Their Silent World

       Lalli is like a cat—smooth, silent, alert, incomprehensible. Finnish is a bird language to Emil, and Lalli does not make an impression of a human being to him, so Emil does not worry much about his appearance and impression anymore. Well, he does, but less than with humans. It’s relaxing. Cats don’t hurt much, and if they do, it’s forgivable. And it’s absolutely normal to pat a cat, to hold it close (but not too tight!), to whisper kitty names into the crook of the neck. Emil burrows his nose into the fur collar while fumbling with his own trousers belt and thermals, then pushes Lalli down to kneel and shivers with the delicious hotness of Lalli’s mouth, with a cold bite of sharp nails on his hips, with fear that anyone (or anything) can run into them at any second, and with so many other things at once that he does not bother to think at all. That is, if the cat is in the mood or not too tired after scouting and does not hiss or slap Emil’s hand away, and if there is a chance that no humans would wander into them in the cat-tank or some other nook. Otherwise, Emil would have to abstain or resort to his own hand and a mental image—a memory of the lukewarm skin and bone body. Or it is just as normal when the cat wakes up in broad daylight during a long journey or on a camping day when others are out of sight, pushes him to a tank corner or tree trunk, frees Emil’s hands from the gloves and tucks into his skin-tight pants with an infralow growl, a vibration rather than a sound, and bites Emil by the ear or shoulder, his intentions hard and clear without words. Emil wouldn’t let any human make him do anything so improper, but hey, it’s Lalli, a cat person talking birdish, so Emil does not mind. And he does what he’d do for himself, pulling and teasing and squeezing until Lalli scrunches an especially funny face and trembles with release. Emil does not understand how Lalli manages to keep so silent, without a breath or rustle. Is it Finnish magic? Because in his turn, Emil has to bite his own wrist to suppress any sound exploding inside. Noise can be deadly outdoors and catastrophic in the tank. Silence is what keeps them together, protects them, and envelopes them. And the most satisfying, the most head-spinning thing is that Lalli does not allow that to anyone else too. He glares at friendly punches from Sigrun, he wrinkles his nose in a funny way and goes stiff when Mikkel washes him after night scouting—if this task is not assigned to Emil, of course. Lalli used to snort in exasperation when his cousin hugged him now and then. But he never flinches from Emil. Almost never, that is. Cat moods, nothing serious. Lalli can even pat Emil on the head or shoulder, a soft cat-paw touch, a gesture not bestowed even on Tuuri, a blood relative. Well, the cousins did not seem awfully close. Most certainly, Lalli didn’t even tell her about his strange silent relationship with the Swede, since Tuuri did not show any signs that she knew. Making Swedish-Finnish word charts is really not much of a sign. Emil is not surprised by his privileges with Lalli. He knows he was born into the highest class, and he fits in. That’s what his parents demanded him to do and what all nannies and private teachers would tell him all the time. Intelligent, well-bred, noble, brave, and skilled. Others have tried to convince him otherwise, but it’s just petty envy. If Emil weren’t the best, he’d hardly have tamed a wild Finnish catboy. Sure, Lalli is better than him at running around the Silent World and gutting monsters, but that’s what a savage is expected to do. And Emil’s element is civilization, where Lalli looks so lost, overwhelmed, and in need of guidance. Emil obliged him back then, in Mora, in full compliance with his mental image of himself as a supreme protector. Damn, it was dizzying! Showing Tuuri around Mora didn’t give off such vibes. She recognised most of what she saw, and even though it amazed her, she would not let Emil show off the superiority of Sweden in general and of one particular Swede. She could bite back. And Tuuri spoke human, that is, Swedish, so Emil felt often abashed and self-conscious around her. Also, she translated Lalli and made her cousin appear closer to a sapient being, even if a rather quirky one. But now Tuuri’s voice is muted forever. Emil is sad, shaken, and reminded of his own mortality… and relieved, deep down. Now, no one would know for sure. Because if anyone human finds out... Emil would die of embarrassment. Knowing glances and judging words would surround and diminish him, and Emil had enough of that. Human dignity. It’s called human dignity, even if others call it fretting, but Emil is sure his language is the right one and does not need translation. The little skald Tuuri believed that understanding the language of another person was a supreme good. She left whole stacks of papers with two columns of words and phrases in Swedish and Finnish, much more than in the other language pairs of their motley crew. And she described what phrase books should look like for Emil to look out for one during salvaging raids. He did notice similar books in ruined libraries or stores once or twice, but pretended not to see them. He thinks it’s okay the way it is. Kitty does not speak Swedish, so what? She still serves her purpose nicely. The same goes for Lalli. Emil is sure they’d communicate perfectly without words, or with a dozen of the most useful ones, like danger, yes and no, troll, sleep, eat... The vocabulary must not be too large. It’s dangerous. If Emil starts understanding birdish, that is, Finnish — what if Lalli becomes a normal human being? A human who understands everything and... and judges? A human with whom Emil will have to discuss everything, including those bits and pieces of time together, time of silence, heat, and animal tension? Merely thinking of it Emil’s brain boil and his knees give in. He’ll definitely have to flee to some Ultima Thule and never see Lalli again. Never touch him again. Emil’s ears are aflame, it seems, and his cheeks too, and chest, like he is already caught in the act. No, he won’t let the stupid pieces of paper take Lalli away from him. He’ll protect his own little silent world in the way he knows best. He’ll make those treacherous words burn. To steal time when no one is around the fire is even harder than to sneak away with Lalli, and Emil has to make his own fire on the other side of the tank. He feels just a very little bit guilty to destroy what has been Tuuri’s traces on earth, but not guilty enough to stop. Burning paper is more exciting than salvaging it. Pages with two columns of words smell so exquisite as fire devours them, and the flames are so enticing that Emil absolutely misses footsteps from behind. But then, Lalli always walks silently. Today Lalli is stiff and moody and holds a bowl of Mikkel’s kinda-soup. No, now the Icelander does the cooking since Mikkel is too busy discussing the road and daily plans with Sigrun. It does not make meals any better. Emil turns back in haste to extinguish his own little fire. Luckily, the flames have almost done their work—at least, words are not legible; brown sheet carcasses remain but crumble one by one into ashes. Lalli does not make any sign he notices or understands anything, and just prods Emil by the toe and nods towards the cat-tank. Go and fetch your supper. That does not need translation, of course. Emil knows he is right, and he heads to their makeshift kitchen.