28

Siiri

Day turns to night, and V?in?moinen and I don’t leave the hut. We sit around the fire, and I tell the greatest shaman of the ages my stories of Aina—foraging adventures in the woods, quiet nights laughing by the fire, dancing under a full moon and begging the goddess to turn us into stars. I talk until my stomach growls with hunger.

Helping myself to his stores of food, I begin preparing us an evening meal. I chop carrots and onions and a chunk of dried caribou meat for soup, thickening it with reindeer milk and seasoning it with salt and dill. Using his barley flour, I make small, unleavened rieska loaves, leaving them to cook on the hot stones of the hearth.

All the while, V?in?moinen sits with his arms crossed. The air is thick with the cloying scent of his pipe smoke. “Your Aina sounds like a rare beauty,” he muses, accepting a wooden bowl of steaming soup with both hands.

My cheeks warm at the memory of her laugh— her head tipped back, the arch of her neck, the music of her joy. “She’s undeniable,” I say, unable to think of a better word.

I pull my hands away and ladle a second portion of soup for myself. “She’s the best person I know. She is kind where I am callous. She’s caring where I’m selfish. She puts everyone else first, even to her own detriment. It’s maddening.”

“You love her,” he says with a chuckle, accepting the rieska loaf I offer him. “First loves always cut the deepest, leaving the greatest scars.”

“Of course I love her. She’s my dearest friend. She’s closer to me than my own sister. It’s like...” I pause, struggling to find the words. “It’s like she holds a piece of my very soul.”

Across the fire, the shaman goes still.

“She was taken from me, and in that moment, something inside me snapped—something here .” I press my hand over my gut, just beneath my ribs. As I push on the ache, a log on the fire snaps, sending up a spray of hissing sparks.

The shaman watches me with haunted eyes.

Blinking back my tears, I shrug. “Don’t ask me to explain it any better. I just know I have to get her back. I can’t live like this.” I pluck the other rieska loaves from the hearthstone before they burn. “I feel like I’m dying. Without her, I feel dead. That’s our story.” I glance across the fire at him. “Does it compel you to help me?”

Without answering me, V?in?moinen tastes the soup. He takes a few slurping bites, groaning with delight. “I never figured you for the cooking type.”

“My mummi taught me well. Even if I prefer to hunt and fish like my brothers.”

He nods, dipping his rieska loaf into the soup and tearing into it with his teeth. Soup dribbles down his bearded chin. “You’ve told me of your Aina’s beauty and her cleverness, her unfailing kindness. But answer me this: What is she worth to you?”

I gaze across the fire at him, studying the lines of his ancient face. “Is that not yet obvious? More than my own life.”

His bright blue eyes twinkle in the firelight. “And what are you willing to risk to get her back?”

I square my shoulders, my meal forgotten. “My very life.”

He nods again, his focus back on his soup. “Good. It will likely cost you that and more by the end.”

“Does that meanyou will help me?”

He eyes me warily. “And how do I know you won’t use this knowledge for ill? Many before you have sought me out, desperate to learn the secrets of the shamans, only to use my gifts for wicked and destructive ends.”

“Nothing I can do or say will convince you of the honesty of my intentions,” I reply. “You must accept that there may still be some good in the world.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Now, tell me about the shamans.”

“I am the first shaman,” he replies. “From me was born the magic of combining wisdom and song. With my kantele and my drum, I sang pieces of myself across the realms, across time itself. I learned the secrets of nature and the gods. I traveled the world and heard all the stories, learned all the songs... and made up a few of my own along the way,” he adds with a smirk. “All the magic of the shamans was born out of me.”

I search his weathered face. “How old are you?”

He shrugs, draining his drinking horn of milk. He wipes the back of his hand across his mustache, smacking his lips. “I don’t know anymore... maybe I never knew.”

“But you’re immortal?”

He considers my question for a moment. “I think once I was immortal. Now, I’m not so sure. My immortality has changed. There are... conditions.”

“What kind of conditions?”

He glares at me. “You’ve been here for all of two days, and you want me to trust you with my most intimate secrets? Trust is earned, Siiri.”

I cross my arms, glaring right back.

“You’re a brave girl, I’ll give you that. And not unclever. The gods have surely blessed you, but some of your survival must be down to your own skill. And your intentions towards your friend seem true enough.”

I brighten a little. “So, you’ll help me? You’ll teach me the ways of the shamans?”

He frowns, his blue eyes piercing as they study me. “Don’t get too excited. I’ve told you, girl, I’m not the shaman I once was. We may both find I’m not enough.”

“You’ll have to be enough,” I declare. “V?in?moinen, you’re all I have.”

An hour later, we sit side by side at a fishing hole at the edge of the frozen lake behind his hut. No foxfires light the sky tonight. Heavy clouds hang low; a winter storm is coming. The only light comes from a lantern V?in?moinen hung on a pole he wedged into the ice. We each have a fishing line in the water, fluttering our fingers so the bait appears to move.

“What do you know of shamans?” he asks, his voice muffled by the cowl wrapped around his face.

“My mummi says shamans hold the secrets of medicine and healing,” I reply, through my own cowl. “They also divine the weather and make the crops grow.”

He snorts. “We do nothing of the kind. To claim we hold knowledge in secret is an affront to a shaman. This will be your first lesson: knowledge is power. That power is always meant to be shared.”

Before I can respond, there’s a tug on my line. I gasp, gripping it tighter.

“Hook it, girl,” the shaman grunts.

I jerk the line sharply, twice, and it gives a mighty tug back. “Got him.” I wrestle it for a minute, reeling and tugging, before I pull a slippery trout from the black water. V?in?moinen lifts the lid from the basket between us, and I place the fish inside. “You were saying? Knowledge is power, and power should be shared...”

He mutters under his breath, something about being bested by a girl. Then he gives his own line a few irritated tugs.

“V?in?moinen?”

“Yes, knowledge is power,” he repeats. “We don’t hold our knowledge in secret. We learn, we explore, and we share our knowledge for the good of others. And we don’t divine the weather or make crops grow. We use a stout knowledge of the natural world to inform our predictions.” He points to the dark sky. “Take this weather today. What do you predict?”

I look up. “It will storm, likely within the hour.”

“Yes, precisely. But how do you know it will storm? Does every low-hanging cloud lead to a snowstorm?”

“No, of course not.”

“So, why can you look at this winter sky and tell me it will storm within the hour?”

I glance all around. “You can smell it in the air, I suppose. It smells like a storm. And the clouds are thick and low to the ground. They swell heavy with snow.”

“What else?”

I watch the clouds move. “There’s a stillness too, a quiet in the trees.”

“What else?”

Something moving through the dark trees near the barn catches my eye. Light pools from a pair of lanterns hanging by the open doors. “The reindeer are moving back towards the barn,” I say. “They know it’s coming too.”

“Good. A shaman collects all these pieces of knowledge and uses them to improve people’s lives. This is where your mummi gets her ideas about secret medicine and magic crops.” He chuckles. “The great truth is that shamans aren’t more magical than everybody else, just cleverer. And they put that cleverness to use to help people, never to harm them,” he adds, pointing a gloved finger in my face. “That’s important, Siiri. If a shaman uses their knowledge to cause undue harm, it can lead to grave consequences.”

I nod, feeling suddenly nervous.

“Now, not all shamans can turn their wisdom into magic,” he goes on, tugging lightly on his line. “For a rare few, as our knowledge grows, so too can our ability to cast spells, influence v?ki, and even travel the realms in different forms.”

My mind races with the possibilities. “What knowledge must I gain to get to Aina? How will I know if I can turn my knowledge into magic?”

He lets out a little laugh, but then he shakes his head. “So young... so foolish... so eager to put your neck in a noose.”

“You won’t dissuade me, old man. I’ve come all this way. I’ve battled men and monsters. I’ve fought and starved and nearly died.” I pause, giving him the truth I only half revealed earlier. “I’ve killed, V?in?moinen. Men have died by my hand on this quest. And now I have no time left to waste. Aina needs me, so test me. See if I have what it takes.”

Slowly, he nods. “I will test you.”

I can’t help the smile that lights my face.

The shaman just chuckles, giving his fishing line another pull. “You may come to regret asking.”

“Again,” V?in?moinen barks.

“Let me catch my breath,” I pant. The air is sharp in my lungs, cold enough to burn when I wheeze. I clutch my side, arms trembling with fatigue. It’s been three days, and this shaman is relentless.

“Do you think Lumi will let you catch your breath? Or Kalma? Or the Witch Queen herself? Master the sword; master your fatigue. They do not control you, Siiri. You control them. Again.”

With a growl of frustration, I take up my stance in the snow, gripping the shaman’s longsword with both hands. We’ve been at this for hours today. V?in?moinen is putting me through my paces with every weapon he owns. He says he won’t know where to begin with my training until he learns where my knowledge ends.

Before weapons training, he dragged me through the woods all around his hut, asking me a thousand and one questions, watching as I proved the strength of my foraging and trapping skills. How do reindeer find food in winter? Where are the best places to look for mushrooms? How do you stop bleeding? Wood from what trees is best for crafting bows and arrows? How do you cure a fever? If I didn’t know the answer, V?in?moinen instructed me. Then he drilled me throughout the day, making sure I remembered his long-winded answers.

I raise my sword and duck left as he comes in swinging, growling like a bear. He fights like one too, with wide movements and sheer brute force. I’m faster, but he’s so much taller, and the arc of his blade is deadly. Metal clangs, echoing around the trees as I parry a blow. I grit my teeth, the shock of that blow radiating down my elbow and up into my shoulder.

“You fight like a stone giant,” I mutter, darting away as he takes another swing at me. He’s skillful enough not to cut me, but each strike with the blade’s broad side still hurts.

“Have you ever met a stone giant, fool girl? They don’t bother with metal blades. They crush you with their bare hands. A stone giant would pop your skull with a pinch of their fingers, like squeezing an overripe berry.”

I grimace at the gruesome image. “And what does all this mean—swinging a sword and foraging for winter moss? Will it help me save Aina?”

“You’ve never been to Tuonela,” he challenges. “How will you find your way through a dark forest? There will be no stars or moon to guide your way. But knowing how moss grows on trees will provide you direction. And Tuoni’s guards are all swordsmen. They will hunt you to the river’s edge. They will not be complacent, so neither can you be.”

With a scowl, I redouble my efforts, swinging low and fast. V?in?moinen ducks at the last second, but it’s a close escape. I grip the blade tighter and lunge again, determined to make him bleed. He parries me easily, laughing as he dances away.

“You’re too strong,” I pant, rolling my shoulder with a wince. “Each blow feels like it will break my arm.”

“You’re too weak,” he counters, letting his own weapon fall to his side. “I can’t teach you all I know about wielding a sword in an afternoon. We’ll have to rely on your skills with a bow.”

Defeat surges through me, making my eyes sting with tears of frustration. “I can do it. I can fight.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he says, crossing through the snow to my side. “You have the heart of a bear and the sharp claws of an eagle. Your spirit is strong, Siiri. That will count for a lot.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Come inside. You need food and rest.”

For the first time in days, he helps me cook a meal. Together, we grill a few fish we caught in the lake. He’s acquired a taste for my rieska loaves, so I leave a few of those to bake on the hearthstone. We boil the winter mushrooms and tubers I foraged this morning in a pot.

“You’re a bright girl,” he begrudgingly admits as we lounge around the fire after our meal. “And I’d like to meet this mummi of yours.”

I smile. I’ve taken to telling him Mummi’s stories at night. That’s how he’s gauging my knowledge of the gods. I don’t tell the stories as well as Mummi, but I still get a few laughs and appreciative smiles. “And this will help?” I ask again. “Knowing all this will help me save Aina?”

“It certainly can’t hurt,” he replies. “Crossing the realms is no easy thing, Siiri. Plenty of shamans could never manage it. The only chance of succeeding is if your heart and your head are in the right place.” He gives me a level look, his mustache twitching. “You seem to have the cleverness. And you have more than enough heart.”

I bloom under his praise, sitting up straighter. As he searches his pockets for his pipe, I glance around the hut, settling on the kantele in the corner. It’s a beautiful, hand-crafted zither. It hasn’t escaped my notice that in our short time together, his eye never seems to land on it. “Will you play something for me?”

He stuffs some loose leaf into his pipe, not looking up. “What?”

“In all the stories, you’re playing the kantele. I can’t play, so you’ll have to teach me.”

“You don’t need to play the kantele to be a shaman,” he says quickly.

Setting my bowl of soup aside, I search his face. “V?in-?moinen... are you afraid of it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He makes a fuss of lighting his pipe and taking a long drag, blowing sweet smoke into the air.

From his reaction, I know I should let this lie. But that’s just not in my nature. “You never play it,” I press. “You never even look at it. Why?”

He makes a grand gesture of slowly turning his head to gaze in the direction of the zither. He puffs out another cloud of pipe smoke. “I don’t play anymore. I can’t. Not since...”

I wait for him to finish the thought, watching his face change from frustration to sadness to deep longing.

He clears his throat. “To make a kantele really sing, you’ve got to put your whole heart and soul into it... and mine’s been missing for a very long time.”

“Your heart?”

He turns away from the instrument, wiping a tear from his eye. “No... my soul.”

“What happened to you?” I whisper.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Say that again, and I’ll burn this hut down around your ears.”

He puffs on his pipe, blowing smoke my way.

I search his face, desperate to know the truth. “When I first arrived, you asked if I meant to kill you. Many have tried, you said. Lumi certainly wants you dead, though it seems important that she do the deed herself. Why? What did you do? Why would people hunt you?”

“You don’t get to know everything just because you’re curious,” he mutters. “My secrets are my own.”

“I thought shamans don’t keep secrets,” I challenge. “You said your wisdom belongs to the people. There is knowledge you possess, and I’m asking for it. You are bound as a shaman to share what you know. Now, what happened to V?in?moinen?”

He holds my gaze. After a moment, his mustache twitches. “You are prodigiously clever. I think I’d rather hear you say what you think happened.”

I close my eyes, imagining my mummi singing his farewell song. I recite the words, my voice soft, “Let time pass, let days go by... needed will I be again. Longed for, looked for... I will bring a new day.”

He stills, his blue eyes piercing me.

“I don’t think you left as the songs tell us,” I say. “As your song tells us.”

“Oh, no?”

“No, it wasn’t some magnanimous gesture. It wasn’t prophecy. You were on the run... weren’t you?”

He says nothing.

“You disappeared without a trace, gone forever from the lands of Kalevala with promises to return. But that was just the song you sang. You never actually intended to return, did you? Why? What happened to you? What has you running scared, old man?”

Slowly, he turns his pipe in his hands, his face wearing all the lines of his age. The fire dances, casting him in shadows. “I told you,” he says, voice low. “I endured the impossible. This is how I survive. If I let the witches find me, I’ll be hunted. I’m too old to fight them as I once I did, Siiri. Too weak and too tired, body and soul. This time, I’ll certainly be killed... and Tuonetar will win.”

“Tuonetar? What does the Witch Queen have to do with this?”

His own gaze takes on a haunting look of sadness. “Everything.”