Other creatures even have certain words that resemble prayer: special words of thanks for the sunlight, and other words of thanks for gusting wind, for rain, soil, plants, light, warmth, food, smells, and water. And they have words of longing. But none of the creatures' languages have any words meant to humiliate or ridicule. No, not that.
If you'd like, Maya and Matti, the man said, and gently laid his heavy, tired hands on the back of a small goat that had come and curled up to rest in Shigi's brown fur, if you'd like, we'll try to teach them to you too, slowly. The way we taught Nimi, who found his way to us before you. Yes, Nimi the Owl, Nimi with the constantly runny nose, the one everyone down below says has whoopitis. But deep in your hearts, Maya and Matti, you have both known for a long time that there is no such illness in the world. Whoopitis was invented only to keep people from getting close. To isolate people. And in fact, from now on, you two will be our guests, mine and all the creatures that live with me here in the garden of our mountain home.
Because you're staying here. With us.
The man was silent for a moment, then in a different voice, said with a kind of firm quietness that left no room for refusal or argument: Now follow me.
And he didn't wait to see whether they would come or not, but turned around and began walking serenely toward the house, and he didn't look back, but kept talking to them from where he'd left off. He told them that many years ago, he had loved a girl in his class, Emanuella, but he never told her he loved her, so it was unrequited love. Nor did he tell anyone else about his secret love, because he was afraid that everyone, and especially Emanuella herself, would insult and ridicule and humiliate him twice as much if they found out.
When Matti and Maya and Shigi the bear and the little goat Sisa followed the man into the house, the children saw that it wasn't a castle at all, just one large, high-ceilinged room, a warm room built entirely of unpolished wooden beams and furnished only with simple and essential furniture, pieces sawed from tree trunks and strong branches still covered in their rough bark.
The man sat Maya and Matti down on either side of a solid and slightly clumsy table made of thick planks of wood, and the bear and the goat curled up together and fell asleep under it. Then he continued his story: One rainy, foggy winter night, he got up and ran away from the village and his home. At first, he hid in the forests, and then found himself a place here on the mountain, among the animals that all loved him and helped him and took care of him, because down below, people hurt animals too. Sometimes they even abused them.
And so, on that other rainy, foggy night, we all climbed up the mountain forest in a long procession, the man said, because the animals decided to come and live here with me. Now come to the window and get to know the place where you'll be staying from now on: All sorts of exotic fruit grow here, and the clear snow water flows in that brook with the sound of a mountain flute. See the small pool over there? In a little while, you can both take your clothes off and swim in it. Don't be shy with each other. Here, there is no shame in being naked: we are always naked under our clothes, but from the time we're little, we're taught to be ashamed of the truth and take pride in lies. And they train us not to be happy about what we have, but only about what we have that others don't. And even worse, they teach us from the moment we're born to believe all sorts of poisonous ideas that always begin with the words "After all, everyone…"
The man smiled sadly to himself and thought about that for a little while.
But here, he went on, the only shameful thing is ridicule.
And suddenly he added in a different, darker, hushed voice: And yet it sometimes happens, it happens to me almost every night, that I wake up and go down below to take revenge on them in the dark. To terrify them all to death. To glitter suddenly like a skeleton in their windowpanes after they've turned off the lights. Or scrape across the floors and shake the roof beams to give them nightmares. Or to wake them soaked in cold sweat, thinking they have whoopitis too. And once every few years, I draw children to me here. Like Nimi the Owl. Or you.
25
Maya hesitated a moment before she asked her questions, cautiously: But why did you actually decide to run away? Why didn't you ever try to find yourself at least one friend or two? Or a girlfriend? How come you didn't think you should at least try to change something? Or change yourself? You were never curious enough to try to figure out what exactly it was about you that made others mock you? Why you? Too many questions? No? My mother gets cross with me all the time — why do you always ask so many questions, stop it, every one of your questions puts another crack in the walls of our house.
The man didn't look at Maya or Matti, and he took his time in answering too, glancing bitterly at the tips of his fingers, at his large, dark nails. Then he answered all of Maya's questions with five words: It was hard for me.
A moment later, he added, I used to ask questions all the time too. But the questions just made them mock me even more. Until there were so many cracks that I didn't have a house left.
Matti said, Maya. Enough.
But Maya answered him angrily, Why, Matti? Why is it enough? He's so full of self-pity that he's completely forgetting that he himself caused the disaster in our village. Even now, after so many years, when you ask him why he ran away, he avoids giving an answer.
Matti said, But Nimi ran away too. And so did the animals themselves. But you know how it is when the abuse starts. And the mockery. Sometimes I think about running away from them too, from everyone, from home, my parents, the other children, the grownups, my sisters, everyone, and let them think I have whoopitis. To run away and live all by myself in a cave in the forest so no one can tell me do this and don't do that, and aren't you ashamed of yourself.
Maya's answer to this was, But when you dream about running away, Matti, you don't think about taking with you everything that grows. Or the water. Or the light. And you don't dream about how to come back at night and take revenge on everyone.
There was silence. Until Nehi said, But in fact, you both ran away too. And now the whole village is frantic because of you, and your parents are shattered and in despair.
26
And so the two children sat in the home of Nehi the Mountain Demon all evening. And the evening went on and on as if it were under a spell, and for hours the soft evening light caressed them. After the evening light came the twilight, and after an immeasurable time, the dusk of sunset began, and that dusk went on and on and never ended, but flickered and painted the vast sky in a rainbow of gentle hues, as if up here even time itself had been erased. Wiped away. Forever.
The inside of the house confirmed what the children had seen from the outside, that it was not a fortress, only a low, wide building made of thick logs, entirely surrounded by a garden. Matti and Maya strolled through the garden and went back into the house and ate and drank and talked. That was because, right after Nehi frightened them, he tried to make up for it by being nice to them, by offering them luscious fruit to eat, the likes of which they had never tasted before. Then they went out to the garden again to be with the animals, birds, insects, and reptiles. The light faded slowly, but darkness held back. The evening itself came and went, drifting slowly from one flower bed to the other along the garden paths, a hesitant kind of evening that didn't want to be and didn't want to cease.
It was neither day nor night.