Page 27 of North Is the Night
They say the alder tree can feel as people do. It bleeds like us, a red resin that drips from its injuries like blood from open wounds. The stories say the fae use the alders to turn changeling babies into giants. Back home, we boil the bark to use in paints and dyes. Aina’s mother taught us the leaves of the alder tree can act as a ward against witchcraft and bad luck.
I narrow my eyes, searching the clearing. The ferns are large, some growing nearly to waist height. A woman’s muted sobs meet my ears, cutting through the unearthly quiet. Knife and hatchet in hand, I take a few steps closer. At the far end of the grove, a woman rests on her knees. She blends in so well. As she sits up, her dark brown hair flows freely down her back. Her body remains hidden in the ferns.
“Hello?” I call out softly.
Her shoulders go still, her sobs cut short. I wait as she rises to her feet. Her unbound hair is dark like the soil, snarled by twigs and leaves. If she dropped back down to her knees, she would disappear before my eyes. Only her crying gave her away.
Where did she come from? Mummi tells stories of witches that live in these forests. Witches like Ajatar, who hunts the hunters, confusing their paths and luring them deeper into the woods. She steals children too, hiding them under thick blankets of moss. Even if you were standing right beside the child, you wouldn’t hear their screams.
I fight a shiver. I won’t let go of these weapons for anything. “Are you all right?” I call, taking a step closer.
“You should not be here,” the woman replies, still with her back turned.
“A hiisi is a sacred space,” I say. “All may stand before the uhrikivi and seek communion with the gods.”
“There is only one god here now,” she replies, her voice trembling with rage. “And he does not commune with the likes of us.” Slowly, she lifts her hand, pointing to the resting place of a large stone altar.
I peer past her and gasp, heart sinking. “Oh gods, what have they done?”
The woman spins around, her hauntingly beautiful face contorted with anguish. Her eyes are black as night, her skin pale as milk. She takes me in with a scowl.
I stare right back, noting the odd, moss-colored robes hanging from her narrow shoulders. But they don’t just look like moss; theyaremoss. They’re shaggy and green, dusted with lichen. A necklace of feathers frames her neck, seemingly made from all the birds of the forest, with smaller feathers around her shoulders and longer ones below, ending with a spray of golden eagle feathers that dangle past her breasts. Tangled vines weave around her waist to form a belt, trailing down to her feet.
“They defiled it,” she shrieks. The sky above us darkens, and wind shakes the trees.
Rage burns inside my chest as I take in the new addition perched atop our sacred stone. There, illuminated by the weak sunlight, is a cross, right in the center of the uhrikivi, casting an ominous shadow over it.
The Christians were here. Is this what they do whenever they travel between villages? Are they searching for our sacred groves to claim them all for their god? Father warned me of this. “I’m sorry,” I say to the woman. “I’m so sorry—”
She snarls at me, the sound like the snapping of tree branches. “Your apology is worth as little to me as an acorn that will not sprout.”
“Please, what can I do—”
“They desecrated my father’s house!” she screams. Her face darkens, her milky white skin transforming before my eyes into the bark of a tree. Her eyes turn blacker still.
Recognition flows through me, rooting me to the spot as if I, too, were a tree. I open my hands, dropping both my weapons. “Goddess, please,” I entreat. “Let me help you—”
She sweeps forward, wrapping her bony hand around my throat. “I do not need your help, faithless one.”
My hand grasps her wrist as I take in her haunting eyes, black like Kalma’s. But unlike those of the death witch, a soul burns bright in these eyes. She is not a goddess of death but a goddess of life. I believe she may be Tellervo, daughter of Tapio, king of the forest. She is the shepherdess of the trees.
“You’re here,” I say, hopeful tears stinging my eyes even as she holds me in her viselike grip. “You came back—”
“I never left,” she hisses. She smells sweet, like sun-ripened raspberries and juniper. “The mortals do not deserve us,” she adds, shaking me by the throat. “Like worms they toil in the mud, tearing my trees up from their roots. They used to live as one with nature. Now they only take.” With each word, she squeezes my throat tighter. “They will take until there’s nothing left.”
“Then teach them how to live as one with you again,” I offer. “Come back to us, Tellervo. Show us your kindly face. Extend the hand of mercy—ah—”
She snarls again, her strong arm lifting me off the ground as if I were little more than a squirrel caught in the boughs of a tree. “They don’t need me anymore,” she shouts. “They have their new god that ravages this land like a raging fire. He will consume us all, burning us to ash.” Her words ring with prophecy as flames dance inside her black eyes. “They left me here to rot.”
My vision blurs, and I slap at her hand feebly. I need air. “You—left us—first,” I rasp.
She opens her hand, and I fall to the ground. “You dare!”
I sputter and cough, rolling to my feet. I back away while massaging my throat. “You left us first, Tellervo. Without you, we are nothing. Without you, we weaken and wither, like fruit left too long on the vine. Return to us. Teach us your ways, goddess.”
She hisses again. “Humans are ravagers. They are root-
renders. They’re not worthy of my mercy!”
