies like this, fingers wrapped around my wrist, bare chest warm against my hand, heart rumbling against my calluses. My chattering mind grows calmer, seeing that this is all he wants and nothing more. The curtain of fear slides aside, just one small crack, and gently lets in Katvar and his undemanding gesture. Much like the morning sun shines through a frosted window, warming what’s inside.
The knife tattooed on his skin is an artwork of intricate black-on-white patterns. I trace my fingertips over its edges.
‘Why do you have this?’
He lets go of my wrist, but not my gaze when he signs slowly, some words a single gesture, some words elaborately signed letter by letter, ‘We call it the Taker. Every woman I know would have recoiled from the mere sight of it.’
I open my mouth and snap it shut. I’m not sure what to say.
‘I know you are scared of me and I can only guess why,’ he continues. ‘But I’m the last man you need to be afraid of. I would never touch you…intimately. Even if you asked me to.’
I cock my head.
‘I have bad blood,’ he explains. ‘I bear the Taker.’
‘I don’t understand.’ I’m growing angry and impatient and I have no clue why.
He lowers his gaze ‘My parents were brother and sister. My children will be defective if I have any. I’ll never be with a woman.’
I blink as a whole encyclopaedia rushes past my vision— books about history, biology, genetics, human nature, religion, warfare. Books Erik ordered me to read, memorise, and repeat before him. There were many stories of incest. ‘Is this why you are mute?’
He shakes his head no. ‘When I was a child, I was very ill. A virus, maybe. I lost my voice. Bad cough, high fever, days of unconsciousness. My mother believed I was dying, but I recovered. I’m not mute.’
‘You are not?’
‘I. Can. Speak.’ His voice comes as a shock to me. Utterly damaged, raspy, croaky, as if someone were running a rusty iron bar over a jagged rock.
‘Tiresome. Painful. Can’t speak more than a few words at a time,’ he signs.
My gaze slips from his speaking fingers down to my mute fingers. I lift my hand and let my palm rest against the Taker. It must have been cut with a tiny blade, and then some kind of dye or pigments rubbed into the wounds. A black rippling on a smooth, muscular and warm surface. Behind that, his heartbeat is regular and slow. ‘Is there a lot of inbreeding in your clan?’
He frowns. ‘No. I’m the only one. Every summer solstice we meet with other clans and…dance.’ There’s a blush rising to his cheeks.
‘Dance?’ I take my hand away as he pulls the furs up over his shoulder.
He nods once and adds, ‘They have sex. Women from one clan with men of the other. Summer solstice children are held in high esteem. We live in a small community and are careful to avoid inbreeding. Cousins aren’t allowed to choose one another. I’m marked, so women from other clans, women who don’t know me, avoid me, too.’
‘But if your parents—’
He cuts me off with a sharp slash of hand through air. ‘He returned from battle and was never the same. He raped my mother, then took a knife to his throat. My people are afraid of me.’
‘I’m not afraid of you.’ Not quite true, but…
He gives me a shy smile and pulls the furs higher up, covering the handle of the knife and his goose bumps. I tell him about the long tradition of inbreeding in Europe’s ancient royal families, and that his children will, most likely, be healthy. But he just shakes his head and signs, ‘I’ll not have children.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll not have children of my own,’ he repeats. ‘I was allowed to live only because, when I was born, I appeared healthy and strong.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We are hunters, Micka. We live a semi-nomadic life. Babies with malformations, and the ones too weak or too small to survive are killed with the Taker within hours of their birth. The whole clan mourns when it needs to be done. We are not monsters. We simply do what keeps us alive. A child who consumes all his mother’s energy will get his siblings killed. A child who will never be able to walk, who can’t hunt and provide for his parents when they grow old, is a danger to himself, his family, and his friends — to everyone who chooses to take care of him. I’ll not have children of my own. I will not cause such suffering; not to my child and not to my woman. I would rather kill myself.’
He stares at me with his dark eyes, imploring me to understand and not judge. His silent language seems louder than any other.
Despite my revulsion over what he’s just said, my world seems to shift. Until now, I’ve believed I had to remain on the defensive. I’m a woman, he’s a man. I have to fend off, he has to attack.
‘I had a baby once. She was a healthy and strong girl. I held her for a short moment. She was taken away and murdered because she…’ My chest heaves and makes it hard for me to speak. ‘Because she was the wrong gender and sired by the wrong man.’
I lie down next to him and gaze up at the ceiling. The oil lamp makes the snow glitter. ‘Why is it called the Taker?’
He taps my shoulder; I forgot to look at him to see his answer.
‘It’s a sacred knife. It’s used only on newborns. Everyone who knows the inscriptions on the bone handle, the curved and pointed obsidian blade, is repulsed by the mere sight of it. That’s why it was tattooed on my chest when I came of age. So no woman would touch me. It helps.’
‘Don’t you want to be with a man?’
He shakes his head no.
‘You know,’ I begin. ‘I’d rather be unable to walk than unable to feel.’
‘You’d be a burden to your family if you were unable to walk,’ Katvar signs.
I laugh. ‘I have been able to walk since I was nine months old, and yet, I was a burden to my family until the day I left to become a Sequencer’s apprentice. Don’t you think there’s much more one can do besides hunting? Cooking, taking care of babies.’
‘You would still be a burden.’
‘So what? Life is not all happiness. It’s not easy and straightforward.’
‘You cannot raise a defective child. It will die from disease, from—’
‘Fuck, Katvar!’ I cry, scrape a handful of ice from the ceiling of our snow cave and throw it at him. ‘Defective! Really? That word makes a child sound like a commodity. The BSA soldiers are all physically extremely healthy and well trained killing machines. None of them sires defective children. There are girls and women who seek out BSA soldiers. They want to have babies with these prime specimens! Some women go there to get married to a man they’ve never met before, to clean his house, his clothes, to have his kids, to be treated like slaves. These women believe it’s heroic to give birth to the next martyr. They treat each other and their kids like shit, because their only future is death. They make life to destroy life. Can you imagine me raising a healthy and strong boy in a BSA camp? A boy who will one day die in a useless war? Or a healthy and strong girl who will one day be used as a fuck toy and reproduction vessel? Wouldn’t you call that defective — this whole fucked up situation? Wouldn’t it be a million times better to have a malformed child who is loved and has a place in this world, a future?’
I’m surprised by how angry I am. I’m all for boxing his chest to make him understand.
‘Don’t throw away the good things you have,’ I say softly, lean forward and place my fingers on the animal skin, just where his chest is. ‘I hope you’ll have a family of your own someday. The world is so of full of shit, Katvar. It needs more people like you.’
He cocks an eyebrow and an idea hits me: ‘Did you ever ask Javier to analyse your genome?’
‘My what?’
‘Your genome. It’s the sum of your genes plus some other stuff. Sequencers who analyse the dog lung tissue samples for tuberculosis bacteria sequence the genomes of these bacteria to learn about their antibiotic resistance genes. They can sequence your genome and tell you that you’re probably good to go. You know, as a dad.’
‘Never asked and never will.’ His fingers and hands form insecure words. I picture him in his yurt, head in hands, eyes shut. Everyone else is having fun at the summer solstice orgy, while Katvar is abandoned with his Taker knife and his father’s mark on his genome.
‘I’m sorry you have no one,’ I whisper.
Still shivering, he scowls at me. My gaze travels over his face, his constantly set chin, and comes to rest on his fierce mouth. I wish these lips would curl into a smile one day.
After a while, I tell him that we need to sleep. It’s been a long and tiring day and an even longer and more exhausting night.
Katvar curls one arm under his head and signs with the other hand, ‘I’m sorry they killed your child.’
I think of the tiny, fragile girl who looked so much like her father. With burning eyes, I sneak under his furs to warm him and tell him about my first husband.