Page 74 of North Is the Night
The feeling of emptiness washes over me. I’m numb—never a good sign. My entire body trembles with the shock of almost drowning in the icy depths of a deep lake. How did I get here?
I shut my eyes tight. I was running through the snow across a frozen lake. I called upon the mist maiden to hide us from view. Lumi—the wolves—the ice breaking beneath my feet...
“Kal,” I rasp with my damaged throat. I roll onto my face, trying to sit up.
“Take your time,” the deep voice says. “That bear nearly got you. Fate intervened in its own way. Nearly killed by a bear, nearly killed by the ice. Death has your name, lad.”
I look up sharply at him, a scowl on my face.
“You’re a girl,” the man says with a surprised laugh, his voice deep, muffled behind a thick cowl.
“Y-yes,” I say through chattering teeth. “I-I am.”
The man is wrapped from head to toe in thick furs. All I can see are his deeply weathered cheeks, well-lined from years of toil in this harsh landscape. His eyes are bright blue, sharp and penetrating. Behind him, up in the night sky, the lights of the foxfires still dance.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes, or you’ll freeze to death.” He picks me up with ease, setting me on the back of his sled. Then he wraps me in a fur. It smells like smoke and pipe tobacco. All around us, his dogs bark excitedly, waiting for him to take his place on the runners of the sled. They dance in place, the sled already shifting forward.
His feet touch the rails, and the dogs burst into action, racing across the snow. I blink against the bitter cold, trying to control the shaking of my limbs. The curled tops of pine trees flash by, weighed down by the snow, illuminated by the foxfires overhead.
Before long, the sled slows to a stop. The man picks me up, furs and all, and pushes his way through the door of a large, blissfully warm hut. It’s cozy, with the thick scent of pine logs. He sets me down on a bed of soft reindeer furs by the fire.
“Take those clothes off, girl. You can wrap up in this for now.” He tosses a heavy pelt next to me. “Better naked than dead,” he adds with a grunt. “I’ll go tend to the dogs.” With a snap of the door, he’s gone.
I strip off my sodden mittens first, placing them on the warm stones by the fire. They instantly begin to steam. With frozen, fumbling fingers, I shed myself of all my layers. In minutes, they all lay in a pile by the fire. My hands shake as I wrap the bear pelt around my weak frame and edge closer to the flickering flames, moaning with relief as the heat gradually thaws out my frozen body.
As soon as the fire restores enough of my wits, I peer about the hut. It’s large, more than twice the size of Lumi’s. In the center is a ring of stones forming the hearth. To my left, a thick pile of furs serves as a bed. To my right, a rickety set of low shelves contains an assortment of cups, bowls, and utensils. A pair of antlers hanging by the door have been repurposed as hooks to hold snares, rope, and a fishing net. Everything is simple, rough-hewn wood and natural stone. Everything except the drum in the corner—and the kantele by the bed.
My breath freezes in my throat as my eyes lock on the kantele. Before I can crawl over to inspect it, the door rattles open. The man closes it with a thud and secures it with a crossbeam to protect against harsh winter winds.
“Still alive then?” he calls to me, dumping an armful of kindling by the fire.
“Yes,” I reply, taking in his features in this brighter light.
The man is tall, taller even than my father. Taller than Onni. He unwraps the cowl from his face. He has a long, flowing white beard. And yet, time hasn’t bent his back or weakened his shoulders. He still has the body of a strong man, one who doesn’t merely survive in the wilderness but thrives in it. He pulls off his hat, uncovering a snarled mess of long white hair that matches his beard. Then he slips off his large mittens. His hands are as weathered as his face... and covered in rune tattoos like the ones on Kalma’s hands.
I suck in a breath, my initial fearful reaction giving way to determination. The tattoos must mean something important. Regardless, I know who he is. “Väinämöinen,” I whisper.
He stiffens.
“You areVäinämöinen,” I repeat, more loudly.
He faces me across the fire, holding a knife in his hand. “Did you come all this way to try to kill me, girl?”
“What? No,” I cry, sitting up. “Do many people travel this far north intent on killing you?”
He shrugs, dropping to his knees on the other side of the fire. “Some, not many. Not anymore.” He prods at the fire with a stick, making it hiss. “Most people think I died, lost to the stories and songs. Sometimes I doubt it myself,” he adds with a soft chuckle.
“You doubt that you live?”
“Life is nothing but a long dying,” he replies. “I get the feeling you are well familiar with the sensation of dying to live.”
I nod, swallowing against the pain in my throat.
His blue eyes watch me, gleaming in the firelight. He huffs, his white mustache twitching. “If you’re unfortunate enough to reach my age, you’ll find yourself living to die. At this point, I would welcome death. I’m ready for a good long sleep.”
“Oh, great Väinämöinen, oldest and wisest of shamans, you can’t die,” I say, gazing up at him. “Please, I need your help. I come to you in my darkest hour, seeking your guidance—”
“Don’t even think about it.” He raises a large hand in protest.
