Page 182 of North Is the Night
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Siiri
A mild spring givesway to a charmed summer. Together, Aina and I do the work of collecting nature’s bountiful harvest. We forage and fish and hunt. Each day, I train Aina in the use of the sword and the bow. By the time her months of waiting pass, the beauty of summer is beginning to fade into a golden autumn.
Her labor is long and painful. Once her waters break, we pray the baby comes quickly... but he doesn’t. She strains for hours, sweating through her clothes. I make teas of willow bark and chamomile, trying to ease her pain. I hold compresses to her forehead and neck, cooling the fires that burn in her.
“He’s never coming out,” she cries, nearly delirious.
“He will,” I soothe, kneeling between her legs. “He wants to come out; he just doesn’t know the way. Just like a man—he’ll try every door but the right one.”
Aina tries to laugh, but it comes out as a groan. She grips the furs, the knuckles of her hands white as another spasm takes hold.
“Oh, Aina,” I breathe, bracing her legs. “The head is coming now. You’re doing well. Keep pushing.”
Aina gives one last push and the baby lands in my waiting arms. I pull the child to me, cradling him close. Aina sinks back against the furs, panting for breath. She lifts a weak hand towards the quiet baby. “Is he hurt?”
I wrap him in the cloths we prepared, rubbing his little body as his first cries break from a weak mewl to a squall. I laugh, handing the baby over. “He’s fine, Aina. Angry and healthy.”
“And he’s a boy?” She peeks inside the cloths, looking him over for herself. He’s already calmer in her arms, his eyes closed.
I come around and sit on the side of the bed, brushing the sweat from her forehead with a damp cloth. “He’s perfect.” Leaning down, I kiss her brow.
“Oh, my beautiful boy,” she murmurs, her lips pressed against his wet hair. “My perfect, sweet boy. You are mine. My treasure. My victory.”
The first few days of the baby’s life are quiet and joyous. I thought it might be difficult to love him. My resentment of how he was created runs deep, no matter how often Aina chooses to tell me about the death god’s “good qualities.” But one look at their child washes all that away. He is beautiful and blameless.
And he’smine.
This child will have two mothers. All-Mother, hear me, I’ll love him and protect him like he’s my own flesh and blood.
Aina can hardly bear to put him down. The only way I can get her to rest is if I take him. But then she lies awake, watching us together. I tickle his toes and talk to him, singing softly the songs of sleep and good health. Most of all, I sing him songs of strength. I hold him by the hour, stroking his petal-soft cheek, pouring all the love, hope, and strength I can into his little soul.
Unbound from his swaddling, he kicks his legs, enjoying the temporary freedom.
“He needs a name,” Aina says with a laugh, watching him squirm.
I’m busy at the table, fletching new arrows. I work methodically with a stack of white feathers and my sharpest knife. “What name is fitting?”
“Hmm, we could name him Taavi after my father... or Tuoni after yours.” She tickles the baby’s chin. “Jaako and Kaarl are the names of my brothers... or Aksel and Onni after your other uncles.”
My smile falls. “Quiet.”
Aina quickly wraps the baby in his swaddling, holding him close. “What’s wrong?”
“Listen.”
Aina listens, her eyes locked on me. Aside from our crackling hearth, there is no noise. “No birdsong,” she whispers.
It’s midday in summer. There’s always birdsong. I rise slowly, moving away from the table to the wall where my bow and quiver hang ready. “Someone—or something—is outside.”
Outside the cabin, a raven caws.
“Oh Siiri, it’s Tuoni,” Aina whispers in excitement. “He’s here.”
“You said he had no tattoos,” I chastise. “You said he couldn’t come here.”
“He doesn’t—hecan’t,” she counters. “But he can take the shape of a raven. It’s his luonto, right? You said all luonto are birds. He did that all the time. It’s how we first met.”
