11

Aina

My door swings open to reveal a dark hallway. No one is standing there—man, monster, giant, or goblin. The doorway is empty. My breath leaves me in a huff, my shoulders sagging with relief... and disappointment. I stand still, staring at the open door. This is what I wanted, right? I wanted this door to open. So why am I just standing here?

Because you’re a scared goose , comes Siiri’s voice.

If I were Siiri, I’d already be out the door. But I’m not Siiri. I’m just Aina. And I’m afraid.

I take a candle off my table, inch closer to the open door, and peek outside. One end of the hall vanishes into shadow. The other is lit with a glowing torch. I glance over my shoulder one more time, looking in at the confines of my room. My window stands open, but Jaako is gone.

Suddenly, a voice cries out. “Hello? Oh please, someone. Hello!”

It sounds like a frightened young woman. It’s her fear that has me stepping through the open door, although I’m still afraid myself. Holding my candle aloft, I walk towards the voice. As I pass a dark hallway, the young woman appears, limping in my direction. Like me, she wears an elegant dress, this one sky blue with a rich, red fox fur around her shoulders. Blonde braids frame her youthful face.

“Are you my captor?” she asks, her eyes wide with terror. “Or are you... like me?”

I drop my free hand away from my thrumming heart as I lower my candle. “It’s all right,” I say, gently. “I’m like you. I’ve been locked in my room for days.”

“Where are we? Why are they doing this to us?”

“I don’t know.” I give her the support of my arm. “What happened to your ankle?”

She shakes her head, her bottom lip trembling. “I don’t know. I-I can’t remember. I w-woke with it aching days ago. It was p-purple and swollen.”

“Come, let me help you. Let’s keep moving towards the light.”

“No,” she rasps, pulling on my arm.

“We won’t learn anything staying in our rooms,” I assure her. “Lean on me. We’ll go together.”

Slowly, she nods, gripping my arm tightly as we creep down the hall.

“My name is Aina.”

“I’m Helmi,” she replies.

“Where are you from, Helmi—”

“ Shhh .” She pulls me to a halt. “What’s that noise?”

We both listen. From farther down the hall comes a humming sound.

My heart flutters as my steps quicken. “Come.”

“Aina, wait ,” she begs, pulling on my arm.

“I think it’s people.”

It sounds like a gathering of some kind: many voices, raised in celebration. On cold winter nights when the villagers all gather in one barn to celebrate a wedding or death, these are the sounds I hear. The sound swells as we creep out of the dark hallway into a large room with a closed door at the other end. Five young women stand huddled together. They turn at the sight of us, surprise and fear etched on their faces. They all wear queenly dresses and furs without any confidence. I know they must be simple village girls like me.

“More girls,” one whispers.

“You’ve been locked away?” another calls. She flicks her dark curtain of hair off her shoulder, her icy blue eyes narrowed at us.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’m Aina. This is Helmi.”

“I’m Riina,” says the black-haired one.

“Satu,” offers a short girl with curly brown hair tied in two loose braids.

“I’m Salla,” says a beautiful, freckle-faced woman with flowing red hair.

“And I’m Lilja,” says an angry-looking woman, her blonde hair tied in one long braid. She reminds me so much of Siiri, it takes my breath away. But where Siiri has blue eyes, this Lilja has brown. And where Siiri has a face of freckles, Lilja has none. Still, her gaze darts around the room as if she’s looking for anything she might use as a weapon.

Helmi and I turn to the last young woman. She’s tall and willowy, with pale grey eyes and white-blonde hair that holds as much life as her sallow skin. “Inari,” she mutters, her lips barely moving.

I look around the room, taking in as much detail as I can. It’s an antechamber, clearly leading to a great hall. The hum of voices comes from behind a pair of wooden double doors. They’re carved with ornate patterns of forest animals and fruiting trees. I smell roasted meats, spices, and fresh-baked bread. The rest of the room is bare of furniture, but the walls are decorated with embroidered tapestries. They’re like something out of the songs—golden-horned stags racing through a sunny wood, maidens with flowers in their hair bathing in a pool. Everything is light, everything is golden and green and teeming with life.

“It’s going to be all right,” I whisper to Helmi, squeezing her arm.

The great double doors creak open, and we all gasp, spinning as one to meet our fate. The noise from the feast slams into us—deep, boisterous laughter, the clatter of plates and cups. After so many days of isolation, my ears ring with it. Inside the hall, every surface glitters with gold and candlelight. The tables overflow with a bountiful feast. Men and women drink and carouse, all as finely dressed as we are. They’re so engrossed, they don’t even notice that the doors have opened.

A man with beady eyes shuffles towards us. He wears robes like the those of Christian priests, except his are the deepest of bloodred, the sleeves trimmed in richest blue. “Stand up straight,” he barks. “Shoulders back, chins up. You’re about to meet the Queen.”

Helmi and I drop our hands to our sides, weaving our fingers together.

Riina scoffs. “Finland has no queen.”

The man raps Riina hard on the shoulder with a thin rod, making her shriek. “Face front, you. Do not dare avert your eyes from her honored majesty.”

A horn blasts near the huge doors, making us jump. All faces within the hall turn as one, locking eyes with us. The benches and tables screech and creak against the stone floor as the revelers get to their feet. Some stand on their benches, curious to get a better look at us.

The man turns, rod raised in the air, and marches into the great hall, clearly expecting us to follow. We shuffle forward, my hand still gripping Helmi’s. I gaze up in wonder as I walk. The sharply arched ceiling angles so steeply that the apex is lost to the shadows. Three colossal antler chandeliers hang down on thick metal chains. They hold hundreds of dripping candles each, illuminating the vast interior of the wooden hall.

The walls are adorned with all manner of weapons: sword and shield, lance and axe. It reminds me of the stories Siiri’s mummi would tell of the kings of Kalevala. In summertime, they lived in the deep south, right at the edge of the sea. Their palaces were used for hunting and fighting and making merry. They had winter palaces in the north too, great structures of stone and ice with fires that burned blue.

The longer sides of the hall are dotted with massive hearths, three on each side. Each one is so large, a pair of men could dance inside. They blaze with fire. I follow the line of the hearths down to the far end of the room. There, behind the top table, sit two throne-like chairs, decorated in furs. The large throne sits empty, but the smaller throne is filled by a woman of enchanting beauty.

My steps slow as I take her in. Her blonde hair is piled high in intricate braids adorned with silver clasps. Atop her head sits a silver crown. Like me, she wears a dress of spun gold. She tips her lips in a knowing smile, not breaking her hungry gaze from us as we make our way closer. Then she raises an elegant hand, and a hush falls over the room.

“Welcome, my children,” she calls. “What a terrible time you’ve had. Come forward. Join my daughters and me in our feast.” Her voice is sweetness itself, dew on a spring flower, as she gestures to a pair of benches placed on the opposite side of the high table before her.

The other girls hurry, but my steps are slow. None of this is right. I don’t want to sit with my back to the room. I glance to either side of the thrones to see four young women dressed as richly as the queen. The woman sitting directly across from me has sullen features, carelessly sipping from her goblet of wine as if she’s bored by the whole affair.

“Yes, come, come,” says the queen. “Take your ease at my bountiful table.”

The other girls are already sitting, so I feel I have no choice. I sink onto the bench between Helmi and Satu. I can feel every eye in the great hall boring into my back. I flinch as a servant appears behind me, reaching over my shoulder to fill my goblet with wine. I lean away from him, trying to keep a smile on my face as the queen and her daughters survey us. The princess across from me makes me ill at ease. She keeps staring, her face utterly expressionless.

The queen remains standing, lifting her jeweled goblet with a flourish. “A toast to your health,” she croons. She holds her goblet aloft, clearly waiting for us to do the same.

As one, we pick up our cups and hold them up.

“Kippis,” she calls out. Tipping the goblet back, she drains it in two gulps.

“Kippis,” a few of the girls say.

I raise the goblet to my lips, but I don’t drink. Jaako’s fear is still fresh in my mind. All is not as it seems.

Behind us, the crowd raises their own cups and goblets, toasting our health in a great chorus of cheers. The queen resumes her seat, which signals the hall to do the same. I flinch again, gripping the table, as, behind me, a host of two hundred people move benches and rattle plates, and the sounds of conversation and merriment grow.

“You all must be famished,” says the queen in that simpering voice, cutting through the revelers. “Please, make my home your home. Eat and be merry.”

None of us move to taste the food, though it sits tantalizingly close. In front of me rests a whole roasted chicken, fish stew, a shaved leg of lamb, and what looks like a dish of mashed turnips. But I’m not hungry, for Jaako already fed me more than my cursed barley bread.

I cast a furtive glance down the table. I can’t know if the other girls had Jaako visiting them and bringing them food too.

The queen pulls a disappointed face, tsking. “You don’t appreciate the feast I had prepared for you. This surprises me. Are you not all tired of barley bread?”

I go still, as do several of the other girls down the table. Yes, not all is as it seems. This is still a prison, and we are still trapped.

Don’t eat the food , comes Siiri’s voice in my mind. Starve first.

I don’t need her warning. I won’t touch a bite of this feast.

The queen slaps down her knife with a haughty sniff. “Well, I suppose I’ll have the servants clear all this away, and my guards will escort you back to your rooms. We’ll see how you feel about accepting my hospitality in a few days—”

“No,” cries Lilja, clearly in agony over being so close to such a feast after days of spoiled bread.

“We’ll eat it,” freckle-faced Salla adds. “Please, don’t send us back to our rooms.” Hers is a different fear then. I sense that, like me, she’s afraid to be alone.

Riina is the first to reach for a few select morsels, piling them on her golden plate. The other girls follow her lead. Riina and Salla each take a bite of fish. Their eyes close, savoring the delight of tasting something other than barley bread.

I reach tentatively forward and pluck the leg from a chicken, bringing it to my lips. But I watch first, waiting for Riina and Salla to take their second bite. As soon as they do, they sputter and gag. Up and down our side of the table, the girls squeal and choke. I shriek as the chicken leg in my hand begins to squirm. I drop it, watching as it transforms into a slimy, green frog, which hops across the table, scattering a plate of maggots in its mad dash to escape.

Then the whole illusion shatters.

I glance wildly around the hall, eyes blinking in the sudden darkness as the light from the antler chandeliers disappears, taking all their warmth too. Now the cold room is lit by only a few flickering lampstands. All else is lost to darkness and shadows. No more are the walls adorned with a hunter’s armory. Now they’re thick with skulls, human and animal alike. Some are twisted into screams of terror, their jaws unhinged, locked forever in the moment of their terrible deaths. The crowd of revelers is gone, leaving us alone with the queen and her daughters.

I spin back around, swallowing a groan of horror to see that our “feast” is creeping and crawling away. Frogs hop and spiders skitter over the plates. The platter I thought was a roasted leg of mutton is now the rotting head of a lamb, tongue lolling, eyes clouded and unblinking. By my left hand, maggots swarm over the carcass of a chicken. Next to me, Helmi makes a sound somewhere between a retch and a sob.

Across from us, the queen cackles, rising to her feet, her body framed by a massive throne of skulls. She holds aloft a slender willow wand in her hand. She gives it a flick, and I nearly topple off my bench in panic. At first, I don’t know what I’m seeing. Her hair transforms to beautiful grey locks that hang in cords around her face. And her dress of spun gold changes to robes of silver, pure and bright as woven starlight... but the rest of her beauty melts away. Where there was youth and warmth, there is now only withering decay. The face she reveals to us is that of a haggard old woman with blackened teeth. Her skin is thin and lined and grey, sagging around her eyes to show the sunken shape of her skull. Her eyes are like two glowing embers. The hand holding her wand is now little more than skin and bone.

She cackles again, and the sound rattles in my rib cage. “What’s wrong, my children? Is the feast not to your liking?” Her bony hand slaps the table with mirth as her daughters share in her laughter, cruel twisting sounds that steal my breath.

My gaze sweeps the table, stopping at the creature sitting across from me. What moments before was a sullen young woman is now a monster. She has a painted face, white around her coal-black eyes, while her neck is smeared with dried blood. Her dark hair is matted with debris and hangs lankly around her face like her tattered, stinking robes hang off her body. Black horns curl away from her skull. She looks at me with those lifeless eyes, her mouth tipping into a broken smile.

“ You ,” I cry, the word strangled by fear.

She lifts her jeweled goblet with her rune-marked hand in mocking salute. This time I really do fall off the bench. I land on the dais and scramble backwards, unable to look away from this terrifying creature. Instinctively, I slap my left hand over the bruises on my forearm. As if dragged underwater, I’m pulled into a sea of my own memories, Siiri’s voice filling my mind...

“Run! Aina, run!” Siiri screams.

I’m panting, lungs seizing, legs aching. “You’re faster than me, Siiri. Go!”

“The wolf is that way—”

It’s the wolf from my dreams, with his bloodred glowing eyes and swishing, serpent-like tail. All I taste is panic. Dread. Fear.

Death. The creature is death, and the wolf is her minion.

“Stay behind me,” Siiri commands, her strong hand on my arm, pulling me back.

The monster approaches us on silent feet.

“Aina, run!”

Too late. My heart constricts in my chest as I’m struck breathless. I can save Siiri. I can let it take me. I see the hurt in Siiri’s eyes when she knows my decision is made. The creature grabs my arm, her touch searing. Her stench envelops me. I’m choking, coughing, gasping for air. She reeks like a thousand rotting corpses. I feel nothing but loss as the darkness closes in, and I watch Siiri’s face as I lose her. Forever.

Darkness takes me to the deepest depths.

I open my eyes and stare down the creature still seated across the table. All at once, the pieces of this nightmare fit together in my mind—the creature and her wolf hunting us in the woods, six young women gone missing, my magic room, this strange world of endless night, a cackling witch with monstrous daughters who reek of death. I scramble to my feet and point with a shaking finger. “Tuonetar,” I cry out, tears thick in my throat.

The witch turns, manic eyes locked on me. I’m trapped in the underworld, standing before Tuonetar, the goddess of violent death.