10

Siiri

I’m making good time. It helps that I spent the whole of yesterday running like a bear was chasing me. Bears don’t typically bother with humans but one can never be too careful. I’m sure I made poor Halla nervous with how often I glanced over my shoulder, looking for any sign of the hungry beast on our trail.

But the bear was yesterday’s problem. Today is the day I find the sacred grove.

“What happened to us, girl?” I ask the reindeer, sharing with her the last of the apples I found along the trail. The reindeer crunches into the juicy flesh, dropping little chunks into the moss as she walks at my side.

“We used to have kings,” I tell her, patting her shoulder. “And gods who walked among us. They dined with us like old friends, tended to our wounds, mourned our dead. We had a magic mill that turned grain into gold. We built castles of stone. We were warriors. We fought great battles and won. Who are we now, Halla? How do we find ourselves again if our gods hide their faces from us?”

The reindeer just snorts.

“None of this looks familiar,” I admit, gazing at the trees all around. “When I came here with Father, it was spring. The forest looks so different from one season to the next. And it’s been nearly ten years,” I add. “But we must be close.”

I can feel it; some sharpness stirs the air. It raises the fine hairs on my arms. There’s a taste on my tongue, sweet but metallic, like blood. I remember this feeling. I remember this taste in my mouth. One hand grips my bow, the other Halla’s lead, and I take an even breath. We pause at the same time, both our heads turning. Her ears perk up as my eyes narrow, peering through the trees. The leaves are thick overhead, and the sun is weak today, hidden behind storm clouds. The smell of snow is in the air.

I wrap my fist more tightly around Halla’s lead. “Do you hear it too?”

Halla’s nostrils puff as she softly grinds her teeth.

The birds have stopped twittering in the branches. Usually this happens before a storm. But I smell it in the wind: the snow is hours, if not days away.

Halla and I exchange a glance.

“Come on,” I say, giving her lead a tug. “We’re definitely close.”

She resists the pull of her lead, her face still turned to look between a pair of elm trees. I follow her gaze, wishing more sunlight might filter through the canopy. The wind suddenly changes directions, blowing straight through the elms, pushing at my back. Sucking in a sharp breath, I let myself really look at the pair of trees. They stretch far above us, their branches meeting, twisting together to make a natural archway.

My heart flutters faster as I inch closer to the nearest of the two. Reaching out, I trace the faded design carved into the trunk. It looks like geometric scrollwork. The pattern is mirrored on the other elm. “It’s the doorway,” I say to the reindeer. “Oh, clever girl. You found it.”

I tug on Halla’s lead again, willing her to step forward with me. We pass under the arch, and all the fine hairs on my arms bristle again. I pause, glancing around. Nothing has changed, and yet everything feels different. I peer back through the elms. The forest looks just the same. But the air is thicker here, and not one bird twitters in the trees. The silence is deafening, almost reverent.

“Come on,” I say to Halla.

The trees continue in a row, creating a clear path for us. The ground to either side is blanketed in lush green ferns, dotted here and there with lichen-covered rocks. I walk on soft feet, my gaze darting around as my eyes adjust to the darkness. “I still don’t remember this place,” I admit to her.

Directly ahead, a third massive elm tree stands in our path. I take in the shadows at the base of the mighty tree. It’s not one elm tree; it’s two . The trunks were planted side by side and made to grow around a stone archway. The archway remains, twisted and crumbling, folding inward from the weight of the trunks. It’s barely wide enough for a single person my size to pass through. A man Onni’s size would never fit.

The underbrush is thick all around the elms, the shadows deep, blocking my view of what lies beyond. With a sigh, I turn to the reindeer. “I’m sorry, girl. You’ll have to wait here.” I drape her lead rope over her neck and drop to one knee, hobbling her. I use the trick knot Aksel taught me. If she pulls hard enough, she’ll get herself loose.

Giving her another pat, I turn back to the massive elm. I keep my bow slung on my pack, pulling out my hatchet and my long hunter’s knife. I can’t shake this feeling that I’m being watched.

With my hatchet in my right hand, knife in my left, I crouch and inch sideways through the narrow, crumbling archway. “Ilmatar, protect me.” I nearly trip over a tangle of thick roots. Finding my footing, I grip my weapons more tightly and peer around. I now stand in a glade of alder trees. Their spindly, lichen-dusted trunks stretch high into the sky, packed so tightly together they almost make four walls of a great outdoor temple. Their branches form the roof. Weak, storm-grey light filters through the leaves. They sway in the silent wind all across the clearing, like I’m underwater.

“It’s so beautiful.” My heart pounds as I do a half turn.

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; they are moss. 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!”

“Then we are not the only ones who have lost our faith,” I counter.

She blinks, the bark of her fingers curling into fists at her sides.

I take a cautious step forward. “But there is one who could help us, goddess. One who could restore all our faith...”

In a rush like the fluttering of a great many birds’ wings, Tellervo transforms back to her human form, her skin pale, her dark eyes wide and curious. “Who?”

“V?in?moinen. The great shaman of legend, keeper of the wisdom of the ages.”

She flinches away. “That shaman is lost. He abandoned us to this fate long ago.”

“But you could help me find him,” I say, crossing the distance to her side. “The songs foretell his return. He will restore all that was lost. We will be one people again, Tellervo.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know where he is.”

“But do you know where he went?” I press. “Did he sail north on the inland sea? If I keep going north, will I find him?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You would go north... even as the harsh winter sweeps south? You would go in search of V?in?moinen when you have no proof that he still lives?”

“I would do anything to protect those I love,” I reply, defiant in the face of her doubt.

She considers for a moment, taking me in from head to toe. Her dark gaze settles on my bruised brow. Her bony fingers brush against my cut. I wince, trying to hold still. “I am not the first immortal you’ve encountered,” she whispers, her breath cool on my cheek. Leaning in close, she inhales deeply, the sound rattling through her chest. “I smell my cousin’s death magic on your skin. Rancid, foul rot. Did she touch you?”

I hold my head high. “She tried.”

Tellervo smiles, almost as if she’s impressed.

“Please, goddess. I need to find V?in?moinen. My friend is lost too,” I admit. “I must find her. I must bring her home. He can help me—”

“I said no.” She drops her soil-stained fingers from my face. “I am sorry, brave one, but a lost shaman cannot be found if he is truly lost.”

“Well, then, he can’t fulfill his prophecy either,” I reply, my frustration rising. “And one is only lost until he is found.”

“A shaman is only lost because he does not wish to be found,” she corrects. “And my path does not lead me north.” Her voice rings with finality.

“But does it lead me north?” I ask, daring to grab her arm. “Can you see my future, goddess?”

Her gaze moves from my hand on her mossy sleeve, up to my bruised face. She scowls. “Unhand me, mortal. I am shepherdess of my father’s forest. I’m not a soothsayer or a prophetess that you can command me to see what is unseen or know what is unknown.”

I drop my hand away from her. “But—well, you just foretold your own future. How do you know your path does not lead you north?”

“Because I do not wish to go there.” With a last nod, she walks away.

“Please, wait —”

She barely takes three steps before she disappears in a swirl of birds’ feathers. They flutter to the ground at my feet.

“Tellervo?” I call into the silence. I look everywhere, but she’s gone. My shoulders sink, and I fight the urge to scream. I’m on my own. Meanwhile, Aina waits for me to find her, enduring unimaginable horrors. I feel powerless, and I hate it. I want to do something. I narrow my eyes at the symbol of the foreign god. With a growl, I march forward, pushing through the ferns to the base of the altar.

Placing my hands on the lichen-marked stone, I scramble atop it. From my knees, I inspect the cross. It’s about three feet tall, made of a lighter stone than that of the uhrikivi. I flick my braid over my shoulder, brace my hands on the cross, and push.

Nothing happens.

“Come on,” I mutter, giving the stone another shove.

The cross doesn’t move.

I look to the sky with a shout, peering up through the alder branches at the swirling grey clouds far above. “Ilmatar, can you hear me? Either help me find your son or help me move this false—ugly—piece of rock—” I shove at the cross with each curse.

At last, the cross tips forward, and I shriek, falling with it. In a thunderous crash, it cracks in two against the top of the altar. Panting, I roll off, looking down at my handiwork. The false god’s idol is broken. This hiisi belongs to the old gods again.

Behind me comes a soft chuckle and a familiar voice. “I don’t think the foreign god will take kindly to you desecrating his temple.”