Stállu and the Brave Sami Boy

High up on the quiet mountain heath stood a lavvu of thick poles and soft reindeer hides. Inside the lavvu, Áilu's grandmother tended the fire. Her hands were full of calm, and her voice sounded like a low joik. Áilu was eight years old. He had black hair, warm eyes, and a blue woollen cap with four round points. Outside the lavvu the snow fell slowly, as if the sky were breathing. The reindeer stood in a loose ring, chewing lichen. Everything was still. Almost.

Grandmother looked up from the fire. 'Áilu', she said kindly, 'count the reindeer one more time.' Áilu nodded and stepped out into the blue dusk. He counted them his own way, slowly and without hurry. One, two, three, four ... he reached twenty. Then one was missing. The little reindeer Lásse, the one with the white patch on his forehead, was not in the herd. Áilu went back into the lavvu. 'Grandmother', he said quietly, 'Lásse is gone.'

Grandmother laid a soft hand on Áilu's shoulder. 'A little reindeer never goes far', she said. 'He stays where the lichen smells good and the wind does not bite. Follow the tracks and be quiet. The quiet one sees everything.' She gave him a piece of dried reindeer meat in his pocket and tied the bands of his cap under his chin. Áilu took his small knife at his belt and his reindeer-hide bag over his shoulder. Then he stepped out again. The snow crunched softly under his boots.

Lásse's tracks were clear in the new snow. Two little hoof prints side by side, then two more, about an arm's length ahead. Áilu followed them. The dusk grew deeper, and the sky took on a dark blue colour like Grandmother's finest skirt. The stars began to open their eyes, one by one. His breath became small white clouds in front of his mouth. The tracks led in a long, winding curve toward the birch wood in the east. Áilu followed, calm and quiet.

At the edge of the birch wood, Áilu stood perfectly still. Among the trunks, not far away, stood a very large being. He was taller than the tallest tree, but he leaned against an old pine and was almost asleep. On his head he wore a hat of thick moss, and in his beard there were leaves and small reindeer lichens. It was Stállu, the old giant of the mountains. Áilu remembered what Grandmother always said. Stállu is not wicked. He is only big, old, and always a little tired.