Suddenly in the Depths of the Forest

24

Then the man told them that when he was about ten and a half, he gave up on being friends with children his own age or adults and began spending his days with cats and dogs until he learned to understand and even to speak dog-words and cat-talk, not to mention horse-lingo.

After about two or three weeks, the whole village decided that the poor boy had come down with whoopitis, and everyone was very careful not to get close to him. Finally, things became so unpleasant that even his parents gave up on him: they were shamed by the whole village and they were ashamed of him, and also made sure that his younger brothers and sisters didn't get too close to him and catch his disease.

And so, in the end, his parents and all the grown-ups let him wander around the forest alone, as free as the wind and the water, both day and night. Eeorrrriarrr, the man said suddenly in a different voice, and in a moment, a bear with thick, tangled brown fur came out of the bushes, rubbed its heavy head against the man's hand, looked at Matti and Maya with damp beary eyes that were full of curiosity, affection, friendship, shy modesty, and a slight sense of wonder, as if those eyes wanted to explain and say, Sorry, don't be angry, I just don't understand what all this is, I'm very sad to say that I don't understand anything, forgive me, don't expect anything from me; after all, I'm just a bear.

Then the bear turned over and lay down clumsily on its broad back, its legs waving in the air, and began to rub its fur on the carpet of grass and make all sorts of humming sounds in a dark brown bass voice, a deep but warm, wintry voice. Matti quickly retreated three or four steps and tried to pull Maya by the arm, but Maya jerked her arm out of his grasp this time too: Enough, let me go! Matti, run home if that's what you want, no one is forcing you to stay. But I for one want to get to know this place.

And the man said, You're Maya. You're Matti. I'll introduce myself too: I'm Nehi. I'm the Mountain Demon. The sorcerer. And now, meet Shigi. You don't have to be afraid of Shigi. He's a slightly childish bear, a bear that suddenly starts to dance in the middle of a rainstorm, or tries to swat flies with his too-short tail, or hides for hours among the river plants and splashes all the animals that pass by. Shigi. Stop interrupting. I'm in the middle of a story here.

As time went on, the man continued his story: I also learned the language of pigeons, crickets, frogs, goats, fish, and bees. And a few months later, after I disappeared and went off all by myself to live the life of a mountain boy in the forest, I tried to learn more and more animal languages. It wasn't hard, because the languages of animals and birds have many fewer words than the languages of people, and they have only the present tense, there's no past or future at all, and they have only verbs, nouns, and interjections, no other forms.

With the years, I realized that animals sometimes lie too, to escape danger or to show off, or to mislead their prey, or to frighten others, and sometimes just to charm when they're courting. Like we all do.

Creatures even have special words that express joy, excitement, amazement, and pleasure. And the creatures that are considered mute — for instance, butterflies, fireflies, fish, snails — even they have certain words that aren't spoken out loud but are conveyed by all sorts of small vibrations that reach the listener only through the skin, fur, or feathers, not through the ears. Those vibrations are like the gentle ripples made by a leaf that falls onto the smooth surface of a lake when the water is very calm and still.

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.