Jari and the Faceless Man
The hermit lived in a log cabin.
A small, grey, moss-covered building stood in the middle of the forest, as if it had grown from the ground itself.
He didn’t go to the village. He didn’t talk on the phone. He didn’t send Christmas cards.
He only carved.
Every morning, he would quietly sharpen his knife, take a piece of wood, and start whittling. Most often, the figure was small and hunched. Sometimes it looked just like a person. At times… a little too familiar.
No one knew his name. But everyone said: ”That’s the Faceless Man.”
Jari decided to go meet him. Not because he wanted to – but because something called him.
The old wooden figure he had found in his attic had begun to feel strangely heavy. On its back was carved a date: ”15 March 1965” – the day Jari was born.
”That can’t be just a coincidence…”
He drove his car as far as he could, then continued on foot along the forest road. The path narrowed, branches scraped his sleeves. The forest began to feel older than anything else in the world. The silence wasn’t just silence – it was waiting for something.
And then he saw it. A small, mossy log cabin. Smoke rose from the chimney. In the yard, among the stumps, sat a hermit with a knife in hand, carving.
Jari stepped closer. The man didn’t look at him. He just kept carving. A wooden figure that looked exactly like Jari.
The old man looked at Jari. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He didn’t say a word.
The silence hung in the air like a veil that could not be pushed aside. Jari stood motionless, still holding the old wooden figure in his hand.
Finally, the old man said just one word:
”Hello.”
His voice was rough and low, as if it had been carved into wood with a coarse chisel.
Jari swallowed.
”I’m Jari… I came to see who makes these.”
The old man didn’t answer. He just placed the knife on his lap and looked Jari straight in the eyes.
And then Jari felt it. As if his memory had shifted. Something was forgotten – or pushed aside. He was no longer entirely sure why he had come.
The old man slowly raised the wooden figure. There was something new on its face. A scar that hadn’t been there before.
The old man rose slowly, the wooden figure in one hand, the knife in the other.
Then he grunted:
”Well, come on in, damn it. Can’t leave a man standing out there.”
The warmth of the cabin rushed to meet him – a mix of tobacco, tar, and birch smoke. Wood shavings covered the floor, carved figures hung on the walls. Some had familiar faces.
The old man pointed at a chair by the fireplace.
”Sit. You won’t last long otherwise.”
Jari sat down. The old man placed the wooden figure on the table, next to his own work – and the two figures seemed to look at each other, as if they had known each other for a long time.
”You have questions,” the old man said. ”But here, answers aren’t free.”
The old man sat on his own stool, took a new block of wood, and began carving. The knife whispered against the wood, in a steady rhythm.
Then he paused for a moment, took a crumpled rolling paper and an old tobacco pouch from his denim jacket pocket.
”Roll one.”
The old man pushed a filter across the table and grunted:
”We don’t smoke alone here. Roll one for your friend too.”
Jari nodded and began rolling. His hands trembled slightly. Not from the cold – but from the atmosphere.
The old man kept carving while Jari lit a cigarette and handed him the other one.
They sat quietly for a while. In the smoke, the old man spoke softly:
”Do you know… where wooden figures really come from? From those who forget who they are.”
The old man set aside the figure he was carving, picked up the knife from the table, and slid it toward Jari.
”Now carve a man.”
Jari looked at the knife.
”I’m no carver,” he said quietly.
The old man lit his cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled slowly.
”You used to be. Let’s see if you still are.”
He tossed a piece of wood onto the table – it already had a shape.
The beginning of a head.
Jari felt it immediately. It reminded him of someone. Not quite a mirror image – but almost.
He began carving.
Shavings flew onto the table, mixing with the smoke. The old man said nothing. He just watched.
A face took shape. But it wasn’t Jari’s. It wasn’t the old man’s.
It was his mother’s.
Jari carved – the knife gliding over the wood as if it knew the way without him.
A memory. Not a dream. Not an imagination.
A real memory.
He was sitting in the same cabin. Six years old. His mother stood in the doorway, speaking to the old man:
”We pass by here every time we go to the summer cottage. Jari loves your little wooden men.”
The old man had been younger then. On the table was a wooden figure – a small boy wearing a blue cap and a red hoodie, exactly like Jari’s at the time.
”Take it with you,” the old man had said then. ”It’ll keep you in memory.”
And Jari remembered how he had taken it, held it in his hand all summer – and then forgotten it.
He stopped carving. The face in the sculpture – his mother, young, laughing.
The old man grunted:
”Do you remember now why you came?”
They spent many hours on the lake. The old man rowed, Jari gazed at the scenery in silence. There was a feeling that something old had awakened again.
They talked about wooden figures, childhood, silence, and people who forget themselves.
”This lake knows more than we do,” the old man said quietly.
”It remembers everything, but it won’t speak unless asked the right way.”
On the way back, the old man threw out a challenge:
”Let’s have a carving contest. Who can make the best figure?”
”What should its name be?” Jari asked.
The old man thought for a moment, spat into the lake, and said:
”You carve Valtteri. I’ll make Kaarlo.”
And so they began carving. The contest was never officially ended.
But both knew who carved from memory – and who carved from the heart.
Jari was still standing among the wooden figures when the old man let out a deep sigh.
”Let’s have some coffee,” he said, moving slowly toward the stove.
There was something heavy in his movements – not just from age, but from pain.
As the coffee brewed, the old man leaned on the table and said plainly:
”I have cancer.”
Jari fell silent.
The warmth of the cabin seemed to grow heavier.
”Not much time left,” the old man continued, his gaze fixed on an unfinished carving.
”I don’t want these to go to waste… or for someone who doesn’t understand to take them.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, worn key.
”This is to the back room of the cabin,” the old man said, pressing the key into Jari’s hand.
”Inside is everything I’ve collected, carved, and kept. Some things you may not understand yet – but you will.”
”There are stories in there. Ones I’ve never told anyone but myself.
They must be kept safe, and you… you know how to listen.”
Jari tried to find words, but the old man raised his hand to stop him.
”Don’t say anything now. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”
The old man glanced out the window.
”You’d better head home. Soon it’ll be so dark you won’t see the path.”
When Jari stood up, the old man took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
”Remember that key,” he said in a low voice.
”It’s more than just metal.”
Jari nodded, slipped the key into his pocket, and left.
The old man stood in the doorway until Jari disappeared into the forest.
At home, Jari placed the key on the table.
He couldn’t sleep all night.
In the morning, he had made his decision.
He would return to the cabin – and use the key