Page 3 of North Is the Night
“A good catch today,” he says proudly.
We give the boat one more heave, pulling it fully up onto the beach.
I peer inside. Itisa good catch. And thank the gods for that. We need more fish if we’re to survive the winter. Father managed to fill a whole basket with perch. The other basket is a mix. Zander, a skinny pike, a handful of roach. A few of these will be set aside and given to Mummi, my grandmother, for tonight’s supper, but the rest must be salted and stored in the njalle for winter.
Father wipes his hands on his breeches. “Your brothers will stay out a bit longer. Help them bring in their catch too. Understood?”
“Yes, Isä,” I reply.
Glancing up at the sky, he judges how much daylight is left. There are still more chores to do before nightfall. “Remember not to stay out too late, Siiri. You, too, Aina. Get yourselves home well before dark.”
We nod, and he leaves us with the baskets.
I don’t fault him his curt manner. Everyone in the village is on edge. A few days ago, some of the menfolk returned from the southern market with chilling news: More young women have been going missing up and down the lakeshore. Strange tales of screams heard in the dark woods, creatures with eyes that glow red, a lingering stench of death in the air. People always talk of such things, but never so close to us, never here. And none of the girls have been found.
These are dark times. If Father could spare me, he would probably make me stay nearer the house with Mummi and my little sister. But winter is coming, and I have two strong hands. We both know he needs me. There’s no time for worry, not when our worries seem endless now.
Once, these forests were a safe haven. The gods give of their bounty, and we Finns take. Wemusttake. And that which is taken is always shared. When the harsh winter comes, and the long, cold night sets in, we sit by our fires and warm each other with good food and stories of summertime. I have golden memories of sitting on my mother’s lap as she told us stories of the old gods—Ukko and the making of his stone hammer, Ahti the seafaring warrior, the clever shaman Väinämöinen and his magical kantele. Summer is the time for hard work and sacrifice. Winter is for stories and family and a quietly lived life.
That was before.
Before the gods went quiet, abandoning us here in these woods. Before bards stopped strumming kanteles and singing the songs. Before Swedish settlers arrived on our shores, stealing farmland across the south, uprooting thousands of us, including my family. We left my mother there, buried in the cold ground outside Turku. No one remains to tend to her grave. No flowers. No songs.
And that was before the whispers of a new god whistled darkly through the woods. Every day, the Christians grow bolder, challenging our gods and threatening our way of life.
In a few short years, the Swedes have turned these forests from a haven into a hell. Powerful men in robes of white now call out from their great stone houses in the south, offering gold and silver to any Finn who would provision them—meat, fur, timber, grain. Our forests are full of thieves who dare to take more than they need, leaving little enough for the rest of us. Each summer, the fight for land becomes bloodier. They slash and burn large swaths of acreage for their cattle. They thin our herds of free-roaming deer and elk. They claim the best of the farmland for their wheat and barley.
Before long, they’ll take even the mushrooms. We Finns will be left with nothing but the brambles in the fens and the bark on the trees.
I gaze down at the baskets in my father’s boat. The Swedes may be trying to claim everything, but Ilmatar hear me, they will not have our small, regular haul of fish. Lifting my hands, I close my eyes and offer up a blessing to the sea goddess. “Vellamo, righteous in beauty, thank you for your bounty.”
Next to me, Aina offers up her own quiet blessing.
“You don’t have to help me.” My tone is half-apologetic, half-hopeful. As much as I know we need these fish to survive the winter, I hate salting them. It’s probably my least favorite chore. With a heavy sigh, I pick up the first basket.
Aina just smiles, taking the other basket. “I don’t mind. You’re always helping me with my chores.”
I lead the way over to our salting station. A few of the older women are seated together, gossiping quietly as they work. They nod in welcome, their expressions worried, if a little curious too.
Aina frowns, the basket of fish still balanced on her hip. “It’s as if they expect one of us to be taken next.”
“Ignore them,” I mutter, giving the women a fake smile and a wave. “They’re just jealous, because they know no man wants a catty old fishwife with salty fingers in his bed.” I drop down onto a stump and select a crock, preparing it with a base of salt. This is the worst part. The salt finds every scrape and blemish on my skin, burning and stinging so sharply, my eyes water. I hiss, waiting for the sting to numb, as I pick up the first fish, roll it in salt, and layer it in the bottom of the crock.
We’ll have to repeat this whole process in a few days. Once the fish are all repacked, they’ll last for up to nine months. Come winter, we’ll stay warm by our fires eating stews of perch with barley and dried mushrooms.
I try to hold my breath as I work, because the briny smell of the fish makes me gag. Also, I hate the feel of their slippery bodies as I roll them in the salt. On the stump next to me, Aina laughs. When I cast her a glare, she flicks a little salt my way with her fingers. “Don’t,” I mutter, in no mood to be teased.
“You’re such a goose. You like to eat fish, right?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you won’t be eating anything this winter if you don’t salt these first.”
I grimace, packing a layer of salt over the first row of perch. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
She turns her attention back to her own work. After a few minutes of silence, she glances my way. “What if these girls aren’t really missing? Perhaps they simply chose to leave.”
My shoulders stiffen. “Why would someone do that? Just disappear like smoke in the wind without a word to anyone? All because you fancy a new life for yourself?”
