Sampo the Little Lapp

Far, far away in the north, where in winter the sun does not rise at all, there lived a little Sami boy called Sampo. He lived with his mum and dad in a tent made of reindeer skins on the bank of the wide River Tana, and all around them grazed their herd of reindeer.

His mother called him Little Lapp. Travelling merchants had once named him that: where they came from, the Sami were called Lapps, and a little Sami boy was, of course, a little Lapp. Mum liked the word, because it rang so funny and so tender, like a bell on a reindeer’s neck.

Sampo was eight years old. He could already harness a reindeer to a pulka all by himself (a low little sled shaped like a boat), and he was afraid of nothing. Well, almost nothing.

“Don’t go far, Little Lapp,” Mum used to say. “Over there, across the river, stands Mount Rastekaise. The Mountain King Gijsi lives on it. He is so huge that he swallows a reindeer in one gulp, the way you swallow a cloudberry.”

“Then why can’t he be seen in summer?” Sampo asked.

“Because his beard is made of ice. In summer the sun warms it, and the beard melts. So he hides inside the mountain and waits for winter.”

And winter in the north is one long, long night. The sun hides behind the edge of the earth and does not show itself, not in the morning and not at noon. Only the moon, the stars and the northern lights shine, green, white and pink, as if someone had hung silk scarves across the sky. Sampo loved the northern lights. But he had not seen the sun for so long that he had even forgotten what it looked like.

“Dad, will the sun ever come back?” he asked one day.

“It will,” Dad smiled. “Come here.”

He led his son out of the tent and pointed south. There, above the black top of Rastekaise, a thin red stripe was glowing faintly, warm as an ember in a campfire.

“See? That is the sun coming to us. Just a little longer, and it will rise.”

“Oh, but then the mosquitoes will come too!” Sampo grimaced.

“Don’t worry, the mosquitoes sleep until summer,” Dad laughed.

That night Sampo could not fall asleep at all. He kept thinking about the red stripe and about the Mountain King. “I wonder what his beard is like,” he thought. “I’ll only drive a tiny bit closer to the mountain, take a peek with one eye, and come straight back.”

He crept out of the tent, harnessed his reindeer to the pulka, and swish-swish over the snow! The reindeer flew like the wind, the stars twinkled, the frost nipped his cheeks. And the mountain kept growing and growing, black, all the way up to the sky.

Suddenly, bang! The pulka hit a rock and tipped over. Sampo flew head over heels into a snowdrift, and the reindeer, without even looking back, galloped on into the dark.

Sampo climbed out, shook himself off and looked around. Snow all around, silence, and the mountain. Home was far away, and his feet were freezing.

“If I stand here, I’ll freeze,” he told himself. “I’d better climb up.”

And he climbed. He climbed and climbed, and then he saw a wolf sitting on a rock. A huge grey one, with eyes glowing like two green candles.

“Well, well,” said the wolf, licking his lips. “What is this little Sami boy? You will make a tasty breakfast!”

“I’m not a breakfast, I’m Sampo,” said the boy, though his knees were trembling.

“Don’t shake so,” the wolf yawned. “Today is the Feast of the Sun. For an hour before sunrise and an hour after, nobody harms anybody, the Mountain King has ordered it. Climb on my back and I’ll give you a ride. But after the feast, snap! So watch out.”

Sampo thought he had no choice anyway, and settled on the wolf’s back. The wolf raced uphill, the snow flying from under his paws.

On the top of Rastekaise it was crowded. No, it was animal-crowded! All the animals of Lapland had gathered: bears and reindeer, foxes and hares, owls and arctic foxes, and even tiny lemmings. Trolls had come from far-off Spitsbergen and from the North Pole itself, shaggy and grey with frost. And in the middle, on a throne of stone and ice, sat Gijsi.

He was so huge that his hat caught on the clouds. His beard was icy, down to his knees, and the icicles on it jingled: ding-a-ling. His eyes were like two frozen holes in the ice. Beside him stood his reindeer with golden antlers, and those antlers glowed in the dark like two lanterns.

Gijsi rose and roared so that the mountain shook:

“Eternal winter and eternal night! The sun is dead! It will never rise again!”

The animals hung their heads. The trolls giggled. Even the bears went quiet. And Sampo jumped out from behind the wolf:

“That’s not true, Mountain King! I saw the sun yesterday! It’s already coming, and in summer your beard will melt!”

Everyone froze. Gijsi slowly turned and stretched out a huge icy hand towards the boy...

At that very moment the sun peeped over the edge of the earth. The first ray, golden and warm, struck Gijsi right in the eyes. The Mountain King squeezed his eyes shut, staggered, and fell back onto his throne.

And the animals and trolls cried out with joy. The reindeer leaped, the bears hugged, the hares turned somersaults, and the trolls from Spitsbergen danced so hard that frost showered off them. The mountains turned pink, the snow sparkled, and Sampo laughed with everyone and held up his frozen cheeks to the sun.

But the hour of the feast was passing fast. Sampo noticed that the wolves were already eyeing him and licking their lips. So he quietly crept up to the golden-antlered reindeer, hopped onto his back, and...

“Hold on!” called the reindeer, and down the mountain they flew.

Behind them came a rumble. A whole thousand bears were chasing them, and after them a hundred thousand wolves. The snow rose in a cloud, the ground hummed like a drum. And then it thundered even louder: Gijsi himself had set off down the mountain, and every step of his was like thunder.

“Where are we going?” Sampo shouted.

“There is one house where the Mountain King may not go,” the reindeer answered. “The pastor’s house by Lake Inari. Hold on tight!”

They raced across rivers and bogs, through forests and snowdrifts, until they saw a light in a little window. The reindeer leapt into the yard, Sampo into the doorway, and the old pastor was just reading a thick book by candlelight.

Then, bang! bang! bang! Gijsi pounded on the door.

“Give me the boy! He is mine!”

“Wait a moment, Mountain King, let me put on my church robes,” the pastor answered calmly.

And while Gijsi pounded on the door, he filled a bowl with water, sprinkled Sampo’s head and baptised him.

From then on Gijsi had no power over Sampo at all. The pastor opened the door and said:

“This boy is not yours. Go back to your mountain.”

Gijsi roared and puffed himself up until his whole icy beard crackled, and then suddenly he scattered into a snowstorm. Shh-hhh-whoosh! The storm whirled around the house, buried it up to the roof, and flew away beyond the forests and the mountains.

In the morning the sun rose over Lake Inari. It warmed the land, and the drift by the house sank, darkened and trickled away in little streams. Of Gijsi no trace was left.

The pastor lent Sampo a pulka. The boy harnessed the golden-antlered reindeer to it and raced home to the River Tana. Mum ran out of the tent, gasped, and hugged her son so hard that his hat flew off. And Dad laughed, rubbed his eyes with his mitten and said:

“Well, Little Lapp, what a rascal you are! Did you go to meet the sun?”

“I did,” Sampo nodded. “It came. I told you so.”

They say Gijsi still lives on Rastekaise. Every winter he roars that the sun is dead. But every time, someone turns up, even someone very small, who shouts at him, “That’s not true!” and the sun comes back.