Things that Fall from the Sky

by Selja Ahava

  I said I wanted her to put the book away if she didn’t feel like reading properly, and then she could make up whatever stories she wanted. But for some reason Mum preferred mashing up existing fairy tales. Maybe the pictures in the books gave her ideas. Or maybe she just liked winding me up.

  When Mum died, there was a fairy tale we never got to finish. The tale went like this:

  Once upon a time, there was a brother and a sister. An icy wizard came from the North. He snatched the sister and took her to his icy castle. The brother looked for his sister but instead met a wolf in the forest.

  The wolf said, ‘I know a man who can help you. But you’ll have to pay him a golden egg.’

  ‘Where do I find a golden egg?’ the brother asked.

  ‘Jump on my back,’ the wolf answered.

  The boy did so, and the wolf ran through the forest until they came to an old house.

  The wolf said, ‘In that chicken shed there is a hen that lays a golden egg every night.’

  The brother went outside and met an old woman.

  ‘Good day,’ he said. ‘May I have a golden egg from your chicken shed? I only have three coins.’

  ‘You may,’ replied the old woman, ‘but keep your coins. In exchange I want a horse with a white mane.’

  ‘Where do I find a horse with a white mane?’ the brother asked the wolf.

  The wolf replied, ‘Jump on my back.’

  And so the brother jumped on the wolf ’s back and the wolf rode through the forest till they came to a riverbank. On the other side of the river was a herd of horses in a pasture. One of the horses had a white mane.

  The brother walked over to a youth who was sitting on a stone.

  ‘May I have that horse with the white mane?’ he asked the youth. ‘I have three coins.’

  ‘You may,’ replied the youth, ‘but keep your coins. In exchange I want a silver bird.’

  ‘Where do I find a silver bird?’ the brother asked sadly upon returning to the wolf.

  The wolf said, ‘Jump on my back.’

  And so the brother jumped on the wolf ’s back, and the wolf ran along the riverbank till they came to the seashore. A large sailing ship was floating in the harbour.

  ‘The captain of that ship has a silver bird,’ the wolf said.

  The brother walked to the ship. ‘May I have a silver bird?’ the brother asked. ‘I’ve only got three coins.’

  The captain laughed at the boy’s money. ‘You can buy a silver bird all right, but by way of payment, I want a rope that will never break.’

  And again the brother went back to the wolf.

  ‘Where do I find such a rope?’

  ‘Jump on my back,’ the wolf said.

  And so the brother jumped on the wolf ’s back again, and the wolf ran along the coast to the next town, and then the next one, and there it stopped in front of a red-brick factory.

  ‘They make eternal ropes in this factory,’ the wolf said.

  The brother went inside the factory and saw that it was just one enormous, long hall with ropes of differing thickness running from one end to the other. Huge winches twisted the ropes, under the surveillance of a fox dressed in trousers and a waistcoat.

  The brother went up to the fox.

  ‘I’d like to buy an eternal rope. But I’ve only got three coins.’

  ‘That could work. But in return I want a stone that has been brought down from the moon,’ the fox replied.

  And so on. I’m not sure at what point I realized Mum’s story was going round in a circle, but I went on listening for a bit even after the rope factory – the stone that came from the moon belonged to a professor who wanted the world’s wisest book in payment; the book was found in the attic of a librarian, who in payment wanted a blue jewel, which was found at a baker’s. The baker wanted llama’s milk in payment – but then both Mum and I got fed up, and I said, ‘Let’s stop now.’

  And Mum replied, ‘Next instalment tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear you telling all that backwards,’ I sighed.

  ‘Let’s invent another ending. The sister can stay in the icy castle. Let’s organize a world rally championship for the brother.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  And perhaps Mum did. Perhaps the ending to the fairy tale was just what Mum had stopped to think about in the garden when her head split open.

  My last two images of Mum: the bedtime story the previous night, and leaving the garden the next morning. Mum in her sun hat, wearing gardening gloves. It’s as if the two moments were lit up with a special, radiant light.

  A spring evening on the sofa, a spring morning, and the buzzing of flies.

  14

  ‘Why? Why? Why Hannele?’ Dad moans at night in Auntie’s kitchen, holding his head. ‘Where the hell is the sense?’

  I lie in bed, trying not to hear. But the sound carries through the stove, which connects directly to the kitchen through the flue, and I can’t escape it. The small black stove in the corner wails, pressed against the wall of my room, its flue about to choke. What a terribly sad little stove, I think.

  Why, why, why.

  Dad has so many questions that no one wants to listen to. I still listen, a little bit. Perhaps Auntie can answer one of the questions, at least; she is a big sister after all. I could have become a big sister if there had been other babies. But only I came out when Mum’s stomach was cut open, so now I’m no one’s sister – I’m just myself.

  ‘It could have been anyone,’ Auntie answers. ‘Anyone could have been outside at that moment. A lot of people were outside then.’

  ‘I want to be angry with someone!’ the stove howls.

  When Dad howls, his voice comes from the pit of his stomach. Dad’s back bends and he starts shaking in time with his crying. Dad cries like a small child: he oozes snot and spit and wipes his eyes with his big grown-up’s fists like a giant. I’m afraid that Dad will get cramp or hiccups or have a heart attack. His clothes will tear, the seams will squeal, Dad will fall apart.

  When Dad cries, I concentrate on looking at Auntie Annu. I think: ‘If Auntie starts howling now, too, I’ll explode. I’ll fall apart with all this wailing. I’ll become a pile of bread-crumbs, jumping about from the crying. The tips of my fingers, my hair and my knees will tremble with the crying of the grown-ups.’

  But Auntie doesn’t howl. She doesn’t fall apart or tremble or burst into tears. Not once. Not even inside the stove in the evenings when I should be asleep.

  Auntie does cry. She sheds tears without always noticing it herself. She cries many times a day. Auntie cooks and heats up stoves. She dashes to Sawdust House, to the shop, to the undertaker’s and back in the car. She holds me on her lap and dresses me in woolly jumpers. And above all, Auntie felts wool in her workshop. She rubs, thumps, throws around and rolls up large pieces of wool. Water and soap splash, stuff becomes felt, it shrinks, tightens and strengthens. Auntie’s tears fly.

  But she’s still in one piece.

  ‘Wool helps,’ Auntie Annu assures us.

  She dresses us in woollen jumpers and woollen socks. She makes our beds with sheepskins and woollen blankets. We even have cushions covered in sheepskin. Auntie believes that the sadder a person, the warmer they must be kept. And Dad and I are really sad. Our foreheads drip with sweat as Auntie heats stoves, makes soup seasoned with chilli and takes care we don’t remove our woollen jumpers.

  ‘Wool breathes. It keeps you warm even when it’s wet; airing makes it clean; it doesn’t smell; it heals wounds, ear infections and athlete’s foot. Just think of Inuit babies! They’re wrapped in wool and kept in those swaddling clothes with their wee and poo for a whole month. You can’t go changing nappies in that sort of cold. And when the swaddling clothes are cut open a month later, they’re not even dirty. That’s the wonder of wool!’

  ‘Was there something I could have done?’ Dad goes on in the stove, after a while, in a smaller voice.


  ‘No,’ Auntie Annu answers.

  ‘If I had been in the garden then, I might just have got there in time. Say if I had pushed Hannele…’

  ‘You couldn’t have.’

  Auntie Annu’s replies thud, as wet wool does when she throws it on the floor. Despite the wool and Auntie Annu, Dad goes on and on, night after night. He creaks and drips like an icy mass on a tin roof, until he starts to fear the loosening of his feet and hands.

  Dad claims there’s something wrong with his nerves, because sometimes he can’t feel anything in his feet or hands.

  ‘I’m getting brittle,’ Dad splutters, squeezing his toes.

  Dad’s broken. It happens so easily. Mum’s image has got to Dad’s brain, and now the only sound it makes is why why why. Dad’s got a hole in his head and a lump of salt in his chest, and now he’s getting brittle. I didn’t know that could happen to a living creature.

  Sometimes, ice is so cold it burns your hands.

  And sometimes, when you go from a hot sauna into ice-cold water, and then you get out of the water, the cold air feels warm. And sometimes, when your fingers are cold from being outside, and you put them under a lukewarm tap, the water feels scalding.

  ‘I feel nothing!’ Dad says.

  Perhaps he’s got hot and cold mixed up.

  15

  For Easter, we went to church with school. It was called a children’s service, and Matti and Leila, the ministers, and Niina, from the youth group, acted the parts of the disciples and the women at Jesus’ tomb. I know Easter is because Jesus died on the cross but for some reason, they tried to avoid talking about that in the children’s service.

  I was already interested in the crucifixion, because I had never really understood it. I waited for the play to get to the part about Jesus’ arrest. Leila the minister and Niina from the youth group were grieving disciples. But then all that happened was that we were told there was a thunderclap, a curtain was torn and darkness fell. In the next scene it was morning, Jesus’ tomb was empty and everyone was happy.

  I wanted someone to explain how you can die of nails going through your hands and feet. Sometimes a whole hand or foot can work itself loose and the person still doesn’t die.

  But maybe grown-ups don’t like talking about death, even though they’re going to die themselves. When you eat, you grow, and when you become an adult, you die.

  Sometimes a person dies easily; sometimes the hard way. Mum and Jesus died easily: Mum in the middle of ordinary gardening jobs, and Jesus from four nails. Those are the sorts of deaths grown-ups don’t want to talk about.

  What Matti the minister was able to explain was why they wanted to kill Jesus. They wanted to stop him from getting more disciples. When Jesus spoke, he grew and slithered like wires inside a wall, and they didn’t like it. And so they stopped Jesus by nailing him to a cross. That’s how Easter came about. That’s why everything grows at Easter. The minister dresses in green, and you plant ryegrass in yogurt pots, even though Jesus just died. People eat yogurt and their bones and muscles grow, and in the picture on the milk carton, a strong girl carries her little brother.

  On Easter morning, I said to Mum and Dad that I didn’t want to eat, because then you grow up and die. Mum said, ‘You’ll grow in any case. But if you don’t eat, you’ll become an angry grown-up.’

  I was annoyed, though. Why hadn’t anybody drawn death on the side of the milk carton?

  16

  It was nice hearing Auntie Annu talking about the manor house.

  ‘When I moved to Extra Great Manor, I didn’t do anything at first. I walked slowly from one room to another; I took my time looking at each room. I looked out of every window, I walked round the garden. “Who are you?” That’s what I asked this house. Then I started cleaning. I cleaned every room, but I didn’t throw anything out. I listened to the doors creaking and the walls popping, and I practised heating the wood stove in a way that would stop it letting in smoke. Then one day, I had cleaned everything and the manor house started talking.’

  ‘What did it say?’ I asked.

  ‘It said, “Go ahead, set up a workshop.” And I asked where the best place would be. And Manor House replied, “The guest stable. You may set it up there.” ’

  Auntie’s workshop has a tiled floor and a shower, like in a swimming pool, and metal vats big enough for me to have a bath in, if I wanted. It smells of wet wool and soap. Auntie’s wool products are big and thick and they’re hung on the walls.

  Today, Auntie is about to start a new piece. I watch her spreading the base material on the giant table in the middle of the workshop. The table is so large that when there’s a celebration in the manor house, all the guests can fit round it. At least twenty candles burn in a candelabra that stands in the middle of the table.

  But the candelabra isn’t there now, the table is clean, and Auntie spreads the thick, flame-red fabric over its surface. She takes off her socks, rolls up her trouser legs and picks up a bucket. Then she dissolves some Marseille soap in a bucket of water and stirs it with her hand while looking at the blank red fabric. The soapy water is hot, and Auntie’s hand goes red, too.

  Auntie has already selected wisps of wool in different colours and placed them in a wheelbarrow. Now she climbs on to the table and starts arranging the wool on top of the base. First she creates the foundation, then on top of that she lays thinner strands in different colours. Auntie crawls around the colourful cloud that rises from the surface of the table, every now and then standing up to get a better view.

  ‘Is it fire?’ I ask, because I see red, yellow and orange, and it’s a bit boring just watching her prepare the table.

  ‘No,’ Auntie Annu says, not looking at me.

  ‘It looks like fire to me,’ I say, but Auntie’s not listening any more.

  At last, the felting process begins. Auntie wets the whole piece of fabric and the patterns on it with soapy water. Then she climbs onto the fabric on her hands and knees, and starts making circling motions with her fingers. Eventually, her whole palm gets involved. Auntie adds soapy water and the fabric bubbles under her fingers. That’s how the patterns stick to the fabric. Next, Auntie wraps the fabric inside a bamboo curtain and starts rolling it back and forth on the floor. It’s a bit like she’s making a gigantic red sushi roll. Water and lather drizzle onto the floor through the bamboo sticks, and Auntie Annu crawls among the mess. Every now and then, she opens the roll, checks what the fabric looks like, fixes a strip that’s come loose and carries on rolling. The big, soft wisps have now become thin stripes, and the woollen clouds have turned into lumpy patches.

  At last, the rolling stops. Auntie opens the bamboo curtain and takes out the fabric. It has shrunk and become patterned. Auntie spreads the fabric over the table, stands up and assesses it.

  ‘It needs more…’ Auntie mutters, going to get more wisps. She arranges more colours in a couple of places, rubs them with her finger to make them stick, stands up again, looks.

  Then Auntie takes off her shirt and trousers. She looks at me as if she’s just remembered I’m in the room with her. She’s wearing a black bra. A small tattooed lizard’s head peeks out from under the edge. When I was little, I always wanted to open Auntie’s shirt buttons and tickle the lizard.

  ‘There’s going to be some splashing,’ Auntie Annu warns.

  I’m not worried. This is the best bit about felting.

  Auntie pours more soapy water out of the bucket, grabs a corner of the fabric and starts thumping and throwing it along the tiled floor. She lifts the wet fabric and smacks it down, again and again. The soapy water flies all over the walls, and even my face gets wet. The thumping is called ‘frightening the fibres’. When the fibres get frightened, they become fluffy and matted. That way, the fabric tightens and becomes thick.

  Lifting a large piece of wet woollen fabric is hard work. Auntie sweats, dances round the room with the fabric, water splashing.

  I dry my face on my sleeve and go to explo
re the storeroom. It’s next to the workshop and it’s where Auntie keeps her wool. There are rolls of fabric and balls of yarn of different sizes. The felting wool comes in balls that look like candyfloss – Auntie keeps these in transparent plastic drawers on a set of shelves that covers the whole of one wall. The wool wisps come in all colours: bright red, yellow and turquoise, lots of different shades of blue and green, oranges, purples, browns, greys and blacks. Some of the wools are rough; others are straight and smooth like angel’s hair. If you touch them for long enough, your hands get all greasy.

  Apart from wool, the storeroom houses glass jars with all sorts of small objects in them. Auntie uses them to decorate felted things after they’ve dried and shrunk to the right size. There are silver threads, dried leaves, beads and coins, cinnamon sticks, smooth driftwood, rusty nails, old photos, buttons, fraying zips, dried beans: almost anything you can attach to fabric with a needle.

  I look at the wools and finger the whitest one. It’s soft and fine, as if someone had brushed it straight after sauna. There are so many different shades of white next to it that I get confused: I don’t understand what white actually is any more. There are so many whites between grey, yellow and brown. But when does grey become white? When does white become yellow?

  Everything is difficult. There is no boundary between the colours: white is yellow, and Bruno’s brown is black. Cold burns, and frosty air warms. Dad’s toes exist, but they disappear.

  17

  Halfway through June, Auntie Annu goes to Sawdust House to get us summer clothes. Dad and I don’t go with her. Dad doesn’t go because he still doesn’t want to visit the house. I don’t go because I don’t want to leave Dad on his own.

  Auntie comes back bringing two bags of stuff. I get sandals, a summer jacket, two dresses – one of them doesn’t fit me any more – shirts, a thinner nightdress and a tracksuit. Dad gets shorts, sandals and ordinary clothes. He’s already got sunglasses. The other bag holds a swimsuit and swimming trunks, my sun hat and Dad’s cap.