The Aboveground extract

The little guy stands with his hands in his mouth, bouncing his back against my chest. He follows the movements of his kin as they pass through the hallway. Hunched forward to keep their bodies in motion, they stagger into the kitchen carrying the last containers, crates, and bags, leaving a trail of mud in their wake. No one asks me to pitch in. They see me with my arms around the boy, not expecting any further contribution from me. I’m just Jon-Erik’s nursery nurse.
          His eyes scan the filthy, petrol-smelling, smoky, almost unrecognisable bodies for his big sister. Muddy footprints trap reindeer and dog hair, petals, scraps of lichen, heather, and gravel. Trousers and jackets lay strewn on the floor, rigid with dirt.

The boy in my arms, I make my way out into the yard to get out from underfoot, and for a chance to be the first to spot her. It’s 3 am and although the air is dank, the sun has risen over the top of Rijbuovárdduo and is already offering a hint of warmth. We sit down on one of the slate paving slabs to wait. The mosquitoes have emerged from their crevices and are attacking any exposed skin. The boy barely fights them off, his eyes wide as he tries to stay awake. I rest my chin on his head and feel him slowly begin to relax. We’ll wait for her, even if that means sitting here until the dawn chorus; even if our eyelids swell shut from the bites. As we wait, I feel a longing bloom inside for someone I’ve only ever seen from a distance. The little guy in my arms, the village, the mountains, his big sister and I grow simultaneously and evenly in every direction.

He’s taken refuge inside my jumper and fallen asleep. I stroke his little back and scratch his bites. I let him sleep, even though I’ve heard her engine for a while now. I want to see her with my own eyes first, away from the opinions and expectations of others.
          She dismounts and lays the motorbike on the ground. Both her and it are covered with mud and seeds. She pulls her helmet off and kneels in the grass in front of us. Clumps of dark brown hair drop slowly towards her neck. Underneath wrinkles, mosquito bites and freckles, her face is coarse and broad. She mustn’t have slept for days, and yet she looks stubborn and strong enough to catch and bring down an ox if she needed to.

She removes her gloves and shuffles over to me and the boy, carefully lifts him out of my arms. The furrows of her palms and her nails are black with soil and dirt. A strong smell of sweat, petrol, reindeer, and wood smoke lingers as she pulls back, still on her knees. She presses her lips into her little brother’s forehead and speaks at him until he wakes up. Her words cascade over him, but he says nothing. He balls her scarf up inside tight fists. She watches me through his silken hair, her own slicked back from her sunburned forehead by the sweat. Slowly, little brother’s grip on the scarf begins to loosen and he drifts off again.
          I watch the muscles of her face cut new wrinkles, pulling the skin so taut across her cheekbones that it seems to glisten; the slow widening of the nostrils, the dip of the tip of her nose, the deepening and stretching of her snot-trough, the pursing of chapped lips. A mosquito fumbles across her lash line.
          ‘You falling in love with me over there?’
          ‘Utterly.’
          The dirt crackles as the corners of her eyes crease. Everything the little guy has told me, and far more, is reflected in her narrowing eyes. I try to justify myself.
          ‘Your little brother’s talked you up so much that I’m all starstruck.’
          ‘Ha! Likewise.’

I flinch as the door behind me is flung open, like from another world, ruining the moment. Greta steps into her clogs and onto the slates. She pulls Jon-Erik out of Eija’s embrace, shoots me a sharp look but retreats, leaving me and her daughter alone in the yard.

Eija sniffles and brings her hands to her centre. Her jacket makes a crunching sound, dried mud rains from its sleeves. She looks down at her belly as she speaks.
          ‘Can you feel that? Someone’s trying to come into being, pulling themselves up from the underground, little hands tugging on heather roots.’
          Eija succumbs to sleep, slipping away from me. Her eyes become shuttered, her hands fall into her lap, and she sways back and forth. Surely, any man in his right mind would feel discouraged by the fact that she’s carrying someone else’s child, take it as a sign to back off. Instead, I feel warm and heavy. She just told me something that she’s never told anyone – a deep, unearned confidence. She hears my whisper even though we’re sat several metres apart.
          ‘Are you scared?’
          Effortfully, she prises her eyelids open and looks at me; gives a feverish shudder. My instinct is to grab her to stop her pitching forward, but I don’t have to. It’s not necessary. She nods faintly.

Greta comes back outside to tend to her daughter. It’s alright, Eija and I had our moment. The mother and I drape Eija’s arms around our necks and help her into the hallway. She is unnaturally heavy, pulls me downward until her warm temple is level with mine and her breath tickles my ear. She smells like heather and fire. We sit her down on a wooden chair and peel off her outer garments. Some hair has stuck to her scarf. Great sheets of mud fall to the floor as we unzip her jacket and pull it off her shoulders, and a wave of bodily warmth hits me. There’s no sign of any bulge yet beneath her bobbly base layer. We remove her knife belt and pull her trousers down. She puts her arms out, asking to be carried, though not by me. Greta’s eyes signal that it’s time I got going. She helps her daughter to her feet and guides her into the gloom of the house.
          Suddenly, the acrid smell in the hallway stings my nose and my eyes. This air is not mine to breathe; not meant for my senses. I’ve dropped Jon-Erik off, there’s no reason for me to linger among these people. Now that she no longer inhabits them, Eija’s clothes collapse slowly in a heap on the floor.

Empty of people, the place is unrecognisable. Bits of gravel drop from Eija’s motorbike. The exhaust ticks. The only parts that are free from mud are the handlebars and a small patch of the saddle. I push my bicycle onto the old country lane. The child’s seat I used to transport Jon-Erik rattles every time the bike crosses a seam in the tarmac. Two unfamiliar dogs follow me a good bit. As I look over my shoulder I see them sit down to watch me pedal away before turning around and limping back.
          At the junction, I spy someone coming towards me from the other direction, heading down from the mountain. About 100 metres out I recognise Áilo. He lies almost horizontal across the handlebars, wobbling and weaving. The outermost fingers of his left hand twitch in greeting. The smell and the sound linger long after he’s disappeared from view. He simply belongs, which makes the intimacy I just felt give way to utter alienation. Not that we know each other all that well. What little I do know of him has been enthusiastically told to me by Jon-Erik. As we pass each other, it’s suddenly obvious to me that he and Eija are an item, that he is the father of her baby.
          I continue to ride my bike down the middle of the road all the way into the village. I try to picture a new day.

It’s 3.30 am and I’ll be opening the nursery in three hours. Still, I can’t bring myself to go into the apartment and go to sleep. Instead, I lie down on the patch of grass behind the row of terraced houses, hide my face in the crook of my arm and surrender my ears, forehead, neck, and scalp to the mosquitoes. They crawl into my sleeves to drink their fill and shuffle out sated. Sunshine replaces birdsong. ‘You should probably leave now, Oskar,’ I whisper to myself. This summer gig will be finished in three weeks, and I’ll be heading back home. I lie on my back, my head resting on my forearms, merely blinking as the mosquitoes clamber all over me. It seems I’m fit for eating, at least. My head is pounding from having spent so long trying to mirror Eija’s expressions. They weren’t a good fit for my face.