Page 117 of North Is the Night
“The girl who gave you that box,” I say. “The girl you stole out of Tuonela.”
He goes still. “What do you mean?”
“You say you took something from Tuonela,” I press. “I thought it might be some deep magic, another spell...”
“But?”
“But others before and after you stole spells from Tuonela—or so the stories say,” I continue. “I believe you took something else. The gods fought you to keep it. Once you were free of them, they continued to hunt you. They never forgave you. They can never forget. All these long years later, the Witch Queen still wreaks her vengeance on you. Few emotions have the power to create such enmity.”
“And which emotions are those?”
I know he’s testing me. I know he wants to see if I can puzzle this out on my own. We’ll call it more shaman training. “Jealousy is a powerful emotion. It tends to linger. It makes us irrational. Grief, too... but grief often fades with time, thank the gods,” I add, thinking of the scar in my heart where my mother once lived.
“Are those the only two motivations for the Witch Queen’s enmity?”
“Love,” I whisper, my gaze locked on our joined hands.
“Love?”
I look up. “You say that to be a shaman, I must understand and respect the death gods. Well, I think the Witch Queen and I have something in common. I understand her rage, her resolute determination.”
“Oh?”
I nod. “She fights with the same fire of will I now wield to free Aina. You took someone from her... didn’t you? It must be someone dear to her, someone important. A child, perhaps?”
His mustache twitches as he holds my gaze. “Your passion does you credit.”
“An answer that is no answer at all.”
“Knowledge is power,” he intones.
“Meaning you still don’t trust me with your secrets. What must I do to prove myself?”
“Continue your training,” he replies gently. “Master your itse, and I will tell you all I know of Tuonela. I will tell you who I met there... and what I took.” He picks up a sharp fish bone, dipping it in the black ink. “But first, we must get you tethered.” He taps the table with a tattooed finger.
Flexing my fingers flat on the cool wood, I relax, willing him to begin.
Väinämöinen proves to have gentle hands, but there is no ignoring that he’s piercing my skin over and over. Using a damp rag, he wipes away my blood along with the excess ink. He’s methodical, completing each rune and pausing to admire his work.
I spend most of the day gazing at the crown of his head. He stays hunched over my hand, humming quietly as he works. The rune of the bear-riding girl is followed by ones for the sun, a lake, reindeer and a hut, a bow and arrow, and two hunters denoting my brothers. Like the shaman, I now have runes going up my fingers as well, covering the first and second knuckles—runes for strength and joy, one for time, one for love, one for power.
“This hand represents life,” he says, putting the finishing touches on the rune for my shaman drum on the first knuckle of my thumb. “Your other hand will represent Tuonela.”
“Will I go there tonight? Am I ready?”
He snorts. “A girl with fresh tattoos who only just learned how to free her luonto? I’ll not send you through the veil until we’re sure you can inhabit your itse and recall it again.”
“We don’t have time to practice,” I counter. “The death witches could be working all manner of pain and suffering upon Aina. She could be injured. She could be—” I swallow the words, refusing to say them aloud, even if they burn in the quiet darkness of my heart.
Slowly, Väinämöinen gazes up at me. “Go on, girl. Say it.”
I shake my head.
“Sayit,” he barks. “Speak aloud that which you fear.”
A moment stretches between us; only the fire crackles.
“She could be dead,” I whisper.
