Salmiakki

       There was still plenty of daylight. But soon, the sun would peek under the long, tattered awning. A hundred years ago, it had been good protection against the sun or rain. Now it gave just some thin shadow. The summer was still hot, even at its end. Lalli had taken off his cape long ago. He left his rifle on the shoulder, though. Even if it was safe around (he had checked it). Onni had checked it too. Together they detected one troll in one of the many cars, but the grossling had been stuck inside. Lalli had taken the spear from his cousin, hopped over rusty car roofs to the troll and pierced it several times through the car window at where the thing’s head ought to be. A hit—the black noise in his mind went down. Now the spear was leaning at the post in the sun for disinfection. Lalli’s head itched with distant buzz of other lost souls, but it was far and weak. Right, trolls and beasts must sleep in the daytime. And the ruins around were not a living house, not a hospital, and even not a giant shop (the so-called mall). It was a bus station, it’s like a pier but for large machines with passenger seats. Tuuri had been telling about them a life ago, and relevant signs and letters were still on the posts and walls. Mikkel was reading one such peeling tin schedule. Even if he didn’t know Finnish. Lalli shrugged and returned to his own puzzle. In front of him there was a tall box with a glass front door and a medley of colourful packets and bottles inside. Onni called it a vending machine, and Emil used the word "varuautomat". Guess it meant the same. The packets were glistening dim through dust, though they fared better than anything outside the box. A red and black spot in the fourth row from top caught Lalli’s glance. Salmiakki, the fancy letters said. His mouth watered at once, even though the company had just had lunch. But how should he retrieve the bounty without much noise? The glass was strong, you can break it with the rifle’s butt or a stone, but it meant rattle and clank of shards. How had people stuffed the stuff inside? Lalli tried the glass frame edge with a nailfinger, scratched it, and pushed it. Nah. The only result was that Emil standing by got interested. “What? You want take? I help?” He reached for the dagger at his belt and nearly dropped his folded cape. At least he didn’t grip his favourite explosives. Still, Lalli didn’t want him help. First, Emil was unable to do anything quietly. Second, if Emil helped him with the candy, Lalli’d have to share. And the alluring packet was just one. There were dozens of other types, and the best one was the last. But Emil had always treated Lalli to yummies. Both in dream and in the wake world. Third thing, a stray grossling could notice the hustle and bustle around the box. Or even worse, Onni could. Now the redhead Icelander was successfully distracting him by endless chatter. Or at least trying to. Onni responded rarely, in curt words, and didn’t look at the scatterbraid. He didn’t look at anything in particular. Lalli shivered. That empty gaze jabbed him with an uncanny feeling. As if he had made another mistake, somehow, or had been late, or failed. Come to think of it, everything was okay. Lalli had found his cousin alive and in one piece and helped him—they all helped, and now they were returning back to the safe, known world. Everything was fine. But after… Tuuri and Grandma went forth, Onni sort of dimmed. He was not angry, he was not arguing anymore, and he did not even deliver The Talk promised to Lalli. He stopped jumping at any rustle. At rest stops, he was sitting apart. Even now the guys (including Sigrun) were all sitting at one long bank while Onni chose its other side. And by all the protocols, a non-immune should be sandwichedbetween immunes. Also, Onni seemed to be putting on the mask in danger slower than required and was overall sloppy about safety. As if he didn’t care if he lived or not. But Lalli did care! They were each other’s last family! Still, Lalli didn’t know what to do. Maybe ask Emil for advice? The stupid Swede had a surprising ability to cheer him up with a couple of words and a smile. Right, Emil. Lalli was through all sorts of thoughts and put up with a loss of some salmiakki, and his friend was still tinkering with the glass. In vain. The rubber around the frame had grown hard as stone rather than fallen apart. Kisu came to check on her humans and licked her nose. She was clearly sure her humans would share treats with her. No, Lalli was absolutely not going to share. He nudged her away with his toe. In vain. The cat flowed around him back to the glass box. Meanwhile Emil realised he’d never cope by himself and called Mikkel. Oh no. One more person to share the candy with! Because the Dane had always been treating Lalli to tasty bits. On the other side... Mikkel approached the box from the other side, measured it with a glance, and then shook the whole big box. That’s something only big Mikkel could do. The box creaked and cracked but held together as it leaned. Packs and bottles scattered down from their stick shelves. Great! There should be a hinged door on the bottom, one could push it and get a grip of anything inside the bottom tray, including that one wonderful red-and-black pack. And Lalli snatched it and tore it. The lump inside smelt just fine. Salmiakki, salty liquorice. Kisu was all eyes and sniffs and whiskers, so he held out the pack to her. She recoiled, sneezing and shaking her head, ears flat, then sat far and started washing her muzzle in a frenzy. Stupid. Then Lalli stood to offer the treat to Emil. Emil flinched and made his usual "yuck” face. Absolutely like Kisu. Oh great, then Lalli’d have more of the sweets to himself. Hoping for the 'no' answer, he offered the pack to Mikkel. The Dane just raised an eyebrow and said something disapproving. Like, you should not eat it? He was hard to understand; Lalli was picking mainly the tone because Mikkel used long and strange words, and his voice was unclear, unlike Emil's. Or Sigrun's, who was asking clearly and loudly what they were meddling with over there— Noise. Black hum in his head, shapeless and distant before, grew focused. Lalli froze, hand raised towards his comrades. First rule: stand still, stay silent! And a beast, a troll, or a giant might go away. But the troll—it was a troll, right—was coming. Rolling toward them inside a rusted bus. Did it notice them, or what? And why didn’t Lalli notice it—well, he did, but could not single it out from the background noise of all grosslings within some kilometres. Even Kisu didn’t puff, even if she stood as still as the humans. Only at about fifty meters distance a distorted, tired voice wedged into the mental droning. <The bus has arrived at the airport, Terminal one, and is departing in three minutes, please enter through the front door and show your tickets to the driver>… Gibberish. Emil stared at Lalli round-eyed and tense, as if asking, Stay or run? His hand was resting on the gunsling, not on the gun handle, and now he didn’t dare to jerk it out. Mikkel’s shotgun was leaning on the bench beside Reynir, but the Icelander would not manage to grab it fast enough and could not shoot properly, he was squatting on the ground, hiding behind the bench, mask on. And Onni was on the other side of the bench, facing the grossling, and still without the mask, stupid! Or had he even tried? The stupid metal thing was crawling closer, and who knew what kind of troll drove it? What if it was some sort of kalma? And Lalli darted away from his cousin, shouted “Stand still!” and flung the first piece to hand into a broken bus window. Perkele, it was the red-and-black pack! The bus slowed down and crawled back after Lalli. Maybe. Hard to tell while running, with Emil blocking his view. The Swede was also flinging small—crisps? Soda?— Boom! It was not crisps. The bus burst apart with glass shards and troll bits. Lalli ran back. The black noise was waning really fast. Emil might be slow and clumsy most of the time, but he was really good at throwing his incendiaries. Stop, and the troll pieces, did they fall on any non-immunes? Phew, no, the Icelander had dashed far enough, and Onni had turned away. And he did pull his mask up. Good. And Sigrun snatched her pistol out in time and jumped between the troll and Onni. And Mikkel grabbed all their backpacks in time and hurried away from the bus stop to the planned route. Right, they’d better move fast before more grosslings come to the noise. Lalli was bringing up the rear of their tiny crowd, watching that nothing trailed behind, yet he spared a second to dive into the overturned troll bus. When the station was lost behind woods and road turns, the team slowed down from a trot to a quick pace—less stomping, less panting. Mikkel’s stomping and panting, that is. Until he returned the backpacks to their owners. They made a camp on top of a rocky hill. Reynir was drawing his stupid signs with a charred stick, Onni was rigging up his fishline alarm downhill. While stirring bush leaves in a teapot, Mikkel made a notice about time and looked at the boys. Lalli tugged Emil by the sleeve to demand an explanation—Mikkel’s Scandinavian was really mushy. Emil explained in clearer and simpler words that the troll bus had arrived exactly on time from the timetable, the one that hung between the benches and the sweetsbox. Lalli snickered. He had made it. Well, it was also some luck that the candy pack survived the explosion because it had gotten stuck under a seat and did not drop out because the candy pieces had melted into one piece and glued to the pack. With no effort, Lalli broke one small brittle piece of that lump— “What the… what are you doing?!” That was Onni. He must’ve heard the package rustle, and in a heartbeat he was by his cousin’s side, shaking him to make up for the need to shout quietly. “Spit it out! Now! It’s age old! You’d better eat porridge, not that trash. If you get food poisoning, I won’t… Okay, I will cure you, but—Didn’t Grandma teach you not to stuff rubbish into your mouth?” Just like in the times before... everything: when Onni believed that his cousin was getting out of hand, he’d use an opinion of their late and lost Grandma as a lever. And the indignant and scared stare above the mask was absolutely familiar. Good old twitchy Onni was still there. Maybe it was not too late. Lalli smirked and shoved a piece of forbidden candy into his mouth. Purr, it was salty, and tangy, and metallic, and apothecary (which taste he despised usually, but in this mix it was weirdly good). He explained while chewing: “Nah. Still good. This very pack name preserves well. Other scouts did try it many times, and I did, too, and I was fine. It’s weird but nice. Try one.” Breaking Lalli’s hopes, Onni did take the pack. But instead of eating any, he started reading the letters on it. “Hmph. It has more preservative agents than liquorice. This thing had not been wholesome even before it expired, and now it’s pure shit.” Lalli did wonder sometimes what salmiakki had tasted like a century ago. What of that odd mess was natural, and what was decay? He was pondering on the mysteries of humanity just for a second, but his cousin had already put the pack under his shirt and declared he would toss it later, on their way next day. Unfair! If he threw it out now from the rock, Lalli would have retrieved it at night and eaten it in secret, without lectures. No matter. He would have plenty of time to steal it back from his cousin at night. That’s harder than to grope around the rock in darkness, but he’d try his best. Everything could turn out right, after all. He’d make time.