Page 142 of North Is the Night
The goddess’s hand shifts in mine and the gift between us drops to the floor, shattering at our feet. Mielikki grips my hand, her eyes opening once more. They now glow white. Her mouth opens in a soundless scream, her body rigid, as the white light glows inside her mouth.
I pull away, but the goddess holds me fast.
“Don’t fight her,” Tuoni says, from somewhere to my right.
“Forest Mother speaks,” someone shouts.
A dark sense of foreboding seeps through my veins as the goddess takes a deep, rattling breath. Her voice comes out like a rasping chant, her glowing white eyes locked on me:
The son of Death comes on Raven’s swiftest wings.
Born of life, born of death, he shall master both.
He shall be the Light of Louhi, Manala’s Son.
Look for him with the Raven and the Bear.
Look for him in fire and water.
Look for him in iron and blood.
He comes...
He comes...
All Death shall be powerless in his hands.
Mielikki’s hand slackens in mine. Her eyelids flutter, the white light fading, before she drops like a stone to the floor. A few maidens shriek, stumbling back. All eyes in the room shift from the goddess to me.
“Well, this is just perfect,” comes Vammatar’s droll voice. “Don’t tell us the little maggot is already pregnant.”
I barely have time to turn to Tuoni before all the lights go out. I panic, heart racing, as I blink in the dark. From the corner of the room, a shrill cackle rends the air. “And now the games can really begin.”
42
Siiri
Standing in the middleof Väinämöinen’s hut in my itse form, I peer down at where my body lays sprawled out by the fire, drum on my chest, mallet still in hand. “Is this really necessary?”
“This is your last lesson, Siiri. You need to know this before you go to Tuonela,” the shaman replies. “How do you feel?”
“I feel fine,” I reply. “It’s just a little odd. I look dead.” I nudge my body with my toe.
“Can you feel any consciousness here?” he asks, gesturing to the Siiri on the floor.
I close my eyes, willing myself to feel my body the way I did with my luonto. No matter how good it felt to be the bird, I was always aware that I was also Siiri. I focus on my tattoos, flexing my hands. Perhaps the prickling, itching pain of them might spark some familiarity. With a huff, I open my eyes. “I can’t feel a thing.”
“So, you see the danger,” he says solemnly. “You are utterly cut off from your body, Siiri. The only sensation you can feel through the tether is mortal peril. Your unconscious self at least affords you that protection.”
“Mortal peril?”
Väinämöinen drops to his knees at my body’s side. Reaching out with both hands, he chokes me, his hands squeezing tight around my neck.
“Hey—what do you think you’re doing?”
“Stay back,” he commands. “Tell me when you feel it.”
To my horror, the old shaman chokes the life out of my unconscious body. In moments, it begins to squirm. My arms flutter as my legs spasm. The first sensation I feel is a sharp pain in my tattoos. I rub the rune of the bear-riding girl. Then my own throat constricts, and I gasp. I clutch my throat as the shaman continues to squeeze. “Stop,” I pant. “Gods—enough—”
