Big Game

by Daniel Smith

  Yesterday it had seemed so big, it was my whole world. Now it just looked like a run-down platform and a collection of battered caravans, dented SUVs, and temporary shelters.

  It was my place, though. Dad was there, and that gave me the best feeling. I was home.

  The noise had drawn the men out of their shelters and caravans, and they were all standing, necks craned and hands over their brows, to watch our approach. Hamara was there, unmistakable, and Davi, who had almost knocked me off my feet yesterday when he slapped me on the back. I could see some of the older boys there, too, Risto and Broki shielding their eyes as they looked up, and my friends Jalmar and Onni standing near them.

  The pilot circled the helicopter once over the Place of Skulls, and as we finally came to a hover and began to descend I saw Dad standing beside our SUV, rifle over his shoulder. When we touched the ground, the president ordered the pilot to switch off the engine, then we went back into the body of the helicopter as the captain drew back the door and jumped down, weapon trained on the hunters. The other soldiers disembarked next, some crouching, some standing and moving away in an arc, keeping their weapons ready.

  When I jumped down, I saw the shock and surprise on Dad’s face. I had never seen him look that way before and it brought tears to my eyes. I was so relieved to be home, to see him again, and knew that he felt the same.

  He stood by the SUV for a second in disbelief, then came forward, slowly at first, but then breaking into a jog.

  One of the soldiers stepped into his path, pointing his weapon at Dad’s chest.

  “That’s my son!” Dad shouted, and raised a hand to point. “My son!”

  I wanted to run to him, too, but I stopped myself. There was something I had to do first.

  It was tradition.

  I wiped my tears and stood tall and strong, gripping the bow in my right hand and keeping my eyes forward as I strode across the Place of Skulls, past the other boys and men.

  I marched straight toward Hamara and stood in front of him, looking into his eyes.

  “The traditional bow,” I said, holding it out to him.

  Hamara opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked at me, then at the soldiers and the helicopter. Then he looked at the man who had come to stand beside me.

  “The traditional bow,” I said again, trying to make him look down at me. “And I have brought this man out of the forest. This is my trophy. This is what the forest has given me.”

  “Are you … ?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the president. “Are you … ?”

  “The traditional bow,” I said once more, grasping Hamara’s hand and pressing the weapon into his fingers.

  Finally he took the bow and looked down at me. “Is that … ?”

  I didn’t reply. I left him standing there openmouthed, and walked over to Dad, taking the president with me.

  “Oskari?” Dad looked stunned and confused and concerned all at once. I’d never seen such a look on his face. “What’s going on?”

  “Dad, I want you meet someone,” I said. “This is …” I hesitated. “This is Bill.”

  The president stepped forward and held out his hand.

  “Bill?” Dad said, looking from me to the president and then back again.

  “Bill,” the president confirmed. “And you’re Tapio?”

  Lost for words, Dad could only nod as he put out a hesitant hand and shook with the president.

  “I’ve heard about you,” the president said. “Oskari tells me you’re an amazing hunter. Well, just so you know” — he took his hand from Dad’s and rested it on my shoulder — “so is your son. He’s pretty good at saving presidents, too.”

  “You saved the president?” Tears welled in Dad’s eyes as he looked down at me. “You brought the president out of the forest?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you, though,” I said. “I crashed the ATV. I think it’s —”

  “I don’t care about that.” Dad suddenly seemed to come to life. He grabbed me and pulled me to him, hugging me tight. He leaned down to put his bristly cheek against mine and he spoke into my ear. “Damn it, Oskari, the president of America? Mom would be so proud of you. I’m so proud … but … couldn’t you have just settled for that buck?”

  A cough and I looked around to see Hamara standing behind us with a camera in his hand. He shrugged and showed us an embarrassed smile. “Tradition is tradition.”

  For a few days, everything was crazy. After the military helicopters left and the soldiers were gone, and the president was whisked away, our village was swamped by vans and cameras and people with microphones. They all wanted to ask me a million questions about what had happened. They talked to Dad and Hamara, and they filmed the village, and followed the Finnish and American authorities lifting Air Force One from the lake.

  The investigation teams set up a base just outside the village, and the sky was filled with the thump and buzz of helicopters. When those sounds filtered through the air above the village at night, my dreams were filled with images of Hazar and Morris and fire in the wilderness. I always awoke from those nightmares to hear strange noises rising from Mount Akka as they dragged the aircraft from the depths of the lake and cut it into pieces to take it away.

  Two days after I brought the president out of the forest as my trophy, a soldier came to our door.

  Dad and I were at the window, watching the reporters and film crews waiting patiently for us to come out. I was looking at everyone and wondering if there was anything else I could say to them. I had already told them everything I was allowed to; the president’s team had been clear about that.

  The soldier who pushed through the throng that day was stern-faced and clean-shaven, with a crisp and perfect uniform. Under his arm, he carried a large flat parcel wrapped in brown paper. He came straight to our door and knocked three times.

  Dad looked at me and left the room. He answered the door, and there was a murmur of voices before the soldier left and the door closed with a click. When Dad came back, the soldier had already disappeared into the crowd.

  “It’s for you.” Dad held out the parcel.

  “What is it?” I hesitated before taking it from him and putting it on the table, carefully unwrapping the paper to reveal what was inside.

  “I know just where to put that.” Dad smiled and pushed back his cap. “Get your coat.”

  When we left the house, I carried the parcel under my arm, just as the soldier had done, wrapped up once more in the brown paper. Dad walked by my side and we ignored the reporters, pushing through them and heading up the road toward the end of the village. The road was lined with cars belonging to the visitors, as well as the rusted pickups and rickety caravans of those of us who lived here. As we passed the other homes, all of them wooden and ordinary, like our own, some of the reporters followed, cameras held at the ready, shoving one another to get close to us.

  I didn’t say anything to them, though. I just kept my eyes ahead and walked on through the sunny afternoon, feeling the fresh air on my face.

  When we reached the end of the village, we stopped outside the Hunting Lodge. Twice as big as our house, it was the largest building in the village, built on two stories, from huge timbers that looked as ancient as those of the platform in the Place of Skulls. It was where the men came almost every night, and until now it had mostly been out of bounds for me. I had only ever been inside a few times.

  “You go in first,” Dad said.

  The door squeaked when I pushed it open and stepped in.

  I glanced around, seeing the men sitting at the tables. Tough and hardened hunters, bearded and weather-beaten. Some leaned close together in quiet discussion, others were drunk and laughing together. The wooden walls surrounding them were decorated with the antlers and skulls of prized animals, each one with its own story to tell. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco smoke and stale beer and sweat.

  Sitting alone at the bar, Hamara was the first to see us enter.


  As usual, he was wearing his woolen hat, pulled low so that his straggly gray hair stuck out beneath it. His great beard was messy and his coat was open, revealing his dirty sweater and his bulging belly. In his right hand he held a large mug of beer. He glared at the reporters pushing in behind us, then turned his gaze on me.

  When the other men spotted us, a wave of silence washed over the room until the only sound was the subdued murmur from the TV in the corner behind the bar.

  Dad nudged me forward and we began walking toward the far wall. My boots were loud on the wooden floor. Everyone’s eyes were on me, but it was Hamara’s I felt the most. They were like hot beams boring into me.

  When I came alongside him, I stopped and made myself look him in the eye.

  He returned the stare, tightening his lips as he watched me, then a hint of a smile appeared and the creases at the edges of his mouth tightened. “Oskari,” he said with a slight nod. “I misjudged you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubted you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t think anyone will make that mistake again.” He cleared his throat. “And I’ve been thinking about what kind of man it makes you. A bear means strength, a buck means brains, but a president?” He raised his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks. “You’ve got me stumped.” His smile widened and he let out a small laugh as he glanced at Dad, before looking at me once more. “You have something for the wall?”

  “I do.”

  “Better get to it then, young man. Tradition is tradition.”

  He gestured toward the far end of the lodge, watching as Dad and I went to the back wall and looked up at the pictures of all the hunters with their trophies. There was Hamara as a thirteen-year-old boy, kneeling beside his deer. Davi with his pheasants, Jalmar with his rabbits, and other boys posing with hares, pike, wood grouse, red grouse, and elk.

  At the top of the wall was the photo of Dad with his bear, put back in its rightful place. It was more faded now, creased and water-damaged from my adventure, but it was where it was supposed to be.

  To one side of the photos, the traditional bow hung on the wall beside the quiver I had carried across my back.

  “Your picture,” Hamara said, coming to stand beside me, and he put out his hand.

  I took the parcel from under my arm and removed the brown paper before handing it to Hamara. He studied it for a moment, nodding with approval, then stepped forward and reached up to hang it on a nail, higher than all the other photos.

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder and I straightened my back as I looked up at the framed newspaper cutting from the Washington Post. The headline read:

  13-YEAR-OLD FINNISH HUNTER RESCUES THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

  Below the words was a photograph of the president lying on the ground like a hunter’s prey, looking tired and scruffy, but propped up on one elbow and smiling at the camera. I was standing over him, holding the traditional hunting bow. Behind us there was a squad of Special Forces soldiers and two Black Hawk helicopters. Other helicopters hovered over the treetops in the background.

  It was the photo that Hamara had taken the day I rescued Bill. The day I showed the world what kind of man I was going to be.

  The time and effort poured into a novel does not come only from the author. There are lots of other people involved in the process of bringing a book to the shelf, so I’d like to take a moment to say thank you to everyone who has had a hand in making Big Game what it is. Thanks especially to the brilliant Barry Cunningham for introducing me to Oskari and presenting me with such a great opportunity. Thanks also to Jalmari Helander for giving Oskari his first breath of life, and to Will Clarke for letting me run with Oskari’s story. Thanks to Rachel L. for her invaluable advice and editorial support, and to Rachel H. and Elinor for all their amazing hard work. Thanks also to my agent, Carolyn. Most of all, though, thanks to my first readers and biggest supporters — my wife and children. They are my first opinion and my last opinion, and they are the ones who have to put up with my vacant stares and memory loss when I disappear into Danworld.

  Text copyright © Dan Smith 2015 based on the original story by Jalmari Helander and Petri Jokiranta

  Based on the original Screenplay by Jalmari Helander © 2015

  Based on the original motion picture produced by Subzero Film Entertainment in co-production with Altitude Film Entertainment and Egoli Tossell Film

  All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. CHICKEN HOUSE, SCHOLASTIC, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc. www.scholastic.com

  Published in the United Kingdom in 2015 by Chicken House,

  2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First printing, March 2015

  Cover photo © Stephanie Kulbach

  Cover design by Ellen Duda

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-76636-4

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.