'Daughters': An exclusive short story by Moa Backe Åstot

Note: áhkko means grandmother and ieddne means mother in Lule Sámi. These words have been used to make the story more genuine, since Sámi is the characters’ native language.

There is a f luttering in Ánná’s stomach as the helicopter lifts off from the deck. From high up in the air everything on the ground looks so small, like a miniature world. The rivers look like narrow paths, black streaks in among all the green. The lakes are dark blotches. In some places there are still soft white patches of snow, even though it’s summer. The rays of the July sun are not warm enough up in the mountains.

Ieddne(mother) strokes Ánná’s shoulder. She points to something through the window. There, on the ground far below, a lone doe is running with her calf by her side.

In the front seat sits áhkko (grandma). She is talking to the pilot about the marking of the calves. Áhkko has been roaming these tracts all her life. So has Ánná, but what is 19 years compared with 80? She has always been the youngest in the family, always been the child. It is hard to imagine herself being anything else.

She lets her gaze sweep over the mountains. Wondering how long they have been there. How much they have seen and been a part of, without being able to tell anyone. Just like Ánná. She's not sure if she will ever dare to speak about it. Scared about what ieddne and áhkko would say if they knew.

The helicopter lands a little way off from the goahte tents. The whole of the Sámi village is busy sorting out their tents. Some are already finished, and are sitting outside cooking over an open fire. Others are carrying buckets filled with water from the river. Children and dogs run past, frolicking through the brushwood Ánná, ieddne and áhkko put up their goahte together. They carry in the stove, placing it in the centre of the goahte so that the pipe sticks up through the opening in the roof of the tent. They lay out the reindeer hides and sleeping mats around the sides of the goahte. Ieddne and áhkko get ready to cook while Ánná takes a plastic bucket to fill from the river.

On the way down to the water she comes across some young girls. They greet her, asking: “Are you a child or a grown-up?” She hesitates for a moment. “Grown-up.” “Have you got any children?” “No.”

This reply comes quicker, as if it is obvious, as if there is no other alternative. As if she is scared they might suspect something. But they do not, the girls run off to join their herd. Ánná wants to call after them, to convince them that she doesn't have any children, but instead she stays silent.

When they have eaten and settled down there is a moment of contented togetherness. In the goahte the nature of the conversations changes. Here the family can talk about things they don't talk about in buildings – here there are no walls to separate them. Áhkko talks of her childhood and upbringing, when she had to move away from her parents to begin at ”nomad school”. Of how some nights she would cry herself to sleep. Of her native language which it was forbidden to speak at school.

There are things which Ánná, ieddne and áhkko very rarely talk about. For example, things that cannot be explained, things that some people would describe as supernatural. They don't talk about how Ánná can remember her great-grandmother even though they never met before she died. For Ánná these memories are concrete and completely real, as if they had actually happened. When she was a child she could sometimes talk about great-grandmother in a way which made the adults start, surprised about how much she knew. Had they talked about great-grandmother's bad leg? Had they talked about her dog, which always lay across her feet when she was resting? They hadn't, but Ánná knew anyway.

These kinds of things they only talk about in the goahte. In the mountains, far away from everything. Here the lines between the real and the unreal are not so clear. Here áhkko tells tales Ánná has never heard her tell before. “Do you know how it was in the past?” she asks. “Long, long ago, when a Sámi woman was with child?” Both Ánná and ieddne shake their heads.

“At that time names were important”, says áhkko. “The name could decide the child's whole future, that's why it was so important. Often they were named after deceased relatives. The relative in question would visit the expectant mother in a dream and give their name to the child.” She continues: “Sometimes people even had to change the child's name, if it got sick. Some people had to change names many times. They believed that the characteristics of the deceased relative were transferred to the child through the name.” Ánná’s thoughts turn straight to her great-grandmother. And to her secret. She is filled with a strong longing to receive a visit, for great-grandmother to come to her in a dream and give her a sign, an affirmation that she really can become a parent.

For a brief moment she considers telling áhkko and ieddne. But she quickly has second thoughts, she doesn't want them to know. They would think that she was too young, that she's not ready yet. When evening begins to fall they lay down and rest a while before the calf marking begins. Áhkko has dozed off, gentle whist ling snores come from beside her. Ieddne has pulled the sleeping bag over her head. Ánná lies fully awake waiting for the marking to begin or for sleep to come.

But it doesn't come. She has been lying awake for a long time when she hears an older relative just outside the goahte. He tells them that it is almost time. Ánná, ieddne and áhkko put on their long underwear and trousers, fleece sweaters, jackets and hats. They pack extra gloves, plasters and toilet paper. They lace up their high boots and hang knives from their belts.

Ieddne plaits Ánná’s hair and áhkko plaits ieddne’s. Together they become like a long plait, three generations intertwined with their hands in each other's hair. Ánná is the only one who has nothing to do with her hands. The air in front of her is empty. She thinks about the fact that soon she will be a daughter and a mother. Just like ieddne, áhkko and every woman before them. The night is cool and clear when they leave their goahte. The midnight sun spreads a soft sheen over the sky as Ánná, ieddne and áhkko walk towards the enclosure. Before they arrive they can already hear the reindeer. Their grunting. This is a sound that helps them find each other again if the calf gets separated in the herd. Ánná is fascinated by the bond bet ween the does and their calves. To human ears all reindeer sound exactly the same. She wonders to herself, would she be able to find her mother among thousands of others, just by listening? If she covered her eyes and tried to locate the voice?

Ieddne would talk about when Ánná was really small, how she could tell which child was hers just from the crying. Does it work like that for humans too? Ánná finds it difficult to imagine that. Will there be that bond too between her and her child? Or is it there already?

They work for several hours. Áhkko looks for the mark on the does’ ears, ieddne catches the calves with the rope and Ánná marks them. She sits crouched over the calf, places it carefully on its side and takes out her knife from her belt. Then she makes the proper cuts in the calve' s ear. Gives it a gentle pat on the back before releasing her grip and letting it run back to its mother. For a few panic-struck seconds it wanders around grunting, listening for its mother. They soon find one another again and run off side-by-side.

Ánná looks around for ieddne and áhk ko. Ieddne is only a few metres away in the enclosure , talking with her aunt , but there's no sign of áhkko. Ánná searches for her red jacket among all the black ones. A pang of worry in her chest. Then she feels a hand on her shoulder. “Cold?” asks áhkko. It is only now that Ánná notices she has tensed up. She breathes out, and lets her shoulders drop. “A bit.” “Just a few unmarked calves left, then we’ll be done.”

When they get back to their goahte it's four o'clock in the morning. They go to sleep as the sun rises, waking up a few hours later to fry meat and boil macaroni on the gas stove. They each sit on their reindeer hide, eating off paper plates. Gradually the whole village wakes up.

Sometimes relations and other people they know visit them. Now and again children run past, peeping in through the mosquito net in the door opening of the goahte. There are so many children, they're everywhere now, it seems to Ánná that there are almost more children than adults. They look at her with a special gaze. As if they know something she doesn't know, or as if there is something they are wondering about. Sometimes she meets their gaze, vlooking right into their eyes, trying to understand what they are thinking. But she doesn't understand.

They sit outside the goahti when the sun warms up. Ieddne washes up the plates and saucepans, pouring clean water from the bucket, and emptying the dirty water into the brushwood. Áhkko sits on a tree trunk braiding shoelaces. Ánná tries her hand. She has only tried it a few times before, never really learnt. Ieddne can do it, but áhkko is the best. She has been doing it since she was a little girl. Ánná watches her, studying how she plaits together the threads of yarn.

Behind them stretch out the mountains, blue and grey. When Ánná looks at the mountains, she feels small. That's good, she likes feeling like that, like there's always someone or something bigger than her. Someone who knows more, someone to look after you. She wonders what it will feel like to be a mummy, to be ieddne to someone. To be the one who looks after someone else.

A young girl is walking along the path nearest the goahte. Her blonde hair falls in a braid over her back, like a light streak against the dark green jacket. Like all the other children, she slows down when she sees them, doubtless wondering what they are up to, trying to see better. Ánná smiles at the girl, trying to be kind. She figures she must be kind if she's going to be able to be a mother. The child smiles back, but suddenly something changes in her expression. She freezes and stares straight at áhkko, something is growing in her eyes, something that looks like panic.

Áhkko notices this and looks up from her work. Meeting the girl's eyes. “What’s up?” she asks. “Did something happen?” But the girl does not answer, she just keeps looking at áhkko. It looks like she's about to cry. Her face is pale with fear. Ánná’s eyes f lick between the girl, áhkko and ieddne. She tries frantically to understand what's happening, but none of them does or says anything.

Finally áhkko waves her hand, waves away the girl as if she understands what it's about or just doesn't want to see those terrified eyes any more. She says: “Go on, off home with you now.” She carries on waving until the young girl wakes from her trance. She gives her body a shake, almost like a dog, before running home to her own family. “ What was that about?” asks Ánná.

Áhkko shrugs her shoulders. She pretends to be untroubled but Ánná can see there's something she's not saying. Ieddne looks just as curious as Ánná. They exchange looks of surprise, waiting for some kind of explanation. “Well, let's get back to work”, says áhkko. “We still have a lot to do.” Finally evening falls again. Ánná, ieddne and áhkko are lying in their sleeping bags, listening. They can hear the reindeer far off, a whirring drone. Soon they will head out again. Áhkko looks at her watch. They make some coffee in order to wake up properly, they need to be alert now.

They f ind fewer calves this night, Ánná begins to feel freezing while they stand still, searching. She hates being idle, not really being needed. The hours go past and finally áhkko declares that they are done for the night. “I'm going down to the river to wash up”, she says. “But you can hang around a while, if you want to help release the reindeer.” Ánná wants to stay, she likes to see the enclosure being opened and the animals running out to their freedom. Ieddne also stays. But the other people in the enclosure don't seem to have marked all their calves yet so Ánná and ieddne will have a long wait. They begin to get cold. Finally ieddne says: “I think I'm going now, too. Are you staying?”

Ánná nods. “It shouldn't be much longer.” When ieddne has gone Ánná suddenly feels lonely. She looks around in the enclosure, and notices some women standing talking with each other a short distance away. She recognises Carina from when she was working in home care.

She walks up to the group and says hello. The women nod and smile, but none of them seems to have time to say hello properly. They appear to be in the middle of a discussion, Carina sounds despondent. “I just don't know what to do when she reacts like that. She gets incredibly scared and refuses to talk.” “Who are you talking about?” asks Ánná. “Ingrid, my youngest daughter. It's happened twice now that she has met older people and become scared out of her wits. The first time was when she met old Mággá, just a few days before she passed away. It's as if she’s terrified of old people.”

“But she'd never met Mággá, had she? So there was no reason for her to be scared”, says one of the other women. “Yes she had, once before. But the second time it was awful. I had to take Ingrid away from her, she was crying and screaming the whole way home.” “Do you want to know what I think? But you mustn't get upset.” “Why would I get upset?” The woman sighs. “I think she could see it.” “See what?” “That Mággá was going to die soon. Ingrid could see it, in some way or another.” Something changes in Carina’s expression. “Don't say that.” “I knew that’s how you would react!”

Ánná cannot keep quiet . “What does Ingrid look like?” Carina furrows her eyebrows slowly before answering: “Blonde hair, she usually has it in a plait. Green jacket and...” Before she has time to say anything else Ánná has already turned away. She hurries through the enclosure, trying to walk normally despite her trembling legs. The women are calling after her but she doesn't have time to answer.

Just when she comes out on the other side of the fence the enclosure opens at the other end. She leaves the enclosure at the same time as the reindeer, but they are running in the opposite direction – the reindeer are heading upwards, towards the mountains. Ánná is walking downwards, towards the goahte. She catches her boot on a tuft of grass and stumbles. She bangs her knee on a stone and the pain surges through her leg. She is moving again, walking more carefully this time, but in her rib cage her heart is pounding much faster than the hooves of the reindeer.

When she gets to her family’s goahte she jerks up the zip with trembling hands. At first she doesn’t see anyone. But there, sitting on one of the reindeer hides, coffee cup in hand, is áhkko. It's warm and pleasant inside, áhkko has lit a fire in the stove. Have you been running?” She asks. “You sound out of breath.” Ánná breathes out and shakes her head, but she can hear herself how strained her breathing is “Just wanted to get my toothbrush. Is ieddne down at the river?” Áhkko nods. Ánná can feel how her heartbeat has begun to slow down inside her rib cage.

She squats down, stretching out her cold palms towards the stove. The crackling fire is warm and cosy. She closes her eyes for a moment, allowing her breath to find its normal rhythm. Relaxes in the warmth. "Ánná”, says áhkko. “Is there something you'd like to tell me? Ánná opens her eyes again, taken aback by the unexpected question. There is only one thing she hasn't told áhkko. But áhkko can't know about it, it's still so early, her stomach has hardly got bigger at all. Could she be thinking about something else?

Somewhere in the distance there is the dull rumbling of an approaching helicopter. That's strange, no one usually comes here or leaves for home at this time in the morning. Ánná cannot think of a good answer before áhkko says: “I wou ld l i ke to ma ke a request.” “What?” “Give her my name.” “Who?” “Your daughter. With this name she will live a happy life.”

Ánná laughs out loud, not knowing what else to do. There are so many questions she wants to ask, but she doesn't know where to begin. In the end she says: “How do you know I'm going to have a daughter?” Áhkko edges closer, placing her hand on Ánná’s shoulder. She strokes the length of her arm. “Do you promise to give her my name?” She nods without understanding. “I promise.” She doesn't say anything else, for now the thundering noise of the helicopter is so loud she almost has to cover her ears. The din cuts through the air. Ánná gets up and looks out of the goahte, trying to understand what's going on.

The helicopter which lands some way off in the brushwood does not look like the helicopter she flew in. It is yellow, a harsh colour which doesn't blend in at all with the green and brown background. Along the side of the helicopter it says: Swedish air ambulance “Looks like something’s happened”, she says to áhkko. “Come and see.” Not getting a reply she looks around in the goahte, but áhkko is not there. The stove is cold and quiet, as if it has not been lit for several hours.

Ánná and ieddne take down the goahte together. They pack their things, theirs and áhkko’s. Her clothes, the band she had begun to weave, the paperback she never got around to finishing. They don't talk about what happened. They don't talk about how ieddne found áhkko at the river, how she saw her own mother die. They don't talk about Ingrid and what she saw when she was looking at áhkko. They don't talk about how Ánná met áhkko in the goahte despite t he fact that the helicopter ambulance had already arrived
to try to save her.

Ieddne plaits Ánná’s hair, but no one plaits ieddne’s. There are only two of them now. Ánná feels the air in front of her with her hands, imagining that somebody is sitting there. That there are three of them again. They carry their bags out to the place where the helicopter usually lands. Sit on the ground with the baggage and wait. The sun is high in the sky now, shining as if it has no idea what happened.

Ánná picks up áhkko’s backpack. It is old, she had it since she was young. In the front áhkko’s name is embroidered. Ánná runs her fingers over the letters. Ieddne looks at the backpack and says: “She had a beautiful name.” Ánná nods. Looking out over the land and the mountains, she takes a deep breath. Summoning all the courage she has. Before they board the helicopter she meets ieddne's eyes and says: “There’s something I want to tell you.”