The Word I Carry

I am the last of my language. The child I led through the wild snows has just died. She was not mine, but when her family perished, I felt obliged to cover her in my own furs. I was happy to do it. Sofe was old enough to ask questions. With no other adult left to talk to, her barrage of whys sustained my sanity. Now even that is gone. I can move faster without the weight of her insistence on being carried, but I'd rather have two of her on my back than the empty howl of the tundra as my only companion.

To the world, this means nothing. Foreigners hear my language still spoken by one thousand people of the North. They don't understand how much our dialects differ. Some have already been lost, the final elders dying by the curse of thin skin in blizzard winds.

The world doesn't care. Globalization is the goal. English is such the pinnacle that many of its born speakers are not even bilingual. I am forced to be trilingual. English of course, but also Swedish, taught by my parents who had been forced to assimilate decades ago by Christian missionaries. Native noses were measured, native accents mocked, and native languages all but erased.

“We were ripped from our families to attend internatskola, then beaten by our teachers and told we were dirty hedningar that had to be cleansed for their god,” my father would tell me bitterly, while my mother wept silently, holding her forehead so that I wouldn’t see. But I saw.

Alone, at least, I feel free to sing. The Swedes had apologized by the time I was born, but my parents never let me forget what the government did, and how they were made to feel. The joyful expression of not just our emotions, but the very essence of our beings, was often disallowed even by those who once composed endlessly. Despite this, they made sure I knew everything about our colorful culture, and how to compose my own songs.

Since their apology, though, even the Swedes have been wiped out. Most of the North has. The smog propagated by gas-guzzling vehicles in the South finally got the best of us. Unbearably hot summers melted the ice in the North suddenly last year, killing most of the thick-furred bears, wolves, and deer adapted to our cold climate. As we turned toward the dark of the year, the ice returned with a vengeance, no blanket of firmament left to hold in any heat from our shining mother Beaivi.

I had to slay the three remaining reindeer of my herd months ago to make merely mediocre beaskas for myself and Sofe. I couldn’t feel guilty about erasing my livelihood. The animals were on the brink of death regardless. We ate their meat in a matter of days.

I don't want to think about how hungry I am. A phantom hare once every fortnight is barely keeping me alive. At least with all this snow, I'm not struggling with thirst.

Now no animal.

Now no person.

As far as my eyes can see.

I cannot entertain a tear, for it would freeze on my face, burning and ripping the skin. Another problem I do not need.

My hand, almost involuntarily, reaches up to my chest to feel for the pressure of the heart-shaped wooden locket resting there. Inside contains the last written word in my language, in my mother's hand. The one joy I have left that only death can take away.

Joik.

To stave off the hunger, I open my mouth, swallow the bitter wind, and begin to sing.

Le no ah ya no ah ya,

Le no ah ya no ah ya,

Hey on te no na na te no

Hey on na te nooo.

The words have no English translation, best described as nonsense, but it is the feeling in them that grants them meaning. I am not singing about my loneliness; I am singing my loneliness. And I will continue, until the ice I once loved consumes me.

Perhaps tonight it will.

A swooping shadow in my periphery appears, and almost as quickly, it’s gone. Without a thought, I give chase in the direction it flew. I no longer see anything in this whiteout, but hope stirs me onward. A meal? Or better: a companion?

Unearthly yowling tells me I am close. I slow down, my neck wet with sweat despite the chill. The dampness drips into the fur around my shoulders, only to freeze instantly. Might as well have grown this fur myself. At this point, my beaska is never coming off. Not without fire tools. Which I don’t have.

I squint eyes already slits to focus any dark speck. There! A soft gray almost invisible in the snow. I lunge over drifts, yanking my legs up and over for each step. My speed belies my urge. Why doesn’t it run? I ask myself, as though I want this to be any harder. Finally, within ten meters, I see the creature. In my shock, I misstep, sharp ice crystals biting my face before I realize I’ve fallen. Shaking my head, I lift my eyes and gaze at the lynx.

He? She? (does it matter?) struggles in an antique jagged foothold meant to restrain a bear. The metal teeth of the trap have clamped across both its back legs, fur matted with blood both dried and newly glistening. I should relieve it of its misery.

Before I can get closer, or even wonder who set the trap in the first place, a black blanket falls fast over the white landscape.

I awake an unknowable amount of time later, noticing first that I am in a building, on a makeshift bed. No sight of snow surrounds me for the first time in months. That alone makes me want to cry. Then I see. Faces. Human faces. I’ve suddenly forgotten how to count. At least five.

I hear what sounds like English. I try to say hello. I’ve forgotten the word. I listen more closely and I’m sure it’s English, but I’ve lost the meaning of any and all phrases. I search my brain, but I can’t recall any Swedish either. I don’t want to panic but soon I’m hyperventilating. I was raised with Swedish! Why?

“Remind me how long she’s been in a coma?”

“Six months.”

“Damn. Feels like two years. I was ready to let the ice have her.”

“I’d have fought you. Comatose is still breathing. We can’t sacrifice anyone. Not when so few of us are left. I’m sure we’re the only compound at this latitude.”

“Do you think she understands?”

“I haven’t met anyone yet who didn’t know English. What’s your name, my dear?”

A man’s voice. What were they saying? Were they going to eat me? I’d heard of cannibalism, but even on my hungriest days, I never would have even considered killing and consuming Sofe. I’d rather have died. When she died, I buried her.

He repeats the question. The inflection is how I know it’s a question. I don’t know how to answer. The only words I can vocalize are my ancestors’ Sámi, the source of my joiking.

The black blanket returns, falling more slowly this time.

“Oh my god, we’re losing her. Sweetie, you just woke up, stay with me now.” A woman urgently pushes on my shoulder and then my chest. I feel a spoon against my lips. The blanket lifts.

“Just eat this. Have some water. You’ll be okay.”

Her voice is calming, whatever she’s said, and I happily accept the food she offers despite not knowing what it is. My breathing has started returning to normal.

“That’s a good girl.”

I smile. That sentence made sense. English was coming back to me. She reaches her arm toward my face. I don’t flinch. She tucks a loose black hair behind my ear.

“What’s your name?” The question again. This time I know what she asks.

“Sápmi. Kárášjohka,” I say, not knowing my name but knowing my land.

“That’s beautiful.”

I want to share something else beautiful with this kind face, what I’ve kept to myself since Miessemánnu, Reindeer Calf Month. I start to speak, but I feel a bear on my chest. The air of my spirit leaves my lungs. I can’t catch it. I hear her scream as I fall to the dirt-dusted floor.

I’ve been alone for too long. The bear of white brings forth a sky of black. It was never a blanket. It was night. I see the star specks. I find Beaivi’s favorite. My spirit turns to follow it.

And with my last breath, I sing the word I carry.