The translation of this delectable tale is by Books from Finland’s long-time collaborator Herbert Lomas (1924-2011), who was often at his best when working on the whimsy of children’s literature.

Spring had come to the forest homeland. The wood anemones were raising their heads shyly from under the moss, large tears of joy were flowing down the spruce trees’ beards of lichen, and sky-ploughs of cranes were coming from the south. They bugled mightily on their trumpets and then landed in the Great Marsh to sample the cranberries.

The springtime elves danced every day on the sunny slopes and swept the last remnants of snow into the melting brooks. Birch leaves were opening their little ears, the grass began to grow green, and already the swallows were coming; but the great tits that had been wintering in the corners of the house escaped to the shadowy pine forests.

But I was supposed to be describing the forest folk and their trip to Helsinki…

During those days Reynard the Fox was hard at work. He was wearing greasy overalls, his pockets were stuffed with nuts, bolts and spanners, and his paws and whiskers were thick with engine grease. He was fixing up his old Ford, which had been tucked away under a fir tree for the winter. For last summer, at auction, Reynard had bought a Ford, with which he’d then been running a taxi-service up and down the forest paths.

Now, in the evening, after working away at his car all day, in, out, underneath and on top of it, he’d finally got it going. He switched on the engine, sat at the wheel, tooted his horn with the pride of a proper motorist and lauded the car:
‘Just like new it is, now…’

Well, there was a little truth in what he was saying: he’d painted his car till it was spick, span and shiny, and he’d patched up the tyres. But from its model you could see it was at least five years old, and everyone knows that cars that age are already over the top.

On the edge of a sunny forest-clearing there was also quite a bit going on. Mr and M rs Chaffinch had just become domiciled after their travels abroad and had been building a nest in the fork of a bird-cherry tree. When the nest was ready and Mrs Chaffinch had laid her eggs and settled down to hatch them out, the hares, Crosslip and Bobtail, turned up, wanting news of the great world. So did Samuel Squirrel, waving his bushy tail. And Mr Chaffinch, who now had lots of time on his claws, began to talk about the foreign lands he’d seen on his travels. He told them about the sea with the ships sailing across it, and the great cities where people swarmed like ants.

The pals sat with pricked ears, their eyes shining as they listened to Chaffinch’s chatter, and little by little they were overcome by a strange restlessness – travel fever.

‘I’d very much like to see a city,’ Crosslip said.

‘Me too,’ sighed Bobtail.

‘Listen, Chaffinch’ Samuel said. ‘We can’t go on long trips, because we haven’t got wings, but don’t you know of any city somewhere he ÷reabouts that we too could go and see?’

‘It’s not all that far from here to the country’s capital, Helsinki,’ Chaffinch pointed out. ‘If Reynard the Fox would give you a lift in his Ford, you’d be there in half a day. It’s certainly worth the trip, for it’s one of the loveliest cities I’ve ever seen. And then you ought to get him to drive you down to the harbour and have a look at the sea and the fountain in the marketplace, and then off to the Esplanade to look at the statue of Runeberg.’

The pals went dashing off to Reynard and told him their plan for travel.

‘Mjuh,’ said the fox, smoothing his whiskers thoughtfully. ‘Very long way it is, petrol’s expensive, and could be my licence’s not quite legal.’

The fox was uneasy about leaving the forest paths for the main road, since a few visits to hen runs were weighing on his conscience, and he was afraid they might get him into bother. But when the others had half pestered him to death and said they’d pay him handsom eely, the love of money brought him round, and he promised to take them. They decided they’d go the next day, and then they all went their own ways.

At dawn the next day the sun was shining particularly beautifully. The two bunnies had put together a big bundle of supplies for the journey, but Samuel had breakfasted so well he thought he’d be all right the whole way. The hares sat at the back, but Samuel hopped onto the tip of the radiator, as there’d be the best view from there. Reynard started the engine, tooted his horn, and they were off.

In a flash they were out of the forest paths and onto the highway and then they began to press on to Helsinki. The villages dropped behind them, the houses went by like the wind, and a lot of hens were in danger of being run over.

Not many hours went by before the travellers were whizzing in through the old customs gatehouse of Töölö. First they did a quick tour of the town, and then Reynard drove the car to the market place.

It happened to be Sunday and the market place was empty, but anyway there were lots of new and wonderful sights for the forest folk to see. For the first time they were looking at the sea glittering in the sunlight, the ships in the harbour, and white terns and seagulls sporting about over the water.

Then Reynard drove to the Esplanade and stopped near the statue of Runeberg. The travellers got out to stretch their legs and have a closer look at the statue.

‘Look at those lovely flowers growing over there!’ Crosslip said, pointing admiringly at the flower beds round the statue.

‘I bet they smell lovely,’ Bobtail cried, going closer.

‘And taste jolly good too,’ Crosslip said, unable to stop himself picking a tulip.

‘Hey, you chaps’ Samuel warned.’You mustn’t touch the flowers!’ But the hares were already into the beds, smacking their lips over the tulips.

But immediately something terrible happened. A huge policeman came running up, waving his arms and shouting:

‘What do you think you’re doing, you devils, spoiling the flowers! I’ll show you! Off to the clink, the two of you!’

The forest folk got a bad scare and all took to their paws. Samuel hopped onto Runeberg’s shoulder and then off to a lime tree. Reynard hid under his car. But the hares began leaping along the Esplanade.

It so happened that just now was the time for the annual spring races. The Helsinki Marathon was on. A long line of runners were bashing down the street, and the hares happened to find themselves just in the lead. They thought a whole gang were after them in major force. They speeded up till their ears lay flat on their fur. Now and again they took a look back but went bounding on, because there they were, the pursuers, still obstinately at their heels.

But finally, when their hearts were just about to burst, the hares arrived at Töölö. That was where the race ended, and the hares st ared wide-eyed when the crowd near the finishing post welcomed them with joy.

‘Bunnies, bunnies, bunnies! Hip hip hurray,’ cheered the crowd.

Crosslip and Bobtail realised they’d done a deed of prowess: they’d won the Helsinki Marathon.

The Judge who gave the prizes was just beginning his speech when Samuel Squirrel arrived. Samuel had in fact leaped along the Esplanade from lime tree to lime tree, and then climbed onto a roof and leaped from roof to roof. In this way he’d arrived at the finishing post almost at the same time as the hares.

Crosslip and Bobtail were rewarded with a big box of biscuits and rusks, and Samuel was awarded a bag of nut chocolates.

Finally Reynard, having recovered from his panic, turned up. The travellers climbed into the car amid loud applause and set off out of all this hubbub, back to their dear forest homeland.

The monkey princess

Adalmiina’s life was not an easy one. Her parents decided to prepare her for her career as a princess when she was a little girl: when Adalmiina was three she was sent to ballet school, at four she started taking lute lessons and at five she went on a course in magic-mirror gazing.

When Adalmiina turned six, she received a giant suitcase full of princess clothes and shoes.

‘Put them on, darling, we want to see you in all your lovely beauty!’ her mother sparkled, waving a muslin veil.

‘I want to go to the jungle!’ Adalmiina demanded. ‘Without any clothes!’

‘Will we have to force you to dress in all your glory?’ her parents snapped.

‘You’ll have to catch me first!’ Adalmiina announced, running into the garden.

In the middle of the garden grew a spreading old oak. Adalmiina climbed into its branches. She jumped from branch to branch, sat down, swung her legs. When her exhausted parents dragged themselves under the tree with her heavy suitcase, Adalmiina swooped down to swing directly above their crowned heads.

‘Your arms will stretch like a monkey’s,’ her mummy sobbed.

‘We’ll sell you to a circus,’ her daddy threatened.

‘I can’t wait,’ Adalmiina laughed, hanging head down from a branch, like a bat.

‘This is the end of your princessing. No decent prince is going to let a monkey like you into his castle. We can get rid of all your fine dresses and your lute and ballet studies,’ her parents lamented.

‘And the mirror course,’ Adalmiina reminded them. ‘And I’m allowed to climb trees.’

Her parents had to admit that Adalmiina made a much better monkey than she did a princess. And because they really cared about her, they set the grand suitcase under the tree as padding so that Adalmiina would not hurt herself if she accidentally fell or a branch were to break beneath her.

You have to take good care not only of princesses and children, but also little monkeys.

Pirate Mimmi

Mimmi’s parents were building a palace. They thought only about gates and towers, and not at all about Mimmi. So Mimmi escaped with the first people who happened to wander past her future family castle. Mum was busy decorating the kitchen while Dad was just setting up the family crest in the courtyard, so neither of them even tried to stop their daughter.

The passers-by were pirates. They gave Mimmi an eye-patch, a tricorn hat and a sword and took her with them to sail the seas.

Mimmi liked the pirate life; it was fun. It was exciting to swish her sword and roar like a lion, although sometimes you also had to loot a merchant galleon. Treasure, and counting treasure, soon got boring. But one day, in the hold of a captured ship, they found a chest which did not contain gold or crown jewels – curled up inside the small treasure chest was a little weeping mermaid.

‘How dreadful!’ exclaimed Mimmi, quickly freeing the mermaid.

She was so weak and dried-out that Mimmi had to take her to the pirate ship to recover. The mermaid sat in the washbasin, ate empowering pearls and played draughts with Mimmi with gold and silver coins. The girls became inseparable friends. When it was time for the mermaid to return to the sea, both of them became very sad.

Luckily the pirate captain found on the horizon with his telescope a desert island and gave it to the girls as a present. The pirates built a cabin there, standing half in the water and half on dry land, so that the two friends could live under the same roof.

Mimmi and the mermaid live there still. They fish, eat coconuts and pineapple and play with the monkeys. And when the pirates come to visit, all of them dance on the beach, roaring for joy like lions and the mermaid splashes in her washbasin.

The Child Repair Shop

Sulo was not a very popular child. He did not get the main part in the school play. He did not win a single competition. And worst of all: he wasn’t always cheerful and good-humoured. It annoyed his parents, for they were perfect.

One day Sulo refused to smile and visitors and to perform the piece his mother Lempi had composed, I Am the Best. Instead, Sulo hid under the bed.

His parents dragged him into their fine car and drove to the Perfection Factory.

‘A faulty part for exchange.’ Sulo’s dad, Valio, lifted him onto the counter.

The assistant wrinkled his eyebrows:

‘This child’s warranty period is over. Take him to the Central Child Repair Shop.’

There was a queue at the Child Repair Shop. The reception clerk handed Sulo’s parents a catalogue, GREAT NEW FEATURES FOR YOUR CHILDREN and sat them down in a waiting room with a view straight into the repair shop.

The repairers unscrewed the children’s imperfect parts and replaced them with football feet, virtuoso fingers and angel-faces. Sulo’s parents followed this happily, wondering whether they should get Sulo wings or an engine, or perhaps both.

Sulo was appalled; he did not want to be a super-child. He wanted to go away, but instead he turned into a stick.

‘Wake up!’ Someone or something nudged him. It was hard to say who or what was speaking, because it changed all the time.

‘I’m Maryam, I’m running away from an operation to remove my chameleonism. Let’s get out of here. Pretend to be as perfect as you can and follow me.’

Sulo took a deep breath and marched after the chameleon girl out of the Child Repair Centre, as brashly as a peacock superman. But just round the corner Sulo was his own imperfect self again: he tripped on Maryam’s heels at the bus stop. The girl smiled broadly and Sulo felt nervous, as he’d never travelled by bus before.

Iii and Rororo

The dinodonosaur Rororo was sleeping like a log in his warm cave. At least, until someone began to lick his snout.

‘Hey! I’m not food! I am the great fiery dinodonosaur!’ Rororo tried to shake the creature off, but it just giggled and bit him with its small, sharp teeth:

‘You sausage! Me Iii!’

Rororo was so badly startled that the strange creature dropped off his snout. Was this the frightening dinosaur told of in the dinodonosaurs’ old tales?

‘Are you a piranhosaur?’ Rororo was shaking with fright.

‘Me Iii,’ Iii declared stubbornly. ‘Me hungry. Me cold.’

Rororo sighed with relief. Of course Iii was hungry, otherwise it wouldn’t have even tried to eat the great fiery dinodonosaur! And it must be cold, it was completely naked and furless! Rororo gave Iii some grass and a winter overall and asked:

‘Where do you live?’

‘Here. Me sleep,’ Iii announced, making a nest in Rororo’s bed.

‘That’s my bed! My home!’ Rororo was angry. ‘Get out, you ungrateful marauder!’

Iii took off the overalls Rororo had lent it and plodded quietly out of the cave.

Nevertheless, Rororo had a slightly bad conscience. So bad that he didn’t even feel like playing.

Rororo went out for a walk. Iii was sitting outside the cave. When Rororo returned home, Iii was still sitting there. When Rororo went for a wee in the bushes at night, Iii was still sitting in the same place.

‘Why don’t you go home?’ Rororo wondered.

Iii’s mouth widened into a broad grin.

‘Home, home!’ it hollered, bouncing into the cave.

‘OK. You can live here with me,’ Rororo relented. ‘But you don’t eat me, is that clear?’

Iii nodded vigorously and soon fell asleep in Rororo’s bed. Rororo snorted and curled up around his new friend. Next day, Iii and Rororo gathered more hay, which they used to make the bed bigger, but at night they slept curled up together again.

Translated by Hildi Hawkins

The Pixon brothers don’t read books, they love the telly: story by Malin Kivelä, illustrations by Linda Bondestam (Bröderna Pixon och TV:ns hemtrevliga sken, ‘The Pixon brothers and the homely shimmer of the telly’)

Finnish picture books for children have long been reliable export goods around the world. In the last few years, a number of novels for children have come along in their wake: works by authors such as Timo Parvela and Siri Kolu have been translated into a good many languages.

Now young adult literature has also blazed a trail on to the international market – in what also seems to be almost a matter of precision timing with regard to the Frankfurt Book Fair 2014. Finnish publishers have been investing in their home-grown lists of children’s and young adult books ever since the turn of the millennium, and now the time has come to harvest the fruits of their long-term efforts.

Salla Simukka’s Lumikki (‘Snow White’, Tammi) trilogy made history even before its final instalment was published in Finland. In the space of six months, translation rights for the series had been sold to 37 countries in fiercely contested auctions – a completely unprecedented scenario for a Finnish author. The crowning moment in a triumphant year arrived in December 2013, when the Finnish Ministry of Education and Culture awarded Simukka the Finland Prize, which is granted each year in recognition of a significant artistic achievement or breakthrough.

The first volume in the Lumikki trilogy, Punainen kuin veri (‘As red as blood’), combines a traditional coming-of-age portrayal with a gripping thriller-style plot via the character of Lumikki Andersson, a traumatised school bullying victim. Salla Simukka has made innovative use of classic tales, currently popular in the international media landscape, in her narrative in a way that is capable of entertaining adult readers as well.

The first recipients of the Nordic Council’s brand-new prize for children’s and young people’s literature, worth €43,000, were Seita Vuorela and Jani Ikonen for their novel Karikko (‘The reef,’ WSOY, 2012). Like Salla Simukka’s trilogy, Vuorela and Ikonen’s novels show a conscious wish to appeal across artificially imposed boundaries between reader demographics. Both works specifically mention two target audiences on their back covers: young adults as well as adults.

Meanwhile, slight confusion arose among observers of the young adult book world when the nominations for the Finlandia Junior prize were announced: half of the nominated titles were not primarily children’s or young adult literature. Aapine (‘ABC’, Otava), a collection of poems with alphabet-based rhymes written by poet Heli Laaksonen in the south-western Finnish dialect, Marja Björk’s Poika (‘The boy’, Like), depicting the experiences of a transgender youth, and Vain pahaa unta (‘Just a bad dream’, Otava) by Aino & Ville Tietäväinen, about children’s nightmares, have all enjoyed more popularity among adults than children.

Even so, the attention paid to children’s and young adult books in the media has become more random and patchy. Traditional visits by authors – ‘travelling preachers’ – to promote books at various educational events and libraries, nurseries and schools have taken on greater importance in spreading the word about the wide variety on offer.

Finnish children’s and young adult writing has its finger on the pulse of the modern world even more firmly than before, providing keen-eyed reflections of today’s society. Fathers with busy careers feature in Isä vaihtaa vapaalle (‘Dad takes time off’, WSOY), a picture book by Jukka Laajarinne and Timo Mänttäri, as well as Meidän isä on hammaspeikko (‘Our Dad is the Tooth Troll’, Otava), the debut work by journalist Saska Saarikoski, who is the son of the well-known poet and translator Pentti Saarikoski. In each of these books, a father is willing to make compromises for the sake of the well-being of his family as a whole. Children’s books do indeed still promote ideals: by and large, not many fathers with young children make such sacrifices on behalf of their families in real life.

On the other hand, two works by Kreetta Onkeli – her children’s novel Poika joka menetti muistinsa (‘The boy who lost his memory,’ Otava) and Selityspakki (‘The answer kit’, Otava), a collection of little stories and explanations – ensure that kids also have access to no-nonsense information about the real world and contemporary society. Onkeli does not sugar-coat issues such as exhausted parents, social inequality and the effects of social exclusion.

Finnish educators monitored the results of the latest PISA survey carried out in OECD nations with concern. Finnish pupils’ previous world-beating performance was hanging in the balance. The largest Finnish publishers have dramatically reduced their output of children’s books for beginning readers: a very short-sighted strategy.

Translated by Ruth Urbom

Links to the reviews

Ville Hytönen & Matti Pikkujämsä:
Hipinäaasi, apinahiisi 

[Donkeymonkey]

Read the review

Riitta Jalonen & Kristiina Louhi:
Aatos ja Sofian meri 

[Aatos and Sofia’s sea]

Read the review

Juba:
Minerva. Alajuoksun kelluva pullukka
[Minerva. The floating dumpling of the Lower Reaches]

Read the review

Riina Katajavuori & Salla Savolainen:
Pentti ja kitara
[Pentti and the guitar]

Read the review

Malin Kivelä & Linda Bondestam:
Bröderna Pixon och TV:ns hemtrevliga sken
[The Pixon brothers and the homely shimmer of the telly]

Read the review

Jukka Laajarinne & Timo Mänttäri:
Isä vaihtaa vapaalle 

[Dad takes time off]

Read the review

Laura Lähteenmäki:
Iskelmiä
[Hits]

Read the review

Kreetta Onkeli:
Poika joka menetti muistinsa
[The boy who lost his memory]

Read the review

Alexandra Salmela:
Kirahviäiti ja muita hölmöjä aikuisia

[Giraffe mummy and other silly adults]

Read the review

Katri Tapola & Karoliina Pertamo:
Toivon talvi

[Toivo’s winter]

Read the review

A giant meets the bunnies: a new story by Esko-Pekka Tiitinen, illustrated by Nikolai Tiitinen

Fantasy novels and dystopias feature in the new Finnish fiction for young readers; popular children’s books are recycled – stories and illustrations are adapted to new media and for new age groups. Päivi Heikkilä-Halttunen takes a look at new books for young readers published in 2012

All new mothers in Finland receive a ‘maternity package’ from the state containing items for the baby (including bedding, clothing and various childcare products) intended to give each baby a good start in life. This tradition, which started in 1938, is believed to be the only such programme in the world.

Each package also contains the baby’s first book, traditionally a sturdy board book by a Finnish author. The past few years have seen more original board books published in Finland than ever before: they are doing well in competition alongside books translated from other languages. Board books for babies have become a focus for Finnish illustrators and graphic artists. These books, with their simple visual language, have taken on a retro look.

History was made with the Finlandia Junior award, when for the first time the prestigious prize was given to a picture book originally written in Finland-Swedish: Det vindunderliga ägget (‘A most extraordinary egg’, Schildts & Söderströms) by Christel Rönns. The award can also be seen as an acknowledgement of the brave, experimental Finland-Swedish children’s picture books that are being published these days. Finnish-language picture books, on the other hand, are still crying out for more figures to shake up traditional practices.

Novels for beginning readers often carry an indication of the publisher’s recommended age range on the front cover. This has led to confusion among young readers as well as library staff who recommend books to readers. The first decade of the 21st century was a time of upheaval in Finnish reading culture, with diagnoses of various reading disorders, more entertainment options competing for children’s attention and the increase in the number of children from immigrant backgrounds all putting new demands on children’s literature. Some boys aged 10 or over may still prefer short, pithy stories, but if those books carry a notice saying they are intended for 6- to 9-year-olds, boys older than that will refuse to touch them, even though they may well still be of interest otherwise (e.g. Ansu Kivekäs: Ykkösjätkät, ‘The No. 1 lads’, Tammi).

The Lukuinto (‘Joy of reading’) project is a three-year programme launched in the autumn of 2012 by Finland’s Ministry of Education and Culture aimed at improving the reading and writing skills of children aged 6 to 16 and promoting reading for pleasure. The aims of the project include improving cooperation between schools and libraries by establishing operating models that develop reading and writing skills and promote a positive reading culture.

A number of writers already known as authors of books for adults made their first forays into children’s literature in the past year. Some of these names are Essi Kummu (author of Puhelias Elias, ‘Talkative Elias’, illustrated by Marika Maijala), Jarkko Tontti (author of children’s fantasy title Vedeeran taru,‘Vedeera’s tale’, Otava) and Juhani Känkänen (author of Hyvää huomenta, Apo Apponen!, ‘Good morning, Apo Apponen!’, Teos). Tontti’s book is a fresh addition to the fantasy genre, while Känkänen gives his picture book a comic book-style narrative.

Sci-fi/fantasy writing now appears to be taking over from realism in Finnish young adult literature. A number of authors who previously favoured realism (Salla Simukka, Laura Lähteenmäki, Anne Leinonen & Eija Lappalainen) have now turned their attention to dystopias, though the themes of independence and growth are still present in their new works. Supernatural romances with vampires and trolls are also making their presence felt in Finnish literature.

The timescale for book publishing is becoming even more squeezed wherever things can be speeded up. Salla Simukka’s dystopian novels Viimeiset (The last ones’, Tammi) and Jäljellä (‘Left behind’, Tammi) were published just a few months apart. Smaller intervals between publication dates are becoming more common with picture-book series as well.

Familiar heroes from children’s books are also conquering new age groups and media channels. The popular Heinähattu ja Vilttitossu (‘Hayhat and Fluffshoe’, illustrated by Markus Majaluoma, Tammi) series of children’s novels by the sisters Sinikka and Tiina Nopola has now been relaunched for picture-book readers: the idyllic village setting has been designed by Salla Savolainen. Timo Parvela’s novel Ella ja Äf Yksi (‘Ella and F One’, Tammi), part of his Ella series set in a primary school, reached the silver screen last year in a film version directed by Taneli Mustonen.

There is no sign of a downturn in the number of titles published. Publishers are focusing on fewer books in their advertising and marketing efforts, preferring to concentrate on guaranteed sales successes. The ranges stocked by bookstore chains are becoming more limited, and less space is devoted to reviews of literature for children and young adults in the media. Some young adult authors have already started making their own book trailer videos and marketing their books themselves in a variety of ways, as they can no longer count on their publishers to do it for them.

Translated by Ruth Urbom

Links to the reviews:

Siiri Enoranta:
Painajaisten lintukoto
[Sweet haven of nightmares]

Read the review

Magdalena Hai:
Kerjäläisprinsessa
[The Beggar Princess]

Read the review

Laura Lähteenmäki:
North End: Niskaan putoava taivas
[North End: Falling Sky]

Read the review

Katarina von Numers-Ekman:
Singer

Read the review

Timo Parvela:
Maukka, Väykkä ja Karhu Murhinen
[Meowser, Barker and Killington Bear]

Read the review

Sanna Pelliccioni:
Onni-poika saa uuden ystävän
[Onni gets a new friend]

Read the review

Sari Peltoniemi:
Gattonautti ja muita arkisatuja
[The cattonaut and other everyday tales]

Read the review

Christel Rönns:
Det vidunderliga ägget
[A most extraordinary egg]

Read the review

Mila Teräs & Karoliina Pertamo:
Elli ja tuttisuu
[Elli and the dummy]

Read the review

Esko-Pekka Tiitinen & Nikolai Tiitinen:
Jätti ja jänöset
[The giant and the bunnies]

Read the review

Seita Vuorela:
Karikko
[The reef]

Read the review

Lizard

The air rippled above the pile of stones. The lizard twitched her hip and took up an s-shaped pose like an ordinary photo model. After a moment she changed her left side to a convex curve. The movement was quick and graceful; the lizard’s tail swished through a broad arc so quickly you could hardly see it. Her thin, blistery skin pressed against the surface of the stone. The lizard felt the rough, raised patterns through the thin skin of her belly. She felt unpleasant, but otherwise the place was good, and the lizard did not have the energy to look for a better one. She looked through her eyelashes at the fissured sky and saw the golden disc shining at the centre of the dome. She was happy. Everything in her life was good, the weather was pleasantly dry, the temperature exactly suitable.

The lizard rummaged in her string bag and found a pair of sunglasses. Through the glasses the sand looked dark brown and the trees lush and damp. The lizard took out her sun-cream and began to rub her skin with it. She smoothed the cream lazily, with light, circular movements and thought as she smoothed that her light complexion was delicate. She was thin-skinned, more sensitive than many of her friends, and of the lizards hers was the clearest lizard’s skin. She blushed with pleasure as she thought about herself, her round-kneed legs, her pretty nails, her tail. She slit her eyes and saw in the sky a black dot drawing a great figure of eight on the blue surface. Satisfied, the lizard adjusted her position. Then she changed her right side to a convex curve and sank into the white light. She no longer thought of anything.

And then came the hawk! It flew like an arrow over the pile of stones, falling straight from the sky, a feathered missile. It was a beak and a claw. A hawk’s shriek. A fluttering of wings. Then it was gone.

And the lizard!

Only her sunglasses, her towel and her string bag were left on the stone. The other lizards’ weeping and lamentations were already to be heard from a crevice in the rock. Someone had seen the lizard’s tail rising into the heights. There she now flew, a lizard without wings. The lizards sang a dirge about a hawk’s claws, how beautiful it is to die by their blades, how lovely it is to fly, how sublime a fate to be the prey of a hawk.

Red flowed on the stone, fresh lizard blood.

The blood smelt sweet and beckoned carrion flies.

Soon a green cloud with a shining shell buzzed over the stone. The flies stopped at the pool of blood and patted she with their flat fly snouts, sucking.

At that very moment the lizard crawled out from the hole in the stone and retrieved her string bag and towel. Blood flowed from her behind. Shreds of skin hung round red flesh. That looked awful, but she smiled broadly in the direction of the other lizards. Her whole tail had been ripped off.

‘It’s working again!’ the lizard said, showing her bloody behind.

‘It really is!’ shouted the lizards. They had stopped singing.

The lizard rummaged in her bag for a mirror and used it to examine her backside. The shreds of skin would soon heal. The bloody backside was the most sensitive of all; there was no skin there at all. Now she was no longer merely the most thin-skinned of the lizards, she was actually skinless, raw. Although the site of her tail was tender and hurt, the lizard was delighted. This was exactly what she had been aiming for, a perfect performance, swift and exact. She knew she was skilful.

The other lizards crowded round offering their congratulations. In her speed, her surprising strength and the grace of her movements this lizard was insuperable.

At the point where the tail had broken off the bloody surface quivered as the lizard moved. Only a few little red drops were still falling on to the stone, and the flies hurried to devour them like a musical, glittering cloud.

‘A perfect day,’ the lizard said.

‘A perfect performance,’ the other lizards said.

‘It’ll be another couple of days,’ the lizard said.

‘A week,’ the lizards said.

‘Then I shall do it again,’ the lizard said.

And the lizard lay down with her belly against the surface of the stone, spread her legs in all directions and listened to the quiet aching of the site of her tail. She was enjoying herself. The lizard turned her left side to a convex curve and recalled that among the elements of the performance’s climax had been the sickening, wild smell of the hawk’s belly-feathers. The smell of carrion and death. And blood.

And perhaps the sweet smell of a new tail.

 *

Sometimes fear and loss have

           a strange, stimulating enchantment.

Cheetah

The cheetah looked in the mirror. He had oiled his body carefully, the muscles of his limbs moved beneath his spotted skin and his strong shoulder blades protruded from his back like wings. His hips were narrow. The cheetah pulled on a sprinter’s tight shorts, spun round in front of the mirror again and tried to see himself from behind: how his tight buttocks quivered, how he could control every tiny muscle of his thighs.

The cheetah had shaped his body dedicatedly and, muscle by muscle, built up his body. He had concentrated particularly on developing strength and speed. Now he knew he was the fastest on the savannah.

‘I am the fastest,’ said the cheetah to his reflection.

‘I am the fastest,; said the cheetah’s reflection.

The big cat’s tail curled in the air. The dense spots of his coat coalesced, in his tail, into thick rings, which the cheetah particularly liked.

‘I have the longest tail,’ said the cheetah to his reflection.

‘I have the longest tail,’ said his reflection.

And because the cheetah was the fastest and most handsome, he had begun to hunt by day as well as by night. Thus everyone who wished to could see the cheetah’s astonishing hips and his firm muscles. For that reason the cheetah liked most of all the gently sloping and undulating savannah and its short grass. There he found himelf a termite mound, a stump or a fallen tree on which he sat down. Everyone could see the cheetah and the cheetah could see every pretty gazelle that passed by, if he wanted to look.

Gazelles are the best meat,’ said the cheetah to his reflection.

‘Gazelles are the best meat,’ said his reflection.

The cheetah was not interested in antelopes, guinea fowl, gnus or zebras, although he sometimes hunted even them, if nothing better was on offer. He was interested in gazelles. Their lyre-shaped horns aroused a musical feeling in the cheetah; as if the whole herd were playing the same composition. The gazelles’ white bellies stimulated the cheetah’s mind and the dark stripe on their sides made the big cat tremble. The mere thought of a gazelle made the saliva froth beneath his tongue.

‘The best and the fastest,’ said the cheetah to his reflection.

‘The best and the fastest,’ said his reflection.

For an easy prey was not enough for the cheetah. He chose the fastest, and the fastest was the gazelle. The gazelle was a cautious animal, but fearless nonetheless. He was as if made for running and he sped across the plains as light as wind across a meadow. The herd of gazelle ran boisterously to and fro trying to put a suitable distance between he and the predator that surveyed it from on high. Every gazelle believed that the herd’s light dancing improved the savannah’s atmosphere. And he was indeed true: the pop of horns and ankles also refreshed the cheetah’s mind. He loved the gazelles’ beauty. The creature was, in the cheetah’s opinion, just the right size, and it could be approached without being noticed.

‘I shall take the one I choose,’ said the cheetah, stretching languidly.

‘I shall take the one I choose,’ said the cheetah’s reflection.

When he was hunting, the cheetah crept. He hid in the grass and approached his prey carefully. His heart beat frenziedly as he crept through the short grass. His muscles tautened, his eyes stared steadily at his lightly dancing prey. With his paw he carefully pushed aside the grass, his tail curled and shook with excitement. And then, one-two! The cheetah leaped into the air, with a couple of bounds his speed increased giddily, the herd fled, but the prey ran awkwardly, and the cheetah was constantly gaining on it. The gazelle was fast, but the cheetah was faster. He was a practiced and extremely effective hunter.

The cheetah was a sprinter. He never ran long distances.

‘I love beauty,’ said the cheetah to his reflection.

‘I love beauty,’ said the cheetah’s reflection.

The cheetah looked in the mirror once again. For a moment it seemed as if he was his reflection’s reflection.

 *

Sometimes it’s worth running.

Translated by Hildi Hawkins

Extracts from the children’s book Zoo – eläimellinen tarina (‘Zoo – a bestial story’, WSOY, 2009, illustrated by Pertti Jarla)

The place: A zoo, once the property of the city, now privatised and accountable to corporate stockholders

The characters: The animals of the zoo, in particular Gandhi, a Sumatran tiger (false-teeth, poor vision, pacifist), Che, a male mandrill baboon (militant), and Mother Teresa, a hammer-headed bat (elderly); the zookeeper Sihvonen (stands up for the animals, recently fired); the new zoo director (whose main goal is to maximise profits); the shareholders’ committee (awaiting their earnings)

The action: after a demonstration in which all the animals played dead, the animals are staging a revolution to demand that Sihvonen be reinstated

The animals crowded into the foyer. The hallway was full of every kind of creature, with all of their skin, fur and feathers steaming in the warm indoor air. Che stood at the top of the the stairs, looked down at his troops, and gave the order in mime for everybody to be quiet.

‘Reconnaissance?’ he said, his voice subdued.

‘Ready!’ the leaf-tailed geckos announced.

‘Head in!’ Che commanded.

Silent as shadows, the lizards slipped under the door into the assembly hall, scattered, and climbed over the walls and ceiling, to get an impression of the overall tactical situation. A moment later they returned to the foyer and the group leader gave his report:

‘There are twenty of them – unarmed, by the looks of it.’

‘Roger!’ said Che. ‘Are the air divisions ready?’

The horned owl saluted with one wing.

‘Ready, comandante!’

‘Panzer division?’

‘Ready!’ the elephant said, and waved his lopsided ears to confirm (his mother was an African, his father an Indian elephant). The square-lipped rhinoceros, the African buffalo, both polar bears, and all the other animals weighing at least half a ton, stood beside him. Out of camaraderie, they had let the pygmy hippopotamus into the panzer division, too, although technically he was considerably underweight.

‘Good,’ Che said. ‘We’ll attack in pincer formation. You all know what you have to do. Hasta la victoria siempre – to battle, comrades!’

‘For the glory of God,’ Mother Teresa whispered.

‘And without bloodshed!’ Gandhi reminded them.

The owl and the other birds flew out and surrounded the building. The air forces had orders to assault the hall through the window, and Teresa was responsible for a special mission: to fly at the front of the formation and break the window with her hammer head.

Inside, the elephant listened intently, his larger ear pressed tightly against the door of the assembly hall. He listened and waited. And waited. And listened. The harvest mouse was so excited he got the hiccups. Che and the other animals looked at him disapprovingly, and the mouse had such a fright that his hiccups stopped. After several agonising seconds, the elephant finally heard the sound of breaking glass from inside the hall, and gave Che the signal.

‘Charge!’ Che commanded.

The elephant blew a fanfare and walked right through the closed door as if it were made of cardboard.

The entire infantry followed in a wave behind him – first the large animals, then the middle-sized ones, and finally the little ones. Meanwhile, birds of every size and colour flooded in the window, and both the air and ground divisions brayed, cackled, neighed, snarled, roared, bellowed, hissed, barked, howled, croaked, and grunted as loud as they could. The only thing missing was gunshots.

Chaos ensued. The director of the zoo and the shareholders were frozen in shock, unable to move, and stared in disbelief as the animals that had been lying dead as doornails in their cages just a moment before took over the hall.

Before any human had managed to make a move, Che yelled, ‘Dark forces – now!’

The alpaca, who had remained standing near the door according to plan, turned out the lights. It was completely dark. The humans and animals were suddenly blind and no one could take a step, let alone fight. No one, that is, except for the night animals, and the animals who didn’t need eyes.

Every able-bodied bug from the insect house swarmed over the shareholders in the dark and burrowed inside their clothes – six-legged, eight-legged, twelve and even thousand-legged creatures from every continent swarmed into their clothing, and night moths from every jungle buzzed around their ears.

The humans flailed around, yelled and screamed, hoping that they would wake up from this nightmare, and they were so overcome with horror that they didn’t notice the nimble little hands untying the silken knots around their necks and stealing their neckties away into the darkness.

‘Let there be light!’ Che commanded.

The lights came on again. Che stood at the conference table like a commander on the heights. Once his eyes had adjusted to the light, he reviewed the situation:

The entire operation had lasted only a few moments, and was in all respects a complete victory. The surprise attack had played out in an exemplary fashion, and not a drop of blood had been shed – no one had even stepped on a bug in the dark. The take-over couldn’t have been more successful. Just one thing left to do…

‘Where’s Sihvonen?’ Gandhi asked.

The director was still lying on the floor but had recuperated enough to be able to speak again.

‘I will not negotiate with terrorists! What do you want?’

‘Give us Sihvonen!’ Gandhi demanded.

‘Zookeeper Sihvonen has no further business here,’ the director said. ‘His contract was terminated!’

‘Terminated?’ Che said, then repeated slowly. “Ter-mi-na-ted?’

It was so quiet in the hall that you could have heard a sparrow’s feather drop. The shareholders still didn’t comprehend what exactly was happening. They struggled in vain to free their hands from their silk restraints.

It took a moment before the animals understood the full desperateness of the situation: They had just won a major battle without any casualties, they had taken the director and shareholders prisoner, but they were too late. It had all been a waste of time. Sihvonen had been terminated. Sweet victory had turned into bitter defeat, they had lost their only friend.

Everyone looked at Che, who was feverishly contemplating his next step.

‘What do we do now?’ Gandhi asked, lifting his eyebrows.

Che’s colour had completely drained away, both in front and behind, and he looked at the shareholders with a strange gleam in his eye.

‘You’ll pay for this!’ he said, his voice devoid of expression. He didn’t turn his lips inside out, or yell, or beat his chest. Revenge is a dish best served cold. The other monkeys had never seen him in this state of mind. They withdrew a couple of steps in fear.

The shareholders began to perceive that the moment had arrived when the enraged flock of animals would tear them to pieces. Che was about to let hell loose – but the order died in his throat. The director had escaped from his necktie bonds and stood up behind Che. Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed the mandrill by the throat and started to choke him.

‘Surrender!’ the director yelled. ‘Surrender, you… animals!’

Che hadn’t had much time before the battle to rehearse the smaller details of the attack, and the young four-fingered mongoose hadn’t understood that human’s hands should always be tied behind their backs. Che coughed and bent over, trying to free himself from the director’s grip, but he didn’t have the strength to do it. All he could manage to do was to plead with Gandhi to help him.

The tiger’s blood in old Gandhi’s veins started to boil. Some ancient remembered feeling came into his mind. He saw in flashes a tropical jungle, bygone days of hunting and brawling. And Gandhi followed his large cat instincts, opened his mouth wide, like a predator, let out a real roar, leapt across the hall, oblivious of his creaky hips, and clamped his jaws on the director – more precisely, on his rear end.

But just as he was shutting his mouth, a voice inside him told him to stop, and he left the bite off halfway. He held onto the director’s posterior but did no more than that. Che couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His eyes rolled and bulged out of his head.

‘Bite him!’ he gasped. ‘Bite him good!’

Gandhi’s stomach growled so loudly that everyone in the hall could hear it. The director’s flesh was so tempting in his mouth. It really did make him want to take a proper bite out of him. No, no, no. Gandhi remembered that violence makes animals human. He mustn’t give way to primitive aggression.

‘I can’t,’ he snarled. ‘I can’t do it.’

‘Bite him! For the sake of peace, if nothing else! Bite him!” Che’s voice was just a whisper now.

‘There is no road to peace, peace is the road,’ Gandhi said. He sighed and began to loosen his hold.

‘This circus is over!’ the director said, shaking the animals’ limp commander like a rag doll. ‘Get back in your cages immediately, or this monkey will die.’

The animals looked helplessly at each other, at Gandhi, at Che. What should they do? The most timid of them began to panic. A murmur went through the hall.

‘Perhaps in light of the current circumstances,’ said the owl. ‘we would do best to begin deliberations… That is to say, since Sihvonen is at this point is already terminated…’

‘Life is a struggle. Join the fight!’ said a delicate but decisive voice from above. Mother Teresa was fluttering defiantly, stretching her hammer head toward the director’s speaker’s stand. She had just woken up and hadn’t seen any of the battle. She thought the campaign had just begun.

Smack!

Mother Teresa collided with the chandelier that hung from the ceiling and fell toward the floor like a stone. The chandelier started to sway on its chain, and all eyes in the assembly hall followed it. Che, the director, and Gandhi, looked especially worried, because they were underneath it. After a tiny eternity, the chain broke, and the lamp plummeted downward.

It landed right on Gandhi’s large skull, which the tiger was still using to ponder the meaning of war and peace. Gandhi went out like a light, unaware that his jaw had closed under the weight of the chandelier and his dentures had sunk deep into the directors’ rear end like a hot knife through butter. He also didn’t notice that some sort of warm, sweet liquid had spurted into his mouth and hit his tastebuds.

The director let out a non-animal yell and let go of Che’s throat.

‘Thank God!’ Che said without thinking, immediately swallowing the words. It was a good thing Teresa was asleep again, and hadn’t heard him. The director screamed and tried to escape from Gandhi’s false teeth, which were still embedded in his caboose.

Luckily Gandhi’s head wasn’t just large and square, but also hard as a rock. Barely a few moments had passed before his large eyes opened again. They were still a bit crossed, though.

‘No violenth!’ he said. ‘No violenth unda any soocumstanthes!’ He was still a little dazed. His glasses had fallen on the floor. The elephant found them and set them back on his face.

‘Thankth,’ Gandhi said, but the world didn’t come into focus. The glasses were broken, there were just a few shards of thick glass left in the wire frames.

‘Whath in my mouf?” Gandhi mused. ‘It tathtes deliciouth.”

‘Merry Christmas everyone!’ a low voice suddenly said. Sihvonen had stepped through the broken-down doorway into the assembly hall. ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

‘Sihvonen!’ the director shouted. ‘It’s about time! Put these animals back in their cages immediately!’

‘Well, I don’t work here anymore, sir,’ Sihvonen said.

‘I was just kidding about that. Glad to have you back. Merry Christmas! I’ll give you a raise! Just get these animals out of here!’

The director took his hands from where they were holding onto his torn up backside and shredded pants and held them out in a gesture of reconciliation.

The colours had returned to Che’s face. He climbed back up on the table rubbing his throat, but before he could manage to announce the animals’ smashing victory, something strange happened to the elephant: Suddenly the large, grey animal fell on his side as if suffering from severe spasms. His lopsided ears flapped like rhubarb leaves in an autumn wind, his stomach churned and seethed, and his trunk lashed the floor like a fire hose that someone’s lost hold of. It looked like he was poisoned, or having an apoplectic stroke, or an epileptic fit. Or all three.

Sihvonen, the animals, the shareholders, and the director were aghast at the way he was thrashing about. Maybe he had swallowed something he shouldn’t have and choked on it, but no one was big enough to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on him to get the foreign object out of his windpipe. It was a long time before they realised that the spasms weren’t life-threatening – it was just a good, old-fashioned fit of laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’ Che asked with annoyance. ‘We’re kind of in the middle of something here! Could you be a little more serious?’

The elephant tried to calm down, but he couldn’t stop the laughter, which was bringing tears to his eyes. When he had finally collected himself a little, he trumpeted: ‘Look! Look!’ and started to laugh again, so hard that his animal friends were beginning to worry about him.

‘Look at what?’ Sihvonen asked.

The elephant pointed with his trunk at the director, whose pants were hanging in tatters around his ankles.

‘People laugh at my ears… ‘ the elephant yelled, his trunk in a twist.

‘So?’ said Gandhi.

‘… but look at what he uses to breathe with!’

Everyone looked. And when they realised what the elephant was talking about, they all burst out laughing – the animals, the shareholders, and Sihvonen, all at once and all together. And the laughter that burst out of them wasn’t any ordinary laughter, it was earthshaking laughter. The kind of laughter where your stomach starts to hurt but you still can’t stop laughing. They laughed and laughed and laughed until, after a long time, they were finally able to stop and catch their breath.

But because the elephant started to giggle again, quietly, the laughter got into everybody’s tummies again, and there was another attack of mirth. Everyone laughed until they hurt so much that they had to hold onto each other, both the people and the animals.

Everyone was laughing except for the director and Gandhi, who couldn’t see anything, and Mother Teresa, who had got quite a knock to the head.

The television and newspaper stories went around the world. ‘The Christmas Miracle at the Zoological Gardens’ was on everyone’s lips – the story of a zoo where all of the animals died mysteriously, and rose from the dead on the same day. The zoo was a tourist mecca now. Clubs and school field trips came by the busload, families with children formed long lines.

‘How is your memoir coming along?’ Sihvonen asked Che, who was sitting on the big boulder on monkey island, diligently tapping away at an old black typewriter.

‘Very well, thank you. It’s almost finished. I was thinking I would title it ‘The Silk War’, or ‘The Necktie Rebellion’. Which do you think is better, director?’

‘Just call me Sihvonen, like always,’ Sihvonen said. ‘It’s hard to decide. I think they both sound good.’

‘What happened to the old director, anyway?’ Che asked. ‘Was he terminated?’

‘Not at all,’ Sihvonen said, smiling. ‘He’s at an institution now.’

‘Ah! So he was sent to jail?’ Che asked, putting another piece of paper in the typewriter.

‘No. He’s the director of a nursing home now.’

Gandhi was lying spread out in his favourite spot, and around him romped all the little animal cubs and chicks and whelps who had been born at the zoo that spring. Gandhi realised that he had no right to keep his august life story to himself – he had a responsibility to share it with the next generation. So these days he had an afternoon meeting once a week for the young folks at the zoo. He was just coming to his favourite part of the story:

‘… and then I lifted my wounded comrade on my shoulders, threw a hand grenade into the enemy trench, and charged, with just one cartridge left.’ He paused for a moment and cleaned his new designer glasses.

‘That’s what it was like at the Battle of Stalingrad,’ he said in conclusion. ‘Many a good animal never returned.’

‘Last week he said it was at Waterloo!’ Sihvonen thought as he sidled over to the barn in rubber boots that were slightly too large for him. The dormouse had a tummy ache. He should get him some pretzels and soda.

Mother Teresa. Illustration: Pertti Jarla

Translated by Lola Rogers

A story from the children’s book Sorsa norsun räätälinä (‘The mallard as tailor to the elephant’, Otava, 2008; illustrated by Christel Rönns. Introduction by Päivi Heikkilä-Halttunen

Back in the days when mallard still had horns, earthworms, claws, and the bear had a long tail, a bear was trudging dejectedly along the road.

Up drove a fox in his van, studded tires crunching, for it was winter and freezing cold. The fox was coming from fishing and his van was bursting with fresh fish. When he saw the bear, the fox stopped, rolled down the window and called, ‘Why hi there, old honey snout! Where’re you coming from?’

‘I was playing cards at Badger’s. I lost all my money and now I’m starving,’ the bear replied.

‘Jump in. No need to suffer in the grip of this cold,’ the fox said.  The fox and the bear were good friends. However, the fox envied the bear, because Mr Honeypaws had a much longer, more handsome tail than the fox did. The bear clambered into the fox’s car and saw the enormous catch of fish.

‘Wherever did you get such an incredible amount of fish?’ the bear marvelled.

‘The lake. That’s where you get fish,’ the fox replied. ‘Last week I caught such a big pike that I made snow shovels out of its scales.’

‘I wish I knew how to fish,’ the bear sighed, his stomach growling with hunger. Right then the fox’s van blew a tire and the fan belt snapped.

‘If you get this thing fixed, I’ll teach you to fish,’ the fox promised.

The bear, who happened to be a car mechanic, fixed the problems in no time. ‘Come to our place at six tomorrow morning and we’ll go fishing together,’ the fox thanked him, and drove the bear right up to his door.

The next morning the bear clattered up the fox’s steps at five already. The fox peeked out the window of his bedroom, his eyes squinting.

‘You’ve got to be kidding. It’s just five in the morning and you’re waking me in the middle of my dreams,’ the fox yawned.

‘I thought I’d come early so as not to be late,’ the bear explained.

‘All right. Wait there. I’ll brush my teeth,’ the fox said, rubbing his bleary eyes. A moment later the fox strode into the yard. He had with him a shiny new ice fishing rod, an ice auger and a fishing stool.

‘How will I fish, since I have no rod and line?’ the bear asked with concern.

‘You don’t need a line. You have your own fishing gear on you,’ the fox answered.

‘That was a little over my head,’ the bear said, puzzled. ‘Where is it you think I have fishing gear?’

‘Peek behind you. There swings your fishing line,’ the fox enlightened him. The bear glanced at his long tail.

‘You want me to fish with my tail?’ the bear asked.

‘The tail’s the thing,’ the fox replied, smiling to himself.

They arrived at the lake. The air was bitter cold, and stars twinkled in the sky.

‘Looks like a great day for fishing,’ the fox remarked, stopping the van beside the dock.

‘How can you tell it’ll be a great day for fishing?’ the bear asked.

‘From the angle of your tail,’ grinned the fox.

‘But how will I fare without even any bait? You have the very latest and best gear,’ grumbled the bear.

‘You ask too many questions,’ growled the fox. ‘Real fishermen don’t ask, they act.’

The bear and the fox walked across the ice to the edge of the rushes. The fox took the auger and drilled a hole in the ice.

‘Stick your tail through the hole. The fish always bite here next to the rushes,’ the fox said.

The bear stuffed his tail through the hole and sat waiting for whatever would come next.

‘What should I do next?’ the bear inquired.

‘Nothing at all. Just sit and wait for fish to start coming,’ the fox replied from a short distance away where he was drilling a hole in the ice for himself.

The fox fed his fine ice fishing line into the hole, let out the line and began fishing.

‘We’ll see what Old Bruin has to say when his tail freezes tight to the ice hole,’ the fox snickered softly to himself.

‘Any bites?’ the fox called to the bear.

‘Not yet – but here comes one!’ the bear yelled. He pulled out his tail. From it dangled an enormous perch.

‘Got a perch!’ the bear announced. He detached the perch from his tail and put his tail back into the hole in the ice.

It wasn’t long before the bear jumped up again with a metre-long whopper clamped to his tail.

‘Got a pike, now!’ the bear chuckled. ‘Do you have many fish yet?’

‘Not a single one,’ the fox replied, and had barely got the words out before the bear was already whipping his tail out of the ice hole. This time a handsome pikeperch was fastened to it.

‘Got a pike-perch!’ the bear exulted.

The fox began to feel cross. He tossed away his fishing pole. He was fuming.

‘Don’t worry, dear brother. You have a tail, too. Try the same trick,’ the bear advised.

The fox threaded his tail into the hole in the ice and waited. The bear kept whisking forth fish, but the fox did not catch even a minnow.

‘I’m sitting here till I catch a fish!’ the fox snorted to himself.

A half hour passed. The bear had heaps of fish, the fox had not a one.

‘This is ridiculous. I’m going home to make some pea soup,’ the fox hissed.

He tried to pull his tail out of the ice hole, but it would not budge. His tail had frozen fast to the edge of the ice hole. The fox was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

‘Stop fishing and get over here on the double!’ the fox yelled to the bear.

The bear trudged over to the fox and saw that he was indeed in a predicament.

‘Now you are in a tight spot,’ the bear said, scratching his head.

‘I guess I know that much!’ the fox shrieked. ‘Don’t stand there gawking, do something! Call the fire brigade!’

The bear ran like lightning to the nearest house and called the fire brigade. It was not long before firemen raced to the beach in their red engine.

‘What’s the matter?’ the fire chief asked.

‘The tail,’ the bear answered. ‘The fox’s tail. It’s frozen fast.’

The firemen sprayed the ice hole with hot water and the fox was freed from his predicament.

The bear scooped all his fish into his enormous arms and trundled after the fox to the van.

‘Thank you, Fox, for teaching me how to fish. My heartfelt thanks,’ the bear smiled.

The fox said not a word. He was sulking. But the bear was in such grand spirits that as he clambered onto the van seat, he closed the door on his tail, still swinging on the outside. The tail snapped in two.

‘There went a good fishing line,’ said the bear.

And ever since that day, bears have had short stubby tails, and foxes are no longer envious of bears. On that same day, wild ducks lost their horns, earthworms their claws, and in Hungary a chicken emerged from an ostrich egg sporting a baseball cap and a tie.

Translated by Jill G. Timbers
(First published in Books from Finland 4/2008.)

There was a large van in the schoolyard with a thick cable winding its way from the van into the school. It was from the TV station, and the surprise was that they wanted to do a programme about our teacher, believe it or not.
The classroom was filled with lights, cameras, and adults.
‘Are you the weird teacher?’ a young man asked. He had a funny, shaggy beard and a t-shirt that said ‘errand boy’.
‘Not nearly as weird as your beard,’ our teacher answered.
‘Can we do a little piece about you?’ the errand boy asked.
‘Of course. A big one even. I’ve been expecting you, actually. Is it some educational programme?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘A substantive discussion programme, though?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘A documentary about our contemporary educators?’
‘Not quite.’

‘But you probably came to do an item about the fact that I’ve been chosen to represent the high level achieved by our nation’s educational elite?’
‘No. But we are from the news division.’
‘Well, then. That’s what I thought. I’m a news item,’ our teacher sighed contentedly.
‘We do the light pieces at the end of the news. Those funny little things just before the end of the broadcast,’ the errand boy said, and showed the photographer his marks. The lights came on and the camera started running, even though our teacher obviously was still mulling over what he’d just heard.
‘Have you ever considered the fact that teachers don’t have uniforms, even though priests, police officers, airline pilots, doctors, and even elves, do? According to a tip we received, there is a teacher at this idyllic little school who has developed his own recommendations for a teachers’ uniform.’
He put the microphone in front of our teacher. He stared at it for a moment, a bit bewildered.
‘The light piece at the end? Am I supposed to be some kind of funny thing at the end of the news?’ he asked.
‘Can you tell us a little about these uniforms? What’s the significance of these splotches, for instance?’ the errand boy asked, pointing to the splashes of paint on our teacher’s sleeve. He lifted his arm and stared at his sleeve as if he were seeing it for the first time.
‘These? These… are marks of rank,’ he began, speaking slowly at first, but quickly warming to his subject.
‘You earn the blue splotch the first time you take a field trip to the swimming hall and come back alive. The brown speck shows that you’ve eaten dilled meat with shredded carrots and raisins over a thousand times in the school cafeteria. This yellow smudge was awarded to me for my achievements as a veteran of the peacekeeping forces in the Recess Snowball Wars. The red streak with brown, splattery edges is for parents’ night, when I single-handedly averted a toilet paper fundraising campaign suggested by sixteen parents. The black dot with the indeterminate colour underneath was given to me out of sheer pity.’
‘And the green splotch?’
‘That came from a paintbrush during arts & crafts.’
‘Interesting.’
‘There’s also an Indian headdress that goes with it.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes. It’s like a hockey player’s gold helmet. It’s given temporarily to the teacher who has the most pupils and the most worn-out textbooks.’
‘Wow.’
‘And that’s not all.’
Our teacher looked quite enthusiastic now.
‘I think we’re out of time.’
‘You’re out of time when I say you’re out of time,’ he said, jerking the microphone back.
‘As I was saying, I also have plans for a school stock offering. Only teachers could get shares: one share for every student they teach. Whenever one of their old students becomes the head of a large company or makes their first million as an ice-hockey star, part of the student’s pay would be shared with their former teachers.’
‘Pretty wild idea,’ the errand boy said, and tried to wrench the microphone out of our teacher’s hands, but he held it tight. It looked for a minute like there might be a fight, but then our teacher gave him his troop-leader look, and he gave up and let go of it. Hee was very good at handling both dogs and newscasters.
‘I’ve also created a golden handshake just for teachers. At retirement, every teacher would receive their students’ weight in gold.’
‘That’s quite a lot, isn’t it?’ gasped the errand boy.
‘Children are valuable,’ our teacher said.
‘Have you finished now?’ the errand boy asked, almost timidly.
‘No. Everyone should have the right to have a favourite place, whether it’s rock, a stump, or oven a tuft of moss. Favourite places should be protected.’ He gave back the microphone.
‘I’ve finished now. What did you think?’
‘I don’t really know. This is supposed to be a light piece. That was kind of heavy.’
‘Yes, it was,’ the teacher answered. ‘But it feels much lighter now.’

We decorated the room for the foreign inspectors’ visit. Hanna cut flowers out of tissue paper. I glued cardboard leaves onto them. Tiina glued the flowers to the window when they were ready. Tuukka glued the teacher’s pointer, which had broken during a fencing match, back together. Samppa was crying because he had glued his index finger to the inside of his nose. Buster threatened to squirt glue to everyone’s nose, if he had to decorate something. Pate sat in his place like a good boy, because his trousers were glued to the chair.
The visit from the inspectors was making us pretty excited.
‘Just think, our teacher might get a promotion,’ Tiina sighed.
‘What does a teacher become when he gets a promotion?’ Hanna pondered.
‘Definitely something special,’ I assured them.
‘A special ed teacher,’ Tuukka said.
‘My dad got a promotion,’ Pate said. ‘Mom made him Couch-Potato Tsar.’
A tsar. We thought it would be a fine thing if our teacher became a tsar.
When the teacher got back from her test, we practised being civilised.
‘Tomorrow the foreign school inspectors are coming to watch me teach. We’re going to show them how the Finnish school system runs.’
We had no idea how the Finnish school system runs, but we thought it probably ran on batteries like with most other things.
‘The inspectors want to see an ordinary lesson, and that’s exactly what they’re going to see,’ he said.
Then we rehearsed for an ordinary lesson. Everyone thought it was very exciting, because none of us had ever seen one before.
First we practised polite greetings. The teacher went out of the room, and when he came back in, we all stood up. It was very civilised, and we did it perfectly. Except for Pate, of course, because his trousers were still glued to his chair. The teacher got Pate loose from his trousers, and then got the trousers loose from the chair. We were surprised to see that Pate’s underwear had cars on them. They’d always had rockets on them before.
‘Grandma bought them for me for my birthday,’ Pate explained. ‘My dad has the same kind.’
‘Stop jabbering and say Good morning,’ the teacher said when Pate had been put back into his trousers.
‘Good morning, Teacher,’ we answered.
‘Sit down,’ the teacher said.
‘Where?’ Samppa asked.
‘Don’t even try it. Besides, you should raise your hand if you have a question,’ the teacher instructed, and then Samppa started to cry.
‘Take your finger out of your nose,’ the teacher said. Samppa cried harder, because his finger was still firmly glued inside his nose.
When the teacher had dissolved the glue and got Samppa’s finger loose, he drew a circle on the blackboard.
‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘A giant duck-billed flying squirrel’s egg?’ Tuukka suggested. Tuukka usually knows everything, but this time he was wrong.
‘This is a circle. Get that into your heads,’ he said.
‘How?’ Pate asked.
‘Don’t even try it,’ the teacher warned him.
He showed us a map.
‘What is this?’ he asked, picking up his pointer and holding it, with the tip touching a red dot on top of a brown splotch.
‘I confess. I broke it,’ Tuukka said, but the teacher didn’t hear him.
‘This is Tokyo. Remember that.’
Of course we were surprised. None of us had known that the pointer’s name was Tokyo. And that wasn’t all. The teacher tapped the map with the pointer three more times and each time he said a different name: Berlin, London, and Paris.
‘You will know these names by heart, even in your sleep,’ he said.
That pointer had almost as many names as Pippi Longstocking.
Then he put the map away and put a picture of one of his dogs, Coy or Ote, in its place. We couldn’t tell which one it was, because they look just the same to us. The teacher said that it was a coyote, and that a civilised person should know the names of animals from other countries.
Finally he asked us to take out our reading books. Of course, our reading books were at home, because he had said that our brains should be our textbooks. We had those with us, of course, except for Pate, who said that he couldn’t find his anywhere that morning, and Samppa, who claimed that his brain had shrunk when his mother brainwashed him.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the teacher said.
We weren’t sure whether he was talking about the textbooks or Pate and Samppa’s brains.
‘We’ll be creative. At the end of the lesson we’ll recite a passage from the Kalevala for our guests. It’ll be the highlight of their visit. Little flaxen-haired children with bright eyes whittling off golden morsels from our national epic. The sight of it will elevate their minds like the flight of the lark and help them to understand the source from whence Finnish civilisation springs.’
We didn’t understand any of this, but the teacher’s eyes were glittering strangely as he looked at us.
‘What’s the Kalevala?’ Hanna asked.
The glitter fell from the teacher’s eyes as quickly as it had got into them. He sighed deeply and took a thick book from the shelf.
‘The Kalevala is a book. And we are now going to learn it by heart, from the beginning. Repeat after me:

‘I am driven by my longing,’
‘I am driven by my longing.’
‘And my understanding urges,’
‘And my understanding urges.’
‘That I should commence my singing,’
‘That I should commence my singing.’
‘And begin my recitation.’
‘And begin my recitation.’
‘I will sing the people’s legends,’
‘I will sing the people’s legends.’
‘I will bring the people wedgies.’
‘Pate, be quiet.’
‘Pate, be quiet.’
‘And the ballads of the nation.’
‘And the ballads of the nation.’
‘I’d sooner sing the people’s legends than the ballad of this classroom.’
‘Quiet, Buster.’
‘Quiet, Buster.’
‘Don’t repeat everything I say.’
‘Don’t repeat everything I say.’
‘Stop it.’
‘Stop it.’
‘Fine, repeat everything.’
‘Fine, repeat everything.’
‘Peterpiperpickedapeckofpickledpeppersifpeterpiperpickedapeckofpickledpeppershowmanypickled peppersdidpeterpiperpickhowmuchwoodwouldawoodchuckchuckifawoodchuckcouldchuckwood
hewouldchuckallthewoodthatawoodchuckcouldifawoodchuckcouldchuckwood,’ the teacher said, finishing his recitation and closing his book.
None of us repeated that. We all thought that the Kalevala was very interesting, but the ending was kind of complicated. And Samppa started to cry, because he couldn’t keep up. Buster, on the other hand, was threatening to bring everyone wedgies if he had to repeat one more thing.
‘And finally, the most important thing,’ the teacher said. He seemed a little out of breath.
‘Emergency signals.’
Then he taught us the emergency signals. There were three of them.
If he winked with his left eye, we were supposed to keep quiet and smile.
If he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger, we should shake our heads.
‘And this last one is the most important. This one should be used only when faced with a severe emergency.’
He clapped his hands.
‘When you hear this, run out of the room, and don’t look back. Understood?’
We understood. None of us would have thought that an ordinary lesson could be so complicated. I was sure that our guests would be surprised and our teacher would become a tsar.

There were four foreign inspectors. The fifth one was Finnish. The Japanese inspector had black hair. The German had big hands. The French inspector wore an elegant dress. The English one had big teeth.
‘Don’t let us disturb you. Just carry on as if we weren’t here,’ the Finnish inspector said.
‘Oh, my! I had completely forgotten that you were coming,’ our teacher said.
‘Just give an ordinary lesson.’
‘It will be quite ordinary. We haven’t rehearsed at all,’ our teacher assured him.
The headteacher came to listen to the lesson.
‘You didn’t have to come,’ our teacher said.
‘I want to know what the charges will be when they take us to court,’ the headteacher said.
‘You should be grateful. I’m bringing honour and fame to the school.’
‘There’s more than one kind of honour and fame,’ the headteacher said, and sat down with the rest of the group.
Our teacher nodded to the group and smiled. The Japanese inspector whispered something.
‘She would like to know if all of the teachers in Finland have a coat like yours,’ the Finnish inspector explained.
‘Not yet,’ our teacher answered.
Then everyone was ready. It was time to begin.
‘First a little geometry, because Finnish pupils are the best in the world when it comes to mathematics,’ the teacher explained, smiling, while the Finnish inspector translated for the guests.
The teacher drew a circle on the board. Unfortunately, his chalk broke and he got a little piece of it in his eye, so the circle became an oval that looked like a duck-billed flying squirrel’s egg with a hole on one side. It looked like a little chick had just emerged from it.
‘What is this?’ the teacher asked, blinking his left eye. We remembered, of course, that that was emergency signal number one, so we kept quiet and smiled.
‘Come on, now. You know this,’ he said, rubbing the corner of his eye and the bridge of his nose. Emergency signal number two. We shook our heads.
‘Just a little stage fright,’ he said to the inspectors, who were whispering among themselves.
He rolled down the map. Except it wasn’t the map, it was the picture of a coyote. He didn’t notice, though, because he had taken his glasses off. His eyes were watering a lot from the chalk dust.
‘What is this?’ he said, holding up the pointer in the direction of the coyote’s snout. Of course we knew that it was a pointer, and that it had many names, and we remembered all of them, because we were so civilised.
‘Tokyo,’ Hanna answered.
‘That’s right,’ the teacher said, and the visitors murmured.
‘And what is this?’ He moved the pointer toward the coyote’s back left paw.
‘Berlin,’ Tuukka said.
‘And this?’ the teacher said, aiming the pointer at the coyote’s rear end.
‘Paris,’ Hanna said.
‘Excellent.’
The visitors were speechless, especially the French one, who got up and left without saying a word. We were sure she was going to call France to tell them how civilised we were. The English inspector stayed put. He was laughing so hard that the tears came to his eyes. He seemed to be quite cheerful. The English are certainly very happy people. The headteacher, on the other hand, wasn’t laughing at all.
‘And finally, we would like to surprise you,’ our teacher said.
‘Haven’t we had enough surprises?’ the headteacher asked. But we knew that we hadn’t.
Our teacher gestured for us to stand up. We stood up.
‘We will now recite for you a fragment from our national epic,’ he said, very ceremoniously. And we recited:

‘I am driven by my longing,
And my understanding urges,
That I should commence my singing.
And begin my recitation.
I will sing the people’s legends.
I will bring the people wedgies.
Pate be quiet and the ballads of the nation.
I’d sooner sing the people’s legends.
than the ballad of this classroom.
Quiet, Buster.
Don’t repeat everything I say.
Stop it.
Fine, repeat everything.’

We couldn’t remember any more of it, because the ending was so hard. But we were proud that we knew so much of it.
‘I’ve never heard that version,’ the headteacher said.
‘It’s a new Finnish translation,’ our teacher answered.
The German visitor asked something and the Finnish inspector translated:
‘He wants to know if you’re sure that this is an ordinary lesson.’
‘Quite ordinary,’ our teacher assured him.
The English, German, and Japanese inspectors spoke vehemently among themselves for a moment.
‘They’re a little surprised,’ the Finnish inspector explained.
‘Why is that?’ our teacher asked.
‘They want to know how it is that Finns are such high achievers, when the lessons are just like the ones in their schools.’
Our teacher didn’t have an answer for that.
‘In any case, they’d like to thank you, because you’ve shown them that there is still hope in their own countries,’ the Finnish inspector continued.
The English inspector wanted to tell us something else. He wanted to make a little Thank you speech.
‘Let’s settle down and listen to what our visitors have to say,’ the head-teacher said, and clapped her hands together.
We ran out of the room, and we didn’t look back.

Translated by Lola Rogers

Illustrations: Markus Majaluoma

Quotations from the Kalevala:
Kalevala. The Land of the Heroes
Translated by W.F. Kirby (The Athlone Press, 1985)

Rhinoceros

The rhinoceros was late. She went blundering along a green tunnel she’d thrashed through the jungle. On her way, she plucked a leaf or two between her lips and could herself hear the thundering of her own feet. Snakes’ tails flashed away from the branches and apes bounded out of the rhino’s path, screaming. The rhino had booked an afternoon appointment and the sun had already passed the zenith.

When the rhinoceros finally arrived at the beautician’s, the cosmetologist had already prepared her mud bath. The rhino was able to throw herself straight in, and mud went splattering all round the wide hollow.

‘Do your very best!’ the rhinoceros said. ‘Try all the latest state-of-the-art stuff.’

The puny little cosmetologist hopped into the mudbath alongside her client and began scooping sludge onto the rhino’s neck. Her client scared her. The huge body weighed tons, and the creature’s weird heavy head seemed threatening and unreal. It was like a fairy-tale dragon’s head. The snout sported two large horns, but the cosmetologist made out two further swellings behind them that could develop into horns. On each side of the head there glittered a tiny bleary eye, unbelievably ugly.

‘I don’t believe this is going to work,’ the cosmetologist said, spreading energising eye-cream round the rhino’s wrinkly bags.

‘It’s got to work!’

The rhino leaped to her feet, raising her head and letting out such a piercing squeal the cosmetologist’s knees began to shake.

‘Well, perhaps it won’t help a lot,’ the cosmetologist added cautiously.

‘It jolly well will!’ the rhino said.

‘Well then, it will,’ the cosmetologist said.

The rhino fell onto her side and the cosmetologist began massaging depilatory cream into the skin. The rhino’s problem was thick skin. She thought all her problems derived from too-thick skin.

‘I’ll never get a chap,’ the rhino whined in a forlorn voice, drawing out each word.

‘Oh, someone’ll come your way,’ the cosmetologist said in a consolatory tone. She’d got the face pack ready and the rhino needed to lie still. ‘Most of us do find someone.’

‘I went walking through the National Park with that in mind. Not making a display of myself, you know, but in view all the same,’ the rhino said from under her face pack. ‘But guess what happened.’

‘What?’

‘A handsome rhinoceros was coming towards me, and when I rushed up to look, and gave a prod with my horn, it turned out to be a jeep.’

‘Quite a surprise,’ the cosmetologist said, trying to maintain a professional tone.

‘And then the next one,’ the rhino said. ‘Looked rather imposing, I must say. He was coming straight for me and I galloped up to him.’

‘Well?’

‘It had a loading platform.’

‘It was a car, then? A pick-up truck?’

‘Something of the sort,’ the rhino said wistfully. ‘But handsome it did look, anyway. See one like that, and you’re really turned on.’

‘Not a single proper chap?’ the cosmetologist sympathised.

‘Not one. One minibus.’

‘A minibus?’

‘And what a hullabaloo from there, as well!’ the rhino said. ‘One of these days someone’s going to take a pot-shot at me and hit me.’

The cosmetologist began to break the face pack, which had dried in the sun. The rhino’s case made her feel pity. The rhino wanted a chap, and that simple wish was leading her into all sorts of mix-ups.

‘Supposing you got some spectacles?’ the cosmetologist said.

‘Wouldn’t help,’ the rhino said. ‘And anyway, in my eyes, cars too are attractive.’

The cosmetologist had removed the body hairs and was beginning to rub a moisturising cream into the rhino’s skin. The skin was five centimetres thick in places, and the cosmetologist knew that no cream was going to make it supple.

‘I am a little too forthcoming, I know,’ the rhino said. ‘Possibly I might be giving them cold feet.’

‘Possibly,’ the cosmetologist said and skated along the rhino’s back with herbal cream on the soles of her feet.

Then she asked her client to turn her other side.

‘Feels nice,’ the rhino said sensuously and stretched her back legs.

The cosmetologist bent to examine the effects of her work. The depilation had achieved nothing. The rhino’s wrinkled skin seemed slacker than before. The mudbath had removed the parasites, but otherwise the skin was thick as ever. The rhino had a short neck, stiff legs and three weird toes. Her long upper lip gave her a sorrowful look. Next time they ought to try an astringent face-pack. Now it seemed as if the rhino’s whole face might dissolve into mud.

‘My brain’s so small,’ the rhino said feebly.

The cosmetologist couldn’t believe her ears. She looked at her client in astonishment. This was unusually candid speech.

‘Sorry?’

‘They’ve done some research, showing I’ve got a small brain,’ the rhino said.

‘Fortunately, the male has too,’ the cosmetologist said and made the rhino smile. She looked dreadful.

Seen from far
a machine can seem alive.

Kangaroo

‘Oho, what’s this then!’ the kangaroo mother said, holding a tiny item that was eyeless and earless and totally hairless. ‘Doubt whether this’ll live,’ she said. Then she dropped the little joey in her pocket.

‘Oho,’ said the pocketed joey, fumbling forward. ‘So this is what the world’s like. Smells good.’

And his paw happened on mother kangaroo’s big dug. Fancy that! The pouch wall had a tap flowing with warm milk. The joey sucked and sucked.

It was dark and warm there, in the pouch. It smelled of milk and mother kangaroo’s pouch-sweat. A more wonderful place no one could imagine! When he got hungry he only had to turn his head and there was this wonderful pimple. When you went to suck at it, warm milk flowed down your paws, and soon the joey started to feel dozy and crept to the bottom of the pocket to sleep. And while he slept his mother bounced along through the bush, snapping up leaves to eat, hopping and humming to herself, and curveting so comfily all the time that the joey slept cosily.

This was a jolly good life in the joey’s opinion. The sun gleamed through the pouch-skin, and sometimes the world looked fawn-coloured, and sometimes a glowing orange.

‘This is how I want to live my whole life,’ the joey said.

One day, nevertheless, he did look out.

My, how brilliant and bright it was in the world! His eyes watered like anything, he was so dazzled. Quickly his head went back inside the pouch.

‘Wow!’ he said and grabbed hold of his mother’s titty, sucking and sucking, and soon the milk was pacifying him and he went off to sleep again in his marsupial pouch.

But then a day came when the mother kangaroo took hold of the joey’s ears and he was forced to push his head out.
‘You’re big already,’ his mother said. She’d noticed that he’d grown whiskers.

‘How do you mean?’ the joey said, already guessing his mother had something bad in mind.

‘It’s time for you to hop out of my pocket,’ his mother said.

The joey felt round his comfortable pouch. It was a dark, warm and peaceful place, and there was an excellent milk-tap on the wall, so you got a stomach-full merely by turning your head.

‘I’m not leaving to go anywhere,’ the joey said. ‘I want to live here all my life.’

This was something the mother kangaroo had never come across before. She didn’t know what to do. She stood with her paws crossed over her chest and thought. The joey pushed his head out of the pouch.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he whispered.

‘It’s so nice just being with you,’ he murmured.

‘You’d be left all on your own if I jumped out of the pouch,’ he said and again began sucking the mother kangaroo’s friendly titty, which hung from the back wall of the pouch specially for him.

‘I can’t go on carrying you any more,’ his mother said.

‘Don’t carry me. Let’s just hang about here,’ the joey said.

The mother kangaroo came to a stop and from then on they stayed where they were. The joey lay about in the pouch and his mother plodded about carefully, just enough to get something to eat. She couldn’t be bothered to see the world any more. Nor did she hop about for fun.

A crow flew by and cawed:

‘You crazy kangaroo! Chuck that joey out of your pocket. As two, you can take much further trips. And youthful eyes see more!’

But the mother kangaroo lay under a bush and patted her huge pocket. A gigantic joey was sucking her breast in the warm, dark pouch. They thought life was fine just like that.

A person can live in a pocket
all their life long.

Chameleon

A new Director had come to the office.

‘Time for a makeover,’ the Director said and smiled broadly.

The chameleon smiled back. He was just running down the corridor and was exactly the same grey as the corridor wall’s concrete. The Director did see the smile, however.

‘This office is now in for a new development,’ the Director said and smiled.

‘Yes, overdue,’ the chameleon said, and his skin began to show stripes in line with the director’s pin-stripe suit.

‘The times require new measures.’

‘Work demands commitment,’ the Director said.

He looked energetic and his slimline leather briefcase efficiently sliced the air. The chameleon’s skin began to mimic the briefcase’s metallic colours, and the Director gave the chameleon an approving look.

‘Commitment, that’s it,’ the Director said and continued on his way without a glance back.

The chameleon stood in the corridor and sniffed the air. From the Fly Office’s kitchen a smell of coffee was wafting into the corridor. He decided he’d have a cup before hastening off to his desk.

The lizards were sitting in the kitchen having coffee and looked dissatisfied. They were discussing the new situation, but the talk stopped when the chameleon opened the door. There was a piece of snaketail on the cakedish, and an iguana passed it to the chameleon.

‘Thank you, but I only eat invertebrates,’ the chameleon said, not even glancing at the snaketail. Gradually he began turning orange like the tablecloth.

‘Everything’s going to pot,’ said a horned lizard and gave the newcomer a look. ‘Before long nothing we do will do.’

One of the chameleon’s eyes was looking east, the other west. The divergent gaze was confusing and began to disturb the horned lizard.

‘Do you agree?’ the lizard asked, checking up.

‘Oh definitely! We need no reorganisation here,’ the chameleon said, looking as angry and worried as the other lizards. He had a glow as orange as the tablecloth.

‘Time for a revolt,’ the horned lizard said.

Then, with one of his eyes, the chameleon saw the Director coming toward the kitchen. He concentrated himself and immediately his skin paled to a shade of grey. When the Director opened the door, he’d already developed a couple of pinstripes on his skin.

‘Down to work,’ the Director said, looking severe.

‘I was just off,’ the chameleon said smoothly.

He slipped off into the corridor while the others remained listening to the Director’s announcement of the new coffee and meal times, commitment, the new corporate spirit, and the Fly Office’s objectives for the year.

The chameleon settled down at his desk to lie in wait for insects. He immediately began toning in with the office colours; his thin skin started glowing green and brown and some orange spots formed on him. He got down to work, took up a correct posture on his office chair, grabbed the chair back with his tail and took tight hold of the chair legs with his forked toes. On one side of the desk sat a severe old iguana, and on the other a young trainee lizard. This little miss had dolled herself up nicely, and the chameleon absorbed some of the colour of her dress into his flank and gave her the glad eye. Both of the other two already had a pile of trapped insects in front of them. They’d been toiling at their desks all morning.

The chameleon’s eyes wandered to both sides. Then he saw a fly. He concentrated both his eyes on the victim and began to sway to and fro. He studied his prey from each side and now and then his eyes rested on the glass window that showed the Director’s office. Just as the Director came though his door the chameleon struck.

‘Splendid,’ the Director said. ‘Excellent shot.’

The chameleon showed him the fly he’d nabbed on his tongue.

‘Model yourself on this gentleman,’ the Director said. ‘Then things’ll go well.’

The chameleon smiled contentedly and in an instant turned as silver-grey as the Director’s tie. The old iguana looked cross, and the trainee missie was astonished the Director had taken no notice of the pile of flies she’d caught.

In the course of the day the chameleon did his best to fire off his tongue whenever the Director was walking by. He was praised for this several times, even though his whole catch was not particularly great. At the end of the day the insects were weighed and packed and sent for sale. The new Director was pleased.

The chameleon had had to change colour many times during the day, sometimes to suit the Director, sometimes his colleagues. He’d reproduced the office wall and the corridor; in the Fly Office Shop he’d turned as multicoloured as the shelves of canned food; and, working-out in the gym in the evening, he’d tried to make his skin shine like the skins of those sweating around him.

He arrived home absolutely fagged out. He felt as if he’d never manage to be a chameleon for one more day. Changing colour wore you out.

But when he woke the following morning, a sunray fell on the tip of his tail, and it turned as yellow as a sunlit branch. The chameleon couldn’t give up.

The secret of mutability is flexibility.

Shark

‘Sometimes I feel lonely, but mostly I enjoy my own company,’ the shark said. ‘I’ve been accustomed to it since I was a small fry.’

Tapping the answer into his communicator, the reporter muttered that he’d understood. The computer was an excellent gadget, a state-of-the-art, waterproof model, and the journalist was proud to have been entrusted with it by his paper. He was swimming alongside the shark in an underwater drawing-room and observing with astonishment the gold-framed reliefs of ancestors the shark had hanging on the walls.

‘What made you hang the pictures like that?’ he asked. ‘In the human way?’

‘Why not?’ the shark said coolly.

The reporter’s communicator performed a simultaneous translation of the conversation. In recent times the languages and modes of consciousness of the animals had increasingly been revealed to humans. Animals had become celebrities. The phenomenon was of great interest, since previously the human race had reached the point of becoming completely alienated from the animals. Now they were re-establishing communications with other creatures and nature generally, through the media. Cinema and TV screens showed the adventures of top thoroughbreds, superdogs and wandering wolves. Animal stories and nature romances were all the rage.

The interview with the shark’s realm would throw new light on shark-life and shark-thought. The reporter had decided to find a new angle on the dangerous marine predator. He wanted to write a very personal human-interest story about the shark’s day-to-day existence.

‘This is my forefather from the Cretaceous Period,’ the shark explained.

‘A hundred and forty million years ago?’

‘May well be,’ the shark said.

He wasn’t interested in the passage of time. In his view time had been the same since the beginning.

‘This one is from the Jurassic Period,’ he said.

‘Wow,’ the reporter said. ‘Truly long ago.’

Never in his life had he seen anything so old. Cautiously he fingered the petrified ancestral bones.

‘This is believed to belong to the Carboniferous Period,’ the shark said, pointing with a fin to a third framed relief of an ancestor.

‘Two hundred and seventy million years without changing,’ the reporter said.

‘As you’ll observe, sharks live, fundamentally, a conservative life,’ the shark said. ‘What we do is eat other creatures. Nothing else happens.’

The reporter swam a little further off, although he knew the shark was capable of unbelievably fast spurts. He’d made a gentleman’s agreement with the shark: the shark would not interfere with him, and he, for his part, would carry out a unique interview, allowing the shark a share of the proceeds. If everything went according to plan, the reporter would become rich in spite of the share.

‘We’re top-class world-wide. Your rockets and aeroplanes are still modelled on our streamlining. Sharks have an extremely effective body, and so we’re still the peak of evolution,’ the shark said in a lecturing style. ‘Evolution is our keyword.’

‘Evolution?’ the reporter said, keeping a few yards off from the shark, who was moving with unbelievable grace. ‘But you’ve been doing exactly the same thing for over two hundred million years!’

‘Advanced evolution implies systematic exploitation of the environment, adaptation and prevision,’ the shark said. ‘Evolution means effectualness. The shark eats effectually. I’ll demonstrate.’

The shark opened its mouth. The reporter’s heart took a couple of extra beats as he bent to look at the shark’s maw. There were five rows of teeth, set with sharp triangular fangs. The shark’s mouth was a perfect mastication machine.

‘If a tooth gets damaged, it restores itself in a week,’ the shark said.

The reporter gave a thought to teeth and the shark’s point about effectuality.

‘Nowadays we talk a lot about teamwork,’ the reporter began tentatively.

‘Not us,’ the shark said. ‘We feed alone.’

The reporter looked at the functional but stylish drawing-room. He didn’t feel at home there: the room evoked frigidity and spiritual desolation.

‘It all starts in the womb,’ the shark said. ‘The fry that hatches out first eats all the rest.’

The reporter shuddered.

‘So you were born entirely alone?’ he asked.

‘No, there were two of us,’ the shark said in correction. ‘Me and my sister. Mother had two wombs.’

It gave the reporter the shivers to picture the first hatched-out fry starting to eat its younger brothers and sisters till it was finally left all alone.

‘So it becomes a habit,’ the shark said. ‘When I arrive anywhere the first thing I do is start eating up the others.’

‘You eat up the others,’ the reporter repeated.

‘Yes, I always eat the others,’ the shark said.

The shark had become restless. It was finning round the room at quite a speed. The human smell was heavily invading its nostrils, and it had a keen sense of smell. The shark was often said to be the sea’s nose.

‘This is what I do,’ the shark said, hurtling towards the reporter and swallowing him in one.

‘Somehow I just have to eat the others,’ the shark said, in some state of excitement.

Then it calmed down and took a leisurely swim up towards the surface. It saw the shadow of a ship above it and decided to swim up and take a look. On the deck people were running about looking alarmed.

It was already night, a sultry night, and the stars were huge and shining brightly. Above, in the midst of the firmament, there glowed a pale arc, the sky-highway of the Holy White Shark. The sight of it gave the shark a celebratory feeling. It swam a solitary circle round the ship, feeling it had been a traitor. Then it decided to dismiss such thoughts from its mind. The reporter had been greedy and foolish.

‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,’ the shark said, and the message was translated on the editor’s communicator.

The reporter was sitting in the shark’s belly and sending out an SOS. He did get through to the fleet’s mother ship, which had brought him to sea.

Then he leant back to wait and think what he’d do if help didn’t come in time. Fortunately the shark’s digestion was slow. Fish it digested in a few days, but the reporter was meat. Digestion would take a week, perhaps two. So perhaps after all he’d get his incredible story told and become rich. The headline might be ‘My Motto: Evolution and Effectiveness’. The reporter looked around. The shark had swallowed all sorts of things. The belly contained rope, sail-cloth, bottles, nail-boxes and a hammer.

Someone eats others
because solitude has become a habit.

Translated by Herbert Lomas

The matchstick lay for the first time in its new box on the factory table and thought about what had happened to it so far during its short life. It could still dimly remember how the big aspen tree had grown on the river bank, how it had been felled, sawed, and finally planed into many thousand small splinters of which the match was one. After that, it had been sorted into piles and rows with its friends, dipped in horrible melting pans, put out to dry, dipped again and finally placed in the box. This was not really a remarkable fate, nor a great heroic deed. But the match had acquired a burning desire to do something in the world. Its body was made from the timorous aspen, which is constantly a-quiver because it is afraid that the faint evening breeze might grow into a gale and tear it up by the roots. It so happened, however, that the match’s head had been dipped in stuff that makes one ambitious and want to shine in the world, and so a struggle developed, as it were, between body and head. When the inflammable head, fizzing in silence, cried: ‘Rush out now and do something!’ the cautious body always had an objection ready, and whispered: ‘No, wait a little, ask and find out if it’s time yet!’

As the match lay with its companions in the box, its head became hot, and it felt a curious hankering to catch fire. But the aspen wood inside it resisted, and the match asked the box’s striking panel: ‘Don’t you think it is time now?’ The striking panel replied: ‘I can see that you’re an inexperienced greenhorn, ready to go rushing outside. Be patient, and don’t do something stupid. In any case, you can’t do anything without me, as you are a safety match. Do you really think I would let you burn down the factory, which is the home of our birth, together with the young girl who has reared us and nurtured us?’

The match lay patiently in its box, and was stored along with millions of its companions in a big warehouse. As it lay there, dangerous ambition once again paid a visit to its inflammable head, but was stopped by the quivering aspen. ‘Is it time now?’ the match asked again. The striking panel replied: ‘It’s too dark in here, I can’t see anything, but try to have a little patience! Do you think I would let you burn down the warehouse and the whole of the great city?’

The match was taken aboard a ship to be sent to another part of the country. It was a dark night. The gale howled in the rigging and the ship fought with the waves far out on the open sea. ‘Is it time now?’ the match asked again. For it as very tempting to imagine what it would be like to light up a dark and stormy sea. The striking panel replied: ‘Wait a little! I will find out if the gale has had an order to make the ship founder.’

The gale replied that it had had no such order. ‘A little more patience,’ the striking panel whispered. The ship reached its destination safely, the match was taken ashore and soon lay in a shop, where it was sold with the other matches in the box. A poor girl bought the box, took it home and sat down by the stove to comb flax. The match saw the fine, soft bundles of flax, again felt the wicked thoughts approach, and asked: ‘It must be time now, mustn’t it?’ ‘Wait,’ replied the striking panel, ‘I will ask the fire in the stove if it has had an order to burn down the cottage.’ The fire replied that it could not do anything. It had had an order to sit still and see that the pot boiled. ‘Be patient,’ the striking panel said to the match.

The next day the girl went out with the people from the farm to make hay. At night she and her mother slept in the dry, fragrant hay in the barn. As she had to get up early the following morning to light the fire for the hay-makers, she had taken the box of matches with her in her bundle. The match smelt the fragrance of the hay, and said to the striking panel: ‘My dear, let me stroke my head against your side. It would be so nice to set fire to the hay!’ The striking panel replied: ‘I will ask the rain that is starting to patter on the barn roof now.’ The rain replied: ‘Don’t touch me, if you value your life, for I have had an order to protect the barn.’ ‘Patience, patience,’ said the striking panel to the match.

On the day after that, the girl’s brother, who was a sailor, arrived and said: ‘Farewell, mother! I must travel to Björneborg now, and then I am going on a long voyage, first to Vasa, and then to America. Have you a match you could lend me?’ The girl gave him the box of matches, and the sailor left and came to a place where the railway was being blasted through the rock. There he found lodging for the night with the rock blasters and lay with his head on a barrel full of gunpowder. ‘Now?’ asked the match, which could scarcely restrain itself from striking its head against the striking panel. But the striking panel scolded the match and said: ‘For shame, hothead! Can you not see that a small child is asleep on the other side of the barrel?’

Next morning the sailor went on his way, reached the town of Björneborg and there boarded the steamship Ostrobothnia, which was bound for Vasa. The next day the ship put to sea. It was around noon time, with bright sunshine and a fresh breeze. There were many people on board, and a full cargo. Now the striking panel said to the match: ‘How are you?’ The match replied: ‘I am waiting for the right moment. Never have I been so ready to do something as I am just now.’ ‘Then I will tell you a secret, ‘the striking panel whispered. ‘I heard the waves ask the wind if it had had an order, but the wind said it hadn’t. Then I heard the wind rush down to the fire under the ship’s boiler and ask the burning coals if they had had an order, and the coals said they hadn’t. And I heard the coals ask the plates of sheet iron in the ship’s side if they had had an order, and the plates of sheet iron said they hadn’t, just like all the rest. Then the coals talked among one another and said: “None of the four elements has had an order and yet it must happen.” Who will do it ?’

‘I,’ said the match.

‘That is not possible,’ said the striking panel, ‘for you are only the little messenger boy of the elements.’ The match felt like asking the striking panel if it was not true that David had once slain Goliath, but it said nothing, for it had now learned to wait.

The young sailor stood leaning carelessly against some bales of paper on the between-decks. He was easygoing and carefree like most young men of his age. He found that the time passed slowly, and took out a cigarette and the box of matches.

‘Now or never!’ said the match to the striking panel.

‘No,’ said the panel. ‘not yet, not yet! What harm have the beautiful ship, the expensive cargo and all those innocent people done to you? Do you want to set them between the devil and the deep blue sea? Not yet, not yet!’

But the match would listen no more. At that same moment it caught fire against the panel. A bright flame burned up, but no one noticed it in the even brighter sunshine. The sailor lit his cigarette and then carelessly threw the burning match away. Now all the elements had the secret order they had so long been waiting for. The wind blew the match against the bale of paper that had dried in the sun, the match clung tight and the bale caught fire. The water, which ought to have put out the fire, refused to do its job in the pumps, the iron, which could not burn, became red hot, and the wind made the fire burn even more strongly. Within a short time the ship was lost, and some of the passengers and crew were burned to death, while others drowned in the sea. A few fortunate people were rescued.

Not far from the burning wreck floated the tiny tip of a burnt match, and next to it the waterlogged striking panel of something that had once been a matchbox. ‘Unhappy match,’ said the panel, ‘what have you done? It would be better if you had never been cut from the aspen’s heart.’

The tiny charred stump of the match raised its sooty tip from the water, and replied:

‘I told you I would do something when my time came. Now I am famous, I have wrecked a great ship, the whole country is talking about me and no other match is as notable as I. But don’t be worried about me. I am pleased with my exploit. Now I am going to float ashore and have myself dipped again. Come with me! We shall do more notable things. I shall become a charity match. In the midst of the coldest winter I shall set alight a great forest to warm the poor. You will see me make many people happy.’

A great white-bearded wave that had risen behind the match heard this talk. ‘You wretched splinter of a great tree,’ said the wave. ‘What could you ever do except obey orders, of which you know nothing. Why, even the mighty elements, of which you are a mere speck of dust, can do nothing but wait and obey. Away with your ridiculous arrogance and your foolish plans for the future, away into the unknown depths!’

And the wave rolled forward like a snowy mountain and buried beneath it the sooty match and the dissolving striking panel. Seek the ambitious one far below, on the bottom of the sea. There it moulders, nameless and unwept.

Translated by David McDuff

It had become very hot late in the afternoon. Everywhere the plants drooped, and the sun shone down with a dismal red light. Even though Moomins are very fond of warmth, they felt quite limp and would have liked to rest under one of the large cactuses that grew everywhere. But Moominmamma would not stop until they had found some trace of Moomintroll’s Papa. They continued on their way, even though it was already beginning to get dark, always straight in a southerly direction. Suddenly the small creature stopped and listened. ‘What’s that pattering around us?’ he asked.

And now they could hear a whispering and a rustling among the leaves. ‘It’s only the rain,’ said Moominmamma. ‘Even so, now we must crawl in under the cactuses.’

All night it rained, and in the morning it was simply pouring down. When they looked out, everything was grey and melancholy.

‘It’s no good, we must go on,’ said Moominmamma. ‘But here is something for you which I’ve been saving until it was really needed.’ And then she produced a large bar of chocolate from her handbag. She had taken it with her from the old gentleman’s wonderful garden. She split it in two and gave them each a piece. ‘Aren’t you going to have any?’ asked Moomintroll.

‘No,’ said his mother. ‘I don’t like chocolate.’

Then they walked on in the pouring rain all that day and all the next day, too. All they found to eat were a few sopping wet yams and one or two figs. On the third day it rained even harder than ever and each little rivulet had become a foaming torrent. It became more and more difficult to make any progress, the water rose ceaselessly, and at last they had to climb up on to a small rock so as not to be snatched away by the current. There they sat, watching the surging eddies come closer and closer to them, and feeling that they were catching cold. Floating around everywhere were furniture and houses and big trees that the flood had carried with it.

‘I think I want to go back home!’ said the small creature, but no one listened to him. The others had caught sight of something strange that was dancing and whirling towards them in the water. ‘They’ve been shipwrecked!’ cried Moomintroll, who had sharp eyes. ‘A whole family! Mama, we must rescue them!’ It was an upholstered armchair lurching towards them, sometimes it got caught in the tree-tops that stuck up out of the water, but was pulled free by the current and went drifting on. In the chair sat a wet cat with five equally wet kittens round her. ‘Poor mother!’ cried Moominmamma, and she jumped out into the water all the way up to her waist. ‘Hold on to me, and I’ll try to catch them with my tail!’

Moomintroll took a firm hold of his mother, and the small creature was so excited that he did not manage to do anything at all. Now the armchair was eddying by, Moominmamma tied her tail lightning fast in a half-hitch round one of the armrests, and then she pulled. ‘Heave-ho!’ she cried. ‘Heave-ho!’ cried Moomintroll. ‘Ho, ho!’ squeaked the small creature. ‘Don’t let go!’ Slowly the chair swayed in towards the rock, and then a helpful wave came and guided it up on to the land. The cat picked up her kittens by the scruff of their necks, one by one, and put them in in a row to dry.

‘Thank you for your kind help,’ she said. This is the worst scrape I’ve ever been in. What a catastrophe!’

And then she began to lick her children.

‘I think it’s clearing up,’ said the small creature, who wanted to make them think about something else. (He was embarrassed because he had not managed to help in the rescue.) And it was true – the clouds were moving apart and one shaft of sunlight flew straight down, and then another – and all of a sudden the sun was shining over the enormous, steaming surface of the water.

‘Hurrah!’ cried Moomintroll. ‘Now everything will be all right, you’ll see!’

A small breeze arose and chased the clouds away and shook the tree-tops that were heavy with rain. The agitated water quietened down, somewhere a bird began to chirp and the cat purred in the sunshine. ‘Now we can go on,’ said Moominmamma, firmly.

‘We don’t have time to wait until the water subsides. Get up into the armchair, children, and then I’ll push it out into the lake.’ ‘I think I shall stay here,’ said the cat, and yawned.

‘One should never get involved in needless fuss. When the ground is dry I’ll walk home again.’ And her five kittens, who had recovered in the sunshine, sat up and yawned, they too.

Then Moominmamma pushed the armchair out from the shore. ‘Go carefully!’ cried the small creature. He was sitting on the backrest and looking around, for it had occurred to him that they might find something valuable floating in the water after the flood. For example, a casket full of jewels. Why not? He kept a sharp watch, and when he suddenly saw something gleaming in the lake, he shouted loudly with excitement. ‘Go that way,’ he cried. ‘There’s something shining over there!’

‘We haven’t got time to fish up everything that’s floating around,’ said Moominmamma, but she paddled that way all the same, because she was a nice Mama.

‘It’s just an old bottle,’ said the small creature, disappointed, when he had hauled it up with his tail. ‘And no nice sweet drink in it either,’ said Moomintroll.

‘But don’t you see?’ said his mother, gravely. This is something very interesting, it’s a message in a bottle. There’s a letter inside.’ And then she took a corkscrew out of her handbag and uncorked the bottle. With trembling hands she spread out the letter on her knee and read aloud: ‘Dear finder, please do what you can to rescue me! My fine house has been swept away by the flood and now I am hungry and cold up a tree, while the water rises higher and higher. An unhappy Moomin.’

‘Lonely and hungry and cold,’ said Moominmamma, and she cried. ‘Oh, my poor dear Moomintroll, your father probably drowned long ago!’

‘Don’t cry,’ said Moomintroll. ‘He may be up a tree somewhere very close. After all, the water is subsiding as fast as it can.’ And so it was.

Here and there hillocks and fences and roofs were already sticking up above the surface of the water, and now the birds were singing at the tops of their voices.

The armchair bobbed slowly along towards a hill where a lot of people were running about, pulling their belongings out of the water. ‘Why, there’s my armchair,’ cried a big Hemulen who was gathering his dining-room furniture together on the shore. ‘What do you mean by sailing around in my armchair?’

‘And a rotten boat it made, too!’ said Moominmamma, crossly, and she stepped ashore. ‘I wouldn’t have it for anything in the world!’

‘Don’t annoy him,’ whispered the small creature. ‘He may bite!’ ‘Rubbish,’ said Moominmamma. ‘Come along now, children.’ And on they walked along the shore, while the Hemulen examined the wet stuffing in his chair.

‘Look!’ said Moomintroll, pointing to a marabou stork who was walking around, scolding to himself. ‘I wonder what he’s lost – he looks even angrier than the Hemulen!’

‘Small, impertinent child,’ said the marabou stork, for he had good ears. ‘If you were nearly a hundred and had lost your spectacles, you wouldn’t exactly look pleased, either.’ And then he turned his back to them and continued his search. ‘Come along now,’ said Moominmamma. ‘We must look for your father.’

She took Moomintroll and the small creature by the hand and hurried on. After a while they saw something gleaming in the grass where the water had subsided. ‘I bet it’s a diamond” cried the small creature. But when they looked more closely, they saw it was only a pair of spectacles.

They’re the marabou stork’s, don’t you think, mother?’ asked Moomintroll. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I suppose you had better run back and give them to him. But hurry up, for your poor father is up a tree somewhere, hungry and wet and all alone.’

Moomintroll ran as fast as he could on his short legs, and at a long distance he saw the marabou stork poking about in the water. ‘Hallo, hallo!’ he shouted. ‘Here are your spectacles, Uncle Stork!’

‘Really?’ said the marabou stork, very pleased. ‘Perhaps you are not such an impossible little child after all.’ And then he put on his spectacles and turned his head this way and that.

‘I’m afraid I must go at once,’ said Moomintroll. ‘You see, we’re out looking too.’

‘Well, well, I see,’ said the marabou stork in a friendly voice. ‘What for?’

‘My father,’ said Moomintroll. ‘He’s up a tree somewhere.’

The marabou stork thought for a long moment. Then he said firmly: ‘You will never manage such a thing alone. But I will help you, because you found my spectacles.’

Then he picked up Moomintroll in his beak, very carefully, and put him on his back, flapped his wings a few times and sailed away over the shore.

Moomintroll had never flown before, and he thought it was tremendous fun, and a little frightening. He was also quite proud when the marabou stork landed beside his mother and the small creature.

‘I am at your service for the investigations, madam,’ said the marabou stork, bowing to Moominmamma. ‘If the family will climb on board we shall make our departure at once.’ And then he lifted first her and then the small creature, who squeaked with excitement. ‘Hold on tight,’ said the marabou stork ‘We’re going to fly out over the water now.’

‘I think this is the most wonderful thing we’ve been through so far,’ said Moominmamma. ‘Why, flying is not nearly as frightening as I thought. Now keep a good look out for Moominpappa on all sides!’ The marabou stork flew in wide circles and came in low over each treetop. They saw a lot of people sitting amidst the branches, but none of them was who they were looking for. ‘I shall have to rescue those Creeps over there later on,’ said the marabou stork, whom the rescue expedition had made positively cheerful. He flew to and fro above the water for a long time, the sun began to set, and everything seemed quite hopeless. Suddenly Moominmamma cried: ‘There he is!’ and began to wave her arms so wildly that she nearly fell off.

‘Papa!’ shouted Moomintroll, and the small creature cried out too, just to keep him company.

There, on one of the highest branches of an enormous tree sat a wet, sad Moominpappa, staring out over the water. Beside him he had tied a distress flag. He was so amazed and delighted when the marabou stork landed in the tree, and the whole of his family climbed down on to the branches, that he could not say a word. ‘Now we shall never be separated again,’ sobbed Moominmamma, and took him in her arms. ‘How are you? Have you got a cold? Where have you been all this time? Was the house you built a very fine one? Did you think of us often?’

‘It was a very fine house, alas,’ said Moominpappa. ‘My dear little boy, how you have grown!’

‘Well, well,’ said the marabou stork, who was beginning to feel moved. ‘I think I had better put you down on dry land and try and rescue a few more until the sun goes down. It’s very pleasant, rescuing people.’

And then he took them back to the shore while they all talked at the same time about all the dreadful things they had been through. All along the shore people had lit fires at which they were warming themselves and cooking their suppers, for most had lost their houses.

The marabou stork put Moomintroll, his father and mother and the small creature down at one of the bonfires, and with a hasty farewell he flew out over the water again.

‘Good evening,’ said the two angler fish who had lit the fire. ‘Please sit down, the soup will be ready in a moment.’

Thank you very much,’ said Moominpappa. ‘You have no idea what a fine house I had before the flood. Built it all by myself. But if I get a new one, you will be welcome there any time.’

‘How big was it?’ asked the small creature.

‘Three rooms,’ said Moominpappa. ‘One sky-blue, one sunshine-yellow and one spotted. And a guest room in the attic for you, small creature.’ ‘Did you really mean us to live there too?’ asked Moominmamma, very pleased. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I looked for you always, everywhere. I could never forget our dear old tiled stove.’

Then they sat and told one another about their experiences and ate soup until the moon had risen and the fires began to go out along the shore. Then they were able to borrow a blanket from the angler fish and curled up close next to one another and fell asleep.

Next morning the water had subsided a long way, and they all went out into the sunshine in a very good mood. The small creature danced in front of them and tied a bow in his tail for joy. All day they walked, and everywhere they went was beautiful, for after the rain the most wonderful flowers had come out everywhere and the trees bore both flowers and fruits. They only needed to shake a tree slightly, and the fruits fell down among them. At last they came to a small valley that was more beautiful than anything they had seen earlier in the day. And there, in the midst of the meadow, stood a house that looked almost like a tiled stove, very fine and painted blue. ‘Why, that’s my house!’ cried Moominpappa, quite beside himself with joy. ‘It must have floated here, and here it is now!’

‘Hurrah!’’ shouted the small creature, and then they all rushed down into the valley to admire the house. The small creature even climbed up on the roof, and there he shouted even louder, for up on the chimney hung a necklace of big, real pearls that had got stuck there during the flood.

‘Now we are rich!’ he cried. ‘We can buy a car and an even bigger house!’ ‘No,’ said Moominmamma. This house is the most beautiful one we can ever have.’

And then she took Moomintroll by the hand and stepped into the sky-blue room. And there in the valley they spent the whole of their lives, apart from a few times when they went out and travelled for the sake of a change.

Translated by David McDuff

Mr Saxophone and Miss Clarinet

Mr Saxophone
	went moony 
	beginning to fret
about Miss Clarinet: 
	Moan moan moan 
	darling little crow!
	I love you so!
moaned Mr Saxophone.

Miss Clarinet 
was very upset:
	I won't be owned!
	And I'm no little crow! 
	I sob like a dove,
	and even about love
	I sing alone!

	Oh moan moan moan 
groaned Mr Saxophone.

The deserted house

It’s cold, said the house,
now the light’s been doused.

It’s gloomy with no name,
the locked door complained.

It’s no cause for laughing,
it’s dark and uncanny,
when each nook and cranny,
all existence, is frothing
with nothing but nothing!

The electrician’s fishing story

A high-volt electrical eel 
	felt very smug
	as it danced a reel. 
But it knotted its tail!
	It needed wires,
	and insulated pliers,
	for the thing had become a plug!

I eat what I like,
	said a greedy pike, 
	as it made a strike,
	gulped the high-volt device 
	and was grilled in a trice!

The bathing animal

A water buffalo
shuffling oh-so-slow
was a frequent sight
sitting morning to night
in a lot of wet.

But he never makes
for the Finnish lakes
where the sauna freaks
sit from morning to night
in a frightful sweat.

Land of the Midnight Sun

Huh. The world's going bust!
I'm a jobless ghost:
it's white nights again
and the nightshift's gone,
	said a gloomy ghost in a haunted house.

From midnight to day 
I dwindle away, 
Monday to Sunday
I'm getting more ghostly,
	said the gloomy ghost in the haunted house.

I'll buy a duvet,
lie there, fade away,
like a redundant soft teddy,
old already,
	said the gloomy ghost in the haunted house
	at a very gloomy moment on a bright summer night.

Spider house

Thirteen spiders
invaded the windows and
	suddenly inside us 
it was all webs and spiders.

No exit, no entrance,
just a sad autumn pause,
when thirteen arachnids
sharpened their claws,
waiting for Christmas,
and Santa Claus,
who really succeeded,
on Christmas Eve,
in bringing to life
a spry
Christmas fly!

Kangaroo pouches

Mama Kangaroos
have big belly-pouches
where a little kangaroo
often slouches
with its little belly-pouch
in which so far
no kangaroo crouches.

But early one morning
the world is all strange
and everything’s changed.

The little kangaroos
have big belly-pouches
where a little kangaroo
now crouches
and boggles and goggles
as the grandma kangaroos
button their pouches
and cry STOP!

	and leap about, hop
hoppity hop! 
Stoppity stop,
 the world's not going to stop!

Translated by Herbert Lomas

CHILDREN’S BOOK IS BORN

Children are wafting around the world: they come spilling out of the chimneys and clattering out of the pipes. They worm around cramped places in the nether regions, rise up through stiff roots into the treetops and muss up the clouds. Children just happen anywhere and bring the Adults along with them.

And wherever you find children, they’re always the centre of the universe. The children of Children’s Book belong to Riddlehill, which is the current centre of the universe. The Riddlehill children are three feet tall, and there are 34,567 of them. Only the ones who know who they are came into the book of their own accord – the others had to be thought up. Some didn’t have the time: they’d got other things to do. And it’s not everyone’s idea of fun to squeeze between the covers of a book. In fact, one of them said: ‘I got into a book once and I couldn’t get out. They printed 4,000 copies of the thing, and they were scattered all over the place, in libraries, people’s homes, handbags. I ended up being in thousands of places at once. It gave me the willies and made me giddy. They should have squashed me in one copy, not a whole edition.’

Children’s Book happened through a lot of squashing-out, scouting-out, spilling-out, clattering-out, pruning-out and throwing-out; it wormed round cramped places in the nether regions and rose up through stiff roots into the treetops. There it yoo-hoos to Children and Adults: ‘Come on: into these covers! I promise I won’t shut up!’

CAPO DI TUTTI CAPI

Superpoo lives at the edge of The World. He’s a horror to look at: rotten potato of a nose, face all scabs, pig-iron knees, beetroot eyes that go right through you, feet raking the ground like a mad bull’s; and all the rest of his body’s a numb ill-natured wart. Superpoo doesn’t like thinking about anything, for everything gets him really upset.

There are bags of stories going the rounds about him in Italian: no one dares tell them in any other language. There’s just the odd story that’ll go into English, but even that’s got to be on the quiet, in a whisper.

1

Superpoo killed two birds with one stone, though it was actually two flies. He flattened them with his big hairy paw: their legs flew off, their bones crunched, and there was the most almighty stench. The situation went from bad to worse when Superpoo hummed – during a let-up in the hullabaloo – ‘Get a load of this: now even the walls have ears. ‘

2

Superpoo went on a shopping spree in a big department store. He guzzled the skins off the bananas, put the butcher on special offer, melted the frozen foods, and whipped up a river of milk and ice-cream that flooded all the other departments. He stalked into the snack bar and devoured a mountain of hamburgers, then squirted the whole store with the ketchup-supply and said how sorry he was he’d been too busy to drop in before on a top-notch shopping paradise like this.

3

Superpoo was weighed down with his load. He was toting a haversack full of long-distance lorries, families, villages, a couple of minor towns and a matchbox. A big storm blew up. The going got hard, his legs were dragging. Superpoo threw his haversack into the gaping jaws of an excavating machine. The excavator chewed up the lorries, the families, the villages, the towns, and littered the whole place with matches. Superpoo fell in love with the excavator, but jumped when he realised his mistake and got his anger back.

HANNA TOODAY’S TWO DAYS

Hanna Tooday keeps two days hidden away in a drawer. The first day is one of those winter days when everything looks blue, and that’s the one she’s telling about first. It’s a blue winter’s day, with twilight drifting in like a slow boat. The snow lies quiet as anything on the earth, and a long white feeler of frost-mist is swirling though the air. Your feltboots make a crunchy noise; nothing bad or practical comes into your head. You think how nice it’d be to make a gentle slope in the fresh snow, with little up­ and-down hillocks. Your head’s clear, your thoughts are lined up in double-file, and there’s no need to chivvy them to get them going: under your red cheeks they’re all set. Some Invisible Finger has painted a blue quilt over the world: underneath it the other colours are spanking their children into a huddle and trying to maintain their surface.

Hanna Tooday’s other darlingest day is a white summer’s day with bits of yellow and red.

It’s a blazing-hot day, the sun’s frying in the sky’s egg-white, the light’s everywhere. Big Sweaty Daddy’s lying on the lawn; a ladybird plops off the hair on his chest, tumbles onto its nose and heads off down towards his belly-button. Soft White Mother’s sitting all naked astride a footstool and doing the strawberries. I, Hanna, am sitting up in a tall pinetree and sprinkling pineneedles in Dad’s thinning hair. Every needle that ends standing upright gets me a point. If Dad notices, the points don’t count.

The huge big spring day is ever so light and easy-going: every second is honey, dripping into my mouth from a liquorice-stick.

DAD’S RECORD

When Dad withdraws into himself, he always plays the same record.

Some Invisible Finger once engraved the plaster of Paris record with this scratchy music that slowly winds its way across the worn surface. Dad lies there in his hammock, his eyes closed, letting the music take him. He spurs it on: ‘Take me, take me, music .. .’

It’s a song about a shortsighted bear and a superannuated busdriver. Scrambling out of its winter lair, the beast gets scared by a block of ice that’s turned up in the cave mouth. The bear scrubs it with a wire brush, and little by little the shape of a man starts to hatch out. It’s a sign of spring, thinks the bear, and he brews the block some of his vintage three-year tea.

The block melts and introduces itself as a superannuated busdriver who set off on a rather long journey through the November snow and got forgotten in a snowdrift. The bear and the busdriver share their tea and decide to create a new life together. ‘Here’s to our new life: we’ll be ice-free and warm!’ they declare and clink their cups.

At this point the song starts to wilt away into some chinkings you can hardly make out – which Dad imagines as little ice-crystals frozen in the busdriver’s hair. Dad closes his eyes and swings away from the hammock to the other world where the bear and busdriver are.

At half-past-seven the children come and tickle Dad out of dreamland into the evening news.

STORM

A storm’s brewing. The wind’s rushing from bushy tree to bushy tree, accelerating off the hard bark of the spruce and scampering onto the rocks and the tree­ stumps.

Huge drops of rain are smacking onto the car bonnets and pouring down into the gutters. The eye of the storm stares out of the middle of the forest and tries to look all ways at once.

The wind’s howling, roving, slipping on the mosstods, and then hissing on about it in the pinetop and slanting down to skim the earth before it lunges headlong up again into the heights.

Sheltering in B-entrance with their knees in their mouths, the children sit and stare in wonder. The storm hurls back again and makes their hair stand on end. Norm the Nutter screws up his eyes and grabs Shudderdancer’s hand. If the storm had a steering­ wheel, you could sit in the wind and drive it – all that magnificent sizzling, whistling and hullabaloo! If the storm were a child, it’d be the biggest and wettest of all: you’d not even dare to say hello, you’d have to hiss at it or twitter like a bird!

‘Nice storm, lovely storm, bestest of all the storms!’ Norm the Nutter and Shudderdancer yell as if with one voice. And the lightning-flashes slit the black sky open with a yellow razor!

CHILDREN’S BOOK ENDS

Children’s Book ends with a squashing-out, pruning-out, and throwing-out: it comes spilling, sliding and clattering, half-assembled, out of the garage, or plops onto the street from the Maternity Ward window: It worms round cramped places into the nether regions and rises up through stiff roots into the treetops. There it yoo­hoos to children and Adults: ‘Here I am now, flushed-out and full! Come again – to read and write!’

And the children come skittering out of its pages to go their own ways, into new stories and the world’s winds. Some stay behind as bookmarks or proper stories; others take a poor view of the happenings and think up better ones themselves.

Translated by Herbert Lomas

Mother Limberg and Apelman’s Anna Lina were sitting together on the steps up to Mother Limberg’s cabin in Mickelgård Street in Tulavall. They were mourning. They were grieving for the old army captain, Alexander Grunnstedt, who had fought in the Caucasus in his youth, had lived alone in the Limberg’s gable room in his old age and then had lost his way in the forest, had a heart attack and been carried off in his coffin by his daughter-in-law.

It was late summer and sunny weather.

‘She could’ve had him buried here,’ said Mother Limberg.

‘She thought it too simple here,’ said Anna Lina.

‘She had no foresight. She thought we were simple, but she wasn’t as grand as she thought, that Mrs Torborg Rosenhielm-Grunnstedt…’

‘No,’ said Anna Lina, in full agreement.

‘But I suppose she wanted a gentry-type funeral over there in her Högesta. And you can bluster about a lot better in your own backyard, that you can.’ Mother Limberg looked round.

‘You don’t bluster about, Auntie.’

‘I’m not the blustering sort. Though I can if it proves necessary, that I can. Maybe it’ll be necessary this winter.’

Anna Lina looked at her.

‘I’ve got some new lodgers. Two really nice boys. They’ve got work at the sawmill. So I’ll have a bit for my coffee and snuff and tar-ointment… Yes, well, that Grunnstedt,’ she said, and Anna Lina immediately saw him in the air in front of her. He was wearing his tjerkeska, his Caucasian greatcoat, and his officer’s cap. She saw him transparent, just for a moment.

‘I don’t like other people living in his room.’

‘It isn’t his any longer,’ said Mother Limberg.

Anna Lina got up and went over to the gable end. She opened the door to the room he had lived in. It was empty and had been scrubbed out. Mother Limberg was right.

‘Her, that daughter-in-law of his, that Mrs Torborg, she scrubbed both before and after him. And took all the things she thought worth taking. And flung the rest on to the rubbish tip.’

‘His iron bedstead from Tula?’

‘It was broken, and propped up with blocks. Hjalmar down the hill took it to make rabbit cages out of if.’

‘And the harness and saddle and the silver sword? And the samovar?’

‘Young Grunnstedt took all that. And the benches and table. All the things they couldn’t be bothered with are behind the woodshed, Except those old Russian newspapers, and them I’ve taken in to light the fire with. And that camel-haired coat of his, burkan as he called it, I’ve taken that to put on my own back.’

The pile of remnants and rubbish lay behind the woodshed. And the slops. Flies buzzed up. There were nettles and elders and lilac grown wild there. Anna Lina trod cautiously, for she was barefoot.

‘Here’s his rug from Kars!’ she cried.

It had got caught in a lilac. She bent down and tugged at it.

‘The one he bought after the Turkish war!’

‘To think she left that! Though she did say something about it couldn’t be genuine, whatever she meant by that. Bring it here and let’s take a look.’

Anna Lina dragged it over to the steps.

‘It’s wet.’

‘Well, we had some rain last night at last.’

The rug was not large, hardly as wide as two outstretched arms and perhaps half as much again the other way. But it was all wool and had absorbed all the moisture, so was heavy.

Mother Limberg bent down, puffing and blowing.

‘Not very lovely, I think,’ she said. ‘And all smoke-stained too. And torn. And worn out…’

‘It’s the one he had on the wall above his bed. With those swords hung on it.’

‘It was probably good to start with,’ said Mother Limberg, feeling it with her thumb. ‘Homespun wool, home-dyed, too, though most of it…’ She screwed up her eyes. ‘… most of it’s not dyed. Twisted yarn,’ she went on. ‘Sheep’s wool and …’

‘This looks like dog hair.’

‘Goat,’ decided Mother Limberg. She rubbed the fringe between her fingers. ‘Here’s something else, see, it’s shaggier and coarser And there are fringes in both ends. The pile don’t start until the pattern.’

The rug was patterned from edge to edge with rectangular panels, ten along the length and ten along the width, alternately brown and grey. In the middle of every panel was an eight-pointed star enclosing a little square of the background colour. Every other star was dark blue, every other brown. At one end was a row of panels with a different pattern, but in that place it was so worn you couldn’t distinguish the colours.

‘Sheep colours,’ said Mother Limberg. ‘And Indian blue. And look, here’s one single red thread. Just an insertion, right through the pattern. Turkish red,’ Mother Limberg went on. ‘Did I hear it hissing?’

‘Yes’, said Anna Lina.

Mother Limberg heaved herself up and waddled off into the kitchen, where something was boiling over.

‘Can I have it?’ Anna Lina called after her.

‘Just take it.’

Anna Lina was not quite eleven. She was small for her age and couldn’t carry the rug. Not that it was any heavier than Petter, her little brother, but it was unpleasant to hold because it was wet. She dragged it behind her up on to a stony mound where she could spread it out. She shifted and pulled at in until she got it smooth.

‘It can stay there to dry’, she said to Miska, Mother Limberg’s old cat, who came gliding along with her tail up.

It was the hottest summer they had for a long time. Anna Lina felt the sun blazing like a hand pressing on the back of her neck as she sat there. The rug’s pattern of stripes and triangles buckled up and down. The longer she looked at it, the more she thought it wasn’t just surface, but also deep. The light parts stood out like jutting rocks, the dark ones crevices and shadows. A mountain country at dusk. She heard munching… pattering… the clatter of cloven hoofs… a herd of goats streaming along, back alongside back. Some had bells round their necks. She heard bleating. A kid skipped towards her.

It was small and neat, pale brown like soft goat’s cheese, rather like a hairy flower.

But then the round fanned out, billowing with pale brown grass. The mountains were small, far away, misty blue against dark blue sky. She heard birds, and grasshoppers, and the sound of hoofs, yes, hoofs rapidly coming closer. A rider appeared on the top of the ridge ahead of her. He looked round, bent low over the horse’s neck, whipped the horse and came galloping down the slope. A moment later, another rider came into sight, a bow in his hand. He reined in his horse and fired, the arrow striking the first rider in the back. He didn’t fall, but curled up in the saddle. The horse raced on and disappeared into the billowing grass. The one who had fired stayed where he was on the top of the ridge.

The vision darkened and she saw a woman sitting in a tent. A round, heavy bundle was flung in to her.

Mamma Apelman took hold of Anna Lina’s shoulder.

‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’

‘No…’ Anna Lina got up. She staggered and held her hands out in front of her, then put them up to her eyes.

‘Don’t you feel well?’ Mamma said uneasily. ‘You’ve been sitting in the sun too long. You ought to have had your hat on.’

Anna Lina blinked.

‘Has Petter woken up?’

‘That’s why I called you. What’s that?’

‘Grunnstedt’s rug. From Kars. It was thrown away. Mother Limberg says I can have it.’

‘Well then …’ Mamma bent down. ‘We’ll have to take it down to the shore and scrub it clean with soft-soap.’

‘No,’ said Anna Lina. ‘It remembers, and it must never be washed.’

Translated by Joan Tate