Slowly she winched herself into a sitting position, her bare feet touching the slabs of the floor.
There was something else in the room. Darkness that spun in the air, just a few feet away from her.
The woman pulled a piece of rotten fruit out from her robes and held it out in her hand.
The darkness broke up, turning into a mass of countless flying insects, with gleaming wings and dark eyes, swarming over her hand, devouring the fruit and covering her arm, some of them climbing over her face and slipping between her lips.
Yes. Today it has begun.
Ospreys
Tiina Raevaara
Translated by David Hackston
Tiina Raevaara is a young, up-and-coming writer whose dual career as a novelist and a Ph.D. in genetics has generated plenty of interest . . . and given her plenty of fodder for her work. Her second book, a collection of short fiction titled I Don’t Feel You Beside Me (En tunne sinua vierelläni), won the Runeberg Prize, a prestigious Finnish literary award. She has also authored a popular science book on the relationship between humans and dogs throughout the ages. In “Ospreys,” Raevaara explores the network of life that springs from one very peculiar swamp…
Rain falls to the ground, warm and heavy. Already the air is damp; dampness rises from the ground bringing with it the scent of the swamp, a strange blend of mud, peat moss, marsh tea, and methane.
Swamps are always paradoxical. They are at once dead and alive; they decompose, and, at the same time, from that very decomposed matter they produce life. Swamps grow at the surface and die from the inside, simultaneously, for thousands upon thousands of years.
I sit down carefully on a pine stump and fill my lungs with the heavy air. Nothing smells quite as intoxicating as swamps—and the smell is not even at its most powerful now, as the marsh tea and arum lilies are only just beginning to blossom. After that the air is injected with a new, sweet note.
Today is April 15th, the day on which, for at least the last thirty years, I have come back to this same swamp, to this exact same spot. Very little has changed; the woods may have encroached slightly on the swamp, making it smaller; the sparse pine trees around the swamp have thickened almost imperceptibly and are more gnarled than before; the silhouette of the forest is more even.
The ospreys’ nest is still in the same place, on a plywood platform affixed high up in the pine trees. Local bird enthusiasts built the platform a couple of years ago, after a storm had blown over the tree housing the birds’ former nest—a handsome giant, the swamp’s tallest pine.
Back then I waited breathlessly to see whether the new nesting place would suit the ospreys, but when they finally arrived it was as if they already knew that the nest had moved ten or so meters from one pine tree to another.
How the ospreys have come to nest at this same swamp for so long is a mystery. Large birds of prey can theoretically live for decades, but the plumage of the present couple indicates that they’re not that old. On several occasions I have noticed that the ospreys are younger than before, though how this happens I don’t know. One spring the old couple simply stops coming and a younger one arrives in their place—but always on the same day, April 15th.
Only on a handful of summers has their nesting failed. Otherwise I have generally been able to tag two angry osprey fledglings—though sometimes there has only been one. On rare occasions there have even been three.
Every year the ospreys arrive in exactly the same manner. I sit down at the edge of the swamp; the weather is always like this: rainy, warm, and close. I sit for about an hour before the birds arrive; I want to build myself up to it, let the swamp consume me, because then the arrival of the birds seems all the more impressive.
All of a sudden they appear above the swamp, silently, two great birds of prey, wingspan over a meter and a half. They glide downwards, to come calmly to rest in a spruce tree at the edge of the swamp, look around for a moment, and listen, making sure that nothing has disturbed their peace.
Then they rise up again, two fair giants, drop from the sky to their nest, their meter-high twig-castle, and give several screeches of joy; their realm is still intact.
On this day too they arrive in precisely the same way, the majestic figures soaring across the edge of the woods. For a moment they hang comically in the air, the tips of their wings describing a circle against the dark clouds, then they descend to the edge of the woods to scan the surroundings before settling in their nesting tree.
The ospreys are home again.
Looking through the binoculars it seems as though two fledglings have appeared by the end of May, though one can never be sure of the precise number without climbing up to the nest and checking. At first it is difficult to distinguish the light-brown fledglings from the twig-castle around them, but gradually they grow and become more active and inquisitive. The adult ospreys take turns to bring them fish from the lake a few kilometers away. The osprey fledglings’ calls begin to sound more and more like those of the adults; their shrill calls carry far from the nest of twigs and the adults respond with a slightly less demanding squawk.
The weather today is hot, the sun is shining from a cloudless sky, and the swamp is buzzing with flies. I stand at the edge of the woods for a moment, hoping that the two adult ospreys will soon fly off on a fishing trip.
However, the ospreys don’t seem interested in catching anything; instead they jump up and down and dive down to the base of the nesting tree. There must be something very interesting on the ground directly below the nest.
I set off, striding the ten or so meters from the edge of the woods to the nesting tree. Walking across marshland is difficult; not only does it give way, one could also easily be swallowed up altogether. By moving quickly enough and sticking to a route I learned years ago I manage to not get wet above the waist.
Once I am closer to the nest, the fledglings begin to peer over the edge. First they give out their normal call, but when there is no calming response from the mother they clearly begin to panic. For now, the adult ospreys observe me from the lower branches of a nearby tree, but I know that they will attack if I start climbing up to the nest. The ospreys at this swamp have always been particularly hot-headed.
Between the tussocks I can see a patch of green, getting darker, becoming almost blue. Fabric, perhaps something a hiker lost. With both hands I grab hold of the rags, weakened by the sun and the dampness, and try to pull them out of the swamp and into view. It seems that something more than clothes has sunk into the moss—something far heavier. I thrust my hand into the warm swamp, and grope around for a moment until I get a better grip on something firm, like a branch the width of a wrist. I take a firm hold, lean my entire body weight backwards, and try to wrench the secret from the concealing folds of the marsh.
The first thing to rise from the swamp is a hand, then shoulders and a head slumped to one side, then a torso, and finally a pair of legs. The acidic water has dyed the body an even brown color; its eye sockets gape, large and hollow, but the body looks otherwise intact. I think it is a man’s body; its broad shoulders fill out the grey army jacket, and a loose belt is tied around the hips, which are covered in combat trousers and a flannel shirt. I take a look at the shoes; one foot is still wearing a rubber boot—it must be at least a size 45. The other boot has disappeared somewhere in the depths of the swamp.
Something is not quite right. I take a few steps backwards and readjust my mosquito hat. I can’t say what—it isn’t the fact that even the adult ospreys are now sitting quietly watching my endeavors from the top of the nesting tree, nor is it that the air is warmer and the smell of the swamp more pungent than before. I wouldn’t hear the screech of the ospreys even if they were to stand right at my feet, nor would I notice if the surface of the swamp were to boil.
Perhaps what disturbs me so much is that the clothes on the body are exactly the same as my own, the ones I always wear on my osprey trips. They are clothes typical to many ramblers; army jackets and
combat trousers can be bought from any outdoor pursuits or army surplus store; three out of four people who visit the swamp wear knee-high black rubber boots; the color of the flannel shirt is indistinct after its time in the water.
And still every detail on the clothes is identical to my own. I wipe the sweat from my brow; I can’t say whether what unnerves me the most is ultimately the humidity of the air or the tightening sensation around my chest. I lean over the body and am surprised that it doesn’t seem to give off a rotten smell. The only smell is that of the swamp, at once alive and dead.
Water belches from the pocket when I slip my hand inside. It is cold, having been brought up only a moment before from the cool insides of the swamp, and has not had time to warm up. At first I can’t feel anything firm inside the pocket, but then my fingers come across something thin and soft. I pull out the soaked piece of paper: a folded sheet of newspaper. RECORD STORMS TO HIT CENTRAL FINLAND, claims the headline. GALES EXPECTED TO BLOW DOWN TREES AND CUT OFF ELECTRICITY. I try to take a closer look at the upper edge of the darkened, ragged paper. The newspaper is dated April 15th, two years ago.
There is something else in the pocket too: a car key, exactly the same as my own. I look up at the sun; the light flashes in my eyes and for a moment all I can see is dark shadows and white blotches of light. It is myself I have raised from the swamp: dead for two years.
An osprey screeches high up in its nesting tree. The world stops still.
The air is heavy with rain. I expected the storm to have reached us, but for now huge droplets fall lazily to the ground in a sheer curtain. The dampness makes me feel uncomfortable; the sweat on my face can’t evaporate, but runs instead in a stream down my wet shirt collar. According to the paper the storm should have arrived early in the morning, but it seems still to be gathering strength. The papers have predicted record storms.
I will never stop marveling at the scent of the swamp; I always think I can remember it, even in winter, but when in spring I make my first trip to the ospreys’ swamp the smell almost attacks me and makes me reel momentarily. Once the giddiness has passed I feel somehow stronger and cleaner. Of course, the smell is the only one possible for the swamp: a blend of past and future; that which is dead, that which has already decomposed, and that which is only just coming into being.
I know this swamp intimately. I know safe places to tread so that it doesn’t swallow you up. I know of a pine stump where it’s nice to sit; a place with a good view of the ospreys’ nesting tree.
Today is April 15th, the day the ospreys arrive. They have always arrived like this, for at least the last thirty years, for as long as I have been visiting this swamp, this osprey marsh—boggy, treacherous, yet so beautiful and so dear to me.
The ospreys’ nest is at the top of the swamp’s tallest gnarled pine. Though the pine must be ancient, the trunks of trees in swamps never grow particularly thick. The ospreys’ castle of twigs looks disproportionately large compared to the rest of the tree, but the construction has nonetheless survived the winds and the weight of snow through the winter. Every spring, before the female lays eggs, they repair the nest—exchange dirty pieces of padding for clean ones, and fetch new twigs to replace those already broken or about to snap.
I know in advance how the ospreys will arrive, for it is the same every year. With the arrival of the ospreys, the hands of the great clock of the universe again move round, irrevocably. I am merely an onlooker, sitting between warmth and damp at the edge of the swamp, watching as that which has already been determined takes place. I always wish to get here early, though for years the birds have always arrived at the same time, almost to the minute. But I do not follow time as I sit in my shrine at the edge of the osprey marsh; for at that moment, time, for me, has stopped still.
They appear above the swamp all of a sudden, in perfect silence, two great birds of prey with a wingspan of over a meter and a half. Their wings are motionless, only the wind seems to carry the birds into view from behind the treetops, then down towards the spruce jutting up from the swamp.
I would have thought that, after all these years of observing the ospreys arrive with clockwork regularity, my body would feel their presence even before their dark silhouettes glide across the sky. How I wish to feel their impetus; to sense, to anticipate, that soon they will arrive—yet every year they take me by surprise. They rest on the top of the spruce tree and ascertain that nothing within their territory has changed. Each year they do this in the exact same way. Then they rise up again, two fair giants, drop from the sky to their nest, and give several screeches of joy; their realm is still intact.
This is how the ospreys’ homecoming should end, but behind the birds something else glides across the sky, something that finally hides the peering spring sun behind the clouds. With the ospreys has come a storm, driving behind them, chasing them, its dark-grey clouds thickening just above the swamp. The birds do not seem the least perturbed by the oncoming danger; they continue sitting in their nest and turn their beaks towards the strengthening winds.
For some strange reason I begin running towards the nesting tree, I don’t know why; I run, sink into the swamp, then run again. At the base of the nesting tree I turn my face towards the sky and look right at the eye of the storm. The world is engulfed with a bang and with bright light.
I can neither see nor hear, but I know that the lightning hits the ospreys too. The birds give a shriek and float down to the surface of the swamp.
It is April 15th, a day that, for the last sixty years, has held a special significance for me. Every year on this same day, at the same hour of the morning I come to this swamp, this boggy osprey marsh.
Today the ospreys will return on their migratory flight, just as they have returned throughout my time here, and long before. And today once again I will sit at the edge of the swamp and witness the birds’ successful journey come to an end.
Today I will once again leave the swamp, and return home not as I was before, but stronger and more whole.
“You going there again?” they ask, my grandson and his wife, though not disparagingly. They stopped this long ago—in fact it was during my son’s day that the scolding tone disappeared from their voices for good. Perhaps they imagine that one year I might forget about the swamp and the ospreys altogether, though they are not in the least surprised when they see me once again preparing to leave.
“Why?” ask the youngest ones, those who have just learnt to talk and who still believe that everything is marvelous and fascinating.
“The swamp preserves well,” I reply, a little glint in my voice, but none in my eyes.
And everyone laughs. They know that, when I return from the swamp, I will be stronger, fresher, newer.
The forest smells only of the forest, dry and warm, and does not even hint at the swamp hiding in the dell. The swamp-smell hits me only once I am there. Heavier than the rest of the air, it has gathered at the bottom of the dell, enfolding everything that dares cross into its territory. After the smell, the swamp itself attempts to capture me; my boots sink into the slick moss and again I have to familiarize myself with how best to walk across such a treacherous surface. The heavy steps strain my back, which suffers complaints that have built up over the years and whose treatment requires more than just exercise and rest. What I shall enjoy most is when the pain is no more.
The osprey marsh is still there, still damp and fragrant, alive and dead, just as always before. My swamp, my life and my death merging with it, a single accumulation amongst the layers of peat. The swamp, its life stretching back thousands of years; my insignificant existence alongside it.
I breathe in the moist air; the dampness will surely increase, as it has rained all morning—heavy, warm drops of rain. The damp air has already seeped in through my clothes, sticking the cloth against my skin.
Suddenly they appear in the sky above the treetops, two forms carried on the wind. I concentrate on watching them, not even blinking; their long, slender win
gs, their bird-of-prey profiles.
Again, a storm follows in the ospreys’ wake.
The Garden
Jyrki Vainonen
Translated by Juha Tupasela and Anna Volmari
Jyrki Vainonen is both a highly regarded writer and an accomplished translator, respected for his Finnish translations of the works of Seamus Heaney, Jonathan Swift, and William Shakespeare. A scholar on Swift, Vainonen has lived in Ireland, and written a thesis on Swift’s Irish pamphlets; Swift also happens to be the protagonist of Vainonen’s recent novel At Swift’s Doors (Swiftin ovella, Tammi, 2011). In 1999, Vainonen’s first short fiction collection was awarded the Helsingin Sanomat Debut Title of the Year Award. The Explorer & Other Stories, a selection of Vainonen’s short fiction, is available this year from Cheeky Frawg. In “The Garden,” a young boy observes his parents’ puzzling encounter with a mysterious plant . . .
When my parents had finished their work in the garden that Friday, the legs of dad’s boots and mom’s slacks were all covered with pollen. Where the pollen touched skin, it turned into yellowish goo that only smeared when wiped, stuck on their hands, and wouldn’t come off even with soap and a scrubbing brush. “There’s nothing to do but wait, it’ll wear off with time,” dad consoled mom at the watering barrel, when there was nothing for it but to give up. Mom looked desperate, shook her head, and looked at her hands, which were red from all the scrubbing.
My parents climbed up to the porch, and mom ducked inside right away. Dad noticed me sitting on a wicker chair at the end of the porch, where I was leafing through a nature book, even though I couldn’t read.
“It fell off and split open, Jeremias. Mom and I didn’t even have time to get out of the way.”
Dad’s eyes burned with excitement. Dad’s bald patch was splotched with goo, and there were flakes of pollen in the gray curls that framed his scalp. Dad was taking off his boots in the doorway. They weren’t cooperating, and wouldn’t come off dad’s bare, sweaty feet just by him wriggling his leg. Finally he bent over with a grunt and helped them off with his hand. Then he sighed deeply and wiped his hands on his pants, which were already covered with dirt and paint stains.
It Came from the North Page 18
