I had no idea my father could paint so well, and all from his imagination.
With some effort, I flip the page to see another breathtaking image, this one of a forest quite similar to the one outside this cabin, with another river, only this one is light blue and iced over. At the end is a frozen waterfall, at least fifty feet high, and I swear the water is gleaming like a million crystals, like he’s used metallic paint.
Along the river is a sign with an arrow pointing at the waterfall.
Underneath the sign my dad has scribbled “Tytär, älä tule luokseni.”
Tytär sounds familiar to me, but I’m not sure what it means. I close the book, feeling a little unsteady on my feet.
“Soup is ready, if you want to join me,” Rasmus says, gesturing to the tiny circular table by the door.
I nod and go sit down. Rasmus brings me a bowl of steaming hot burgundy soup, some sour cream in the middle, and a cup of coffee. I eat two huge bowls, the sour cabbage strangely addictive, and drink three cups of coffee, while Rasmus stays mostly silent, his focus on his food and thankfully not me, slurping away. I used to eat like a bird, but part of my recovery was to embrace the messiness of food.
As soon as the meal is done, I wash the dishes, feeling bizarrely domestic, and Rasmus starts gathering things from all around the cottage, throwing them in a leather backpack that has seen better days, then brings out clothes from a closet and starts laying them on the couch.
“What’s all this?” I ask, wiping my hands on an embroidered dish towel.
“Can’t go anywhere if you’re just wearing that,” he says, pointing at me. He then shoves a long black coat in my hands. It’s leather but there’s shearling inside and along the wide collar and when I bury my nose into it, it smells like my dad.
I close my eyes for a moment as my heart aches for him.
“There’s no way this will fit,” I tell Rasmus, but I put it on and somehow it fits perfectly, cozy without being bulky.
“I think he’s had that since the 70’s,” Rasmus says with a smile. “He was a lot slimmer then.” Then he hands me a black scarf and a pair of black-and-white mittens and a matching knit cap with flaps over the ears, similar to the Sami traditional dress.
At first I think it’s overkill, but when we step outside to fetch the reindeer, I immediately know how life-saving these clothes are. I pull up the scarf over my mouth and nose, the air biting at my exposed skin, and watch as Rasmus gets the reindeer attached to the sleigh.
“Ladies first,” he says when he’s done, having made quick work of it.
I sit down on the animal pelts he just laid out on the sleigh, then he gets down beside me and says an encouraging word or two to the reindeer. It starts to trot, pulling us through the snow with a jerk.
“You don’t even have any reins,” I point out as the sleigh glides along under the snow-frosted trees. “How are you steering him?”
“Sulo is a she,” he says, “hence why she still has antlers at this time of year. And we have a connection.”
“Is this a shaman thing?” I ask.
He gives me a wry smile. “You have a lot to learn.”
He says it in a jovial way but his words strike deep. My father was a shaman. All this time and he had this whole other life, one he never let me be a part of. Why didn’t he trust me? He knew I wouldn’t think it odd, or any less of him. Hell, he knew I was a bit woo-woo myself with all my crystals and tarot decks and whatnot (I mean, I mostly have the tarot decks because I like the artwork, I don’t actually know how to use them well).
And yet, it was all kept from me. Why?
What hurts even more is the fact that I may never get an answer to that question. For all that Rasmus has been talking about my father being alive somewhere fantastical, I can’t help but cling to the idea. I don’t believe in a Land of the Dead, no matter how powerful a shaman my father was, but part of me hopes that Rasmus is at least partially right. That my father is still alive and out in the world somewhere, and it’s just a matter of time before he pops up.
But that’s what people think when their loved ones die, isn’t it? They keep thinking it’s only temporary. That they’re gone, in the other room, maybe at work, or on vacation. That they’re just away and they’ll be back at some point. Maybe that’s how you get through death, by telling yourself your father will pick up the phone, and that if he doesn’t that he’ll call you back soon, and so in the back of your mind, at the back of your heart, you’re just waiting. Waiting for them to return and for life to go back to normal again. The idea that they’re never coming back is…it’s more than unbearable. It goes against everything you’ve ever known.