Page 109 of North Is the Night
I call out to my luonto,Be free, my friend.
Stillness washes over me. Arching my shoulders back, I breathe deeply, opening my chest wide. The light wants to be free, and I want nothing more than to free it. On a deep exhale, I let go, one word fluttering in my mind:Fly.
My heart races, an odd buzzing in my chest. I feel dizzy and disoriented. The last thing I remember is sitting on the floor of Väinämöinen’s hut. I remember the drum. The sound still echoes in my ears. I was trying to release my luonto. Did it work?
As I open my eyes, I’m suddenly bobbed up and down. I grip the branch beneath me, holding on for dear life. My body feels strange—light as air, but strong. I flit left, then right, testing the strength of my wings.
I have wings.
Exuberance bubbles out of me as I flap them again.
The hut is right below me. Light glows from the smoke hole as white smoke rises in a steady stream. At the far end of my branch, close to the trunk, a white-tailed eagle watches me. He has a curved yellow beak ending in a deadly point. His eyes gleam in the dawn light.
How do I communicate to him that I’m well and unharmed—that I’m me?
I hop up and down, flapping my wings and clicking my beak.
With a nod, the eagle pushes off the branch and launches into the sky. His massive wings unfurl, and he flies upwards, following the spiral of the smoke.
There is no time for doubt. If I’m a bird, I can fly too. I must trust in the strength of my luonto. Opening my wings, I take a leap of faith, launching myself into the air. With a thrill, I feel myself rising, not falling.
I’m flying.
As soon as I feel the first cold rush of the air against my wings, I’m free. I climb higher, chasing after the soaring eagle. With the last of the night’s stars above us and a blanket of snow below, we fly off beyond the hut towards the frozen lake. The eagle swoops suddenly downward, pulling its wings in tight to plummet towards the ground. As he nears the frozen surface of the lake, he stretches out his wings and soars along the ice. Crystals of fresh, powdery snow stir under his wingtips.
I don’t know how long we ride the current, darting between the trees. But all too soon, Väinämöinen lands atop a towering pine. My heart drops, even as I follow. I don’t want this magic to end. For the first time, I feel unburdened, truly wild. A secret part of me wants to stay as a bird forever. But the stoic eagle catches my eye. His curved beak clicks, his chest feathers ruffle, and I can almost hear the old man’s voice.
Watch me.
A white light begins to glow at the center of his chest. With a faint pop, he disappears in a puff of feathers. My body goes rigid as I feel a sensation like someone gripping my shoulder.
Come back, a deep voice whispers in my ear.Return your light.
I puzzle out his meaning, remembering how it felt to release the light to free my luonto. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on willing all the pieces of myself I set free to coalesce into a ball of light. The more I feed of myself into the light, the more the sensation of being a bird fades. For a frantic moment, my luonto clings to freedom. I understand the impulse well. But my will prevails as I turn inward, following the light home.
“Come on.” Väinämöinen’s voice is soft, muffled. “Come back now, girl. First time is always the hardest.”
I’m lying flat on my back, my face turned to the side. Soft reindeer fur tickles my nose. Blinking my eyes open, I sit up quickly, rubbing my arms and chest. My forgotten drum clatters to the floor as a sheen of sweat breaks out across my forehead. I feel dizzy.
“Easy, there. Take it slow.”
Too late. I sway, feeling the churning of my gut. Väin-ämöinen is ready. He sets a bucket between my knees with a chuckle, just in time for me to double over and empty myself of my breakfast.
“The first time is always disorienting,” he soothes. “You did well. You’re a natural. I’ve had students spread their wings only to crash right back down to earth.”
Heaving a deep breath, I groan, lifting my head out of the bucket. “What was I?”
“Here.” He ignores my question, pressing something into my hand. “Nettle and willow bark. Chew it. The nausea will soon ease.”
I pop the small wad in my mouth. My teeth release the juices of the nettle. The bark is hard, soaked in something to give it a little sweetness. In a moment, the waves of nausea buffeting me like water against rocks begin to recede. I push the bucket away, rubbing a shaky hand over my face. “It all felt so real.”
“Itwasreal,” the shaman says with a laugh. “You were the bird, and you were also in here. Both happened.”
“What was I?” I ask again.
Väinämöinen smiles, his blue eyes twinkling. “Your luonto is a woodpecker.”
I frown. “A woodpecker?” I can’t deny feeling a little crestfallen. I was hoping to be a bird of prey. If not an eagle, perhaps an owl or a hawk.
