Page 116 of North Is the Night
I untie the worn leather strings. Working the top open with two fingers, I dip one inside. Fine black dust coats my skin. “It’s ash.”
“It’s not just any ash, fool girl.” He takes the bag holding it reverently, his eyes misting. “It’s oak ash, taken from the first oak tree.”
I go still, heart racing. “You can’t mean... the oak you planted with Sampsa Pellervoinen?” I can hardly believe it. How many times has Mummi told me stories of Väinämöinen and that first oak tree?
“The very same,” he says, smiling.
“The oak that grew so tall it blotted out the sun, moon, and stars?”
He chuckles as he mixes a pinch of the ash into a bowl with water. “It was tall, yes. The songs may exaggerate it a bit, though.”
I frown at him. “You wrote the songs.”
He laughs again, that mustache twitching.
“The oak tree was cut down by the Copper Man, yes? They say he was as tall as the tree.”
“When I first met him, he was so small he could fit in my pocket,” Väinämöinen replies. “I thought it was a trick when he emerged from the water in his little copper suit saying he was sent to fell the tree. But then, my mother always liked a good joke.”
“Your mother,” I murmur. Sometimes I forget where I am. I sit before Väinämöinen, greatest of all shamans, and the All-Mother is his mother.
He hums, focused on his work as he turns the ash to ink. “Take the other leather pouch out of that box.” He directs me with a nod towards the small box on the table.
I flip the lid, curious to see what other treasures he keeps. Inside are a few trinkets: a fine-toothed comb, a jeweled brooch, a lock of black hair tied with a white string, and the pouch. I run my finger over the tines of the ornate bone comb. “These look like they belonged to a lady.”
“They did... they do,” he corrects.
“Who?” I say, plucking out the pouch.
“A friend,” he replies. “She left it with me for safekeeping.”
“What’s in this pouch?”
“Open it and see.”
I wrinkle my nose as I inspect the soil pinched between my fingers. “Is itdirt?”
He hums again. “Grave dirt. From Tuonela.”
I scowl down at the bag.
“Give us a pinch, then,” he says, stirring the ink with a thin twig.
My hand tightens on the pouch. “You’ll mix grave dirt into the ink? You’re asking me to wear Tuonela under my skin?”
Slowly, he looks up, his eyes somber and knowing. “Life and death, Siiri. A shaman must seek to understand, respect, andappreciateboth. You don’t fear death any more than I do; you harbor hatred of the death gods, which is itself your great grief at the loss of your beloved Aina. If you are to become any kind of shaman at all, you must be willing tounderstandTuonela and her gods. They are part of the great balance.” He holds out the little bowl of ink, waiting.
With a huff, I work a pinch of the black soil between my fingers, sprinkling it atop the wet ink. “Life and death,” I echo, watching as he stirs it in. I take a swig of his terrible barley mash, coughing as it burns its way down my throat.
Slowly, he reaches across the table for my hand.
Clutching the cup in my right hand, I extend my left. “Väinämöinen?”
He bends his head over my hand as he gently washes it. “Hmm?”
“Who was she?”
“Who was who?” he replies, not looking up.
