Page 42 of North Is the Night
“And you two.” The witch points beyond me to Riina and Helmi. “Go tend to the animals. My mother is particularly fond of pork. Pay special attention to the care of her pigs.”
In quick succession, the group goes from seven to three. I’m left with Salla at my side and Lilja on her knees. The witch casts a glance between us before pointing a rune-marked hand at Salla. “You, take this one who likes to talk so much, and bring her to Tuonen tytti. She’ll no doubt find some use for you both.”
I go still, thanking my stars that I’m not being taken to serve the ferrywoman of Tuonela. She transports all the dead across the river of death in a boat made from the bones of a giant pike. I don’t think I could bear watching scores of the newly dead massing on Tuonela’s shores, eager for entry, when I know I can never leave.
Salla does as she’s told, helping Lilja to her feet as their dead guides step forward to lead them away. I’m left alone before the willow and the witch.
“My sister usually abhors taking in any of our mother’s strays,” she says, “but apparently she finds herself in need of assistance. Can you weave, useless thing?”
I nod, heart in my throat. “Yes, goddess.”
“Good. Then go. And do try to be useful,” she warns. “It is not unheard of for my dear sister to snip the fingers off clumsy hands.” She turns to leave.
“Goddess, wait,” I call after her.
The witch stops and glances over her shoulder. “If you’re about to ask me to spare your miserable life, you’re wasting your breath.”
“No, I—I stand before a goddess, and I am ashamed to admit I don’t know her face,” I admit. “My mother would never forgive me if I didn’t ask your name.”
Her eyes narrow as she considers me. “You wish to know my name?”
I nod, praying I look sufficiently guileless. There is power in a name. I will need all the power I can gather if I’m to survive this place. Luckily, I’m an excellent forager. “All the gods deserve our devotion and admiration,” I say, echoing my mother’s words. “As a death goddess, your power is boundless, your reach is limitless, and your control over my life is as inevitable as the night all around us. I would know your name to offer you all due respect.”
After a moment, the witch smirks. “I am Vammatar.”
I blink, breath frozen in my chest. I stand before the goddess of evil.
“Now, go on,” she sneers, that necklace of human teeth glinting in the torchlight. “Show me the respect I’m due.”
I drop to my knees. Bending forward, I press my palms flat to the ground, bowing my head. “Goddess.”
She lifts the hem of her dark blue robes. “Kiss my boot, worm.”
Crawling forward, I let my lips brush the top of her boot.
The witch cackles, kicking me back like a dog. I swallow my whimper of pain and curl away from her. With that, she leaves. I wait on the ground, listening to her distant, mocking laughter. From somewhere beyond the walls, sharp moans and howling wails make the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
My guide nudges me with a bony hand. I get shakily to my feet, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. With another curl of her broken fingers, she beckons for me to follow. I try to memorize our path across the walled courtyard, passing under a large archway into a smaller, spiritless courtyard. It is nothing but four stone walls and a stone floor, open to the black sky above. One wall contains a massive set of thick double doors. Is that the way out of the palace?
We pass through the smaller door set in the opposite wall from the garden. The view from the doorway of this third courtyard stops me in my tracks. Not only is it brighter than the other two, lit with twice as many torches, but it hums with activity. Busy people and wriggling dogs, cages of squawking chickens, the tantalizing smell of roasting meats, the metallic clang of hammer to anvil. All the animals are alive. How did they get here?
The strangeness of the scene becomes clear as I take it in. There is no laughter, no chatter, no shouted calls or hurried words. The people are all silent as the grave... because they’re all dead. They move silently, performing their tasks with all due diligence, exchanging not a word or a look with their fellow man. There’s something so deeply lonely about it.
On the far side of the courtyard, Helmi and Riina are already hard at work. Riina sits on a milking stool, tending to a cow. Helmi gives me a reassuring smile as I pass, tossing slop into a pen of grunting pigs. I follow my guide to a small building. She opens the door and gestures for me to go inside. Taking one last look at the bustling courtyard, I step through.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. The room is only lit by a small handful of tallow candles. It’s long and narrow, taking up half the length of the courtyard, and filled with two-beam looms. Some stand empty, but most carry cloth in some stage of progress. I pause to admire the work on the first loom I pass. The weaver has chosen light and dark threads for a lovely, contrasting geometric pattern.
From the back of the room comes the softclack, clackof a loom at work. I peek around one of the looms and spy the weaver. I can tell by the set of her shoulders and the cleanliness of her hair and clothes that she’s alive. Her sleek black hair is so long, it nearly touches the floor. It’s braided in a single, thick plait. Vammatar said this was her sister. If the stories are true, Kiputyttö and Kivutar, the twins of evil and suffering, live atop the Kipumäki, the hill of pain. I have a feeling I know who this is...
The witch never stops the movement of her hands—back and forth, deft fingers constantly checking the tightness of the weave. I still as I notice the runes tattooed on the backs of her hands. Kalma and Vammatar have them too, but the Witch Queen doesn’t. I’ve only seen such tattoos once before, on a traveling bard who strummed a kantele. What do they mean? Do they serve some godly purpose?
“You know how to weave, mortal?” the goddess asks without turning her head. Her voice is low and melodic.
I clear my throat and step forward. “Yes, goddess. My mother taught me... though I’m afraid some of these projects may be beyond my skill,” I admit, glancing around at the looms.
Clack. Clack. Clack.The warp weights sway as the goddess weaves the wefts back and forth, moving her heddle rods as she goes. “You have nothing but time to learn and improve.”
She’s right... as long as they keep me alive. “Where shall I begin?”
