to the north, south, east, and west—in all directions for hundreds of miles—stretched forests and bogs enveloped in a wide-spread veil of lichen. brown-trunked cedars and pines towered on high. beneath there was a thick, impenetrable jungle of firs, alders, wild-berries, junipers, and low-hanging birches. pungent, deep-sunken, lichen- covered springs of reddish water were hidden amidst undergrowth in little glades, couched in layers of turf bordered by red bilberries and huckleberries.
with september came the frosts—fifty degrees below zero. the snow lay everywhere—crisp and dazzling. there was daylight for three or four hours only; the remainder of the time it was night. the sky was lowering, and brooded darkly over the earth. there was a tense hush and stillness, only broken in september by the lowing of mating elks. in december came the mournful, sinister howling of the wolves; for the rest of the time—a deep, dreadful, overpowering silence! a silence that can be found only in the wastelands of the world.
a village stood on the hill by the river.
the bare slope descended to the water's edge, a grey-brown granite, and white slatey clay, steep, beaten by wind and rain. clumsy discoloured boats were anchored to the bank. the river was broad, dark, and cold, its surface broken by sombre, choppy, bluish waves. here and there the grey silhouettes of huts were visible; their high, projecting, boarded roofs were covered by greenish lichen. the windows were shuttered. nets dried close by. it was the abode of hunters who went long excursions into the forests in winter, to fight the wild beasts.
