36

Siiri

I sit at V?in?moinen’s low table. A bucket of fresh ice thaws by the hearth. The scraps from our shared meal still litter the table. I give the clear liquor in my cup a wary sniff. “What did you say this is?”

V?in?moinen chuckles, dropping to his knees at the table and picking up his own cup. He takes a contented sip, smacking his lips. “It’s a barley mash. I sweeten it with juniper berries. Try it, girl.”

He rifles through a basket as I take a small sip. The liquor stings like fire all the way down my throat. “ Poison ,” I rasp, setting the cup aside.

He barks out another laugh. “Keep drinking. This will hurt. My mash will help numb the pain.”

Aside from the crumbs of our meal, the table is now scattered with V?in?moinen’s tattooing tools. I grimace at the set of small fishbone needles tucked inside a strip of leather.

“I’ve been saving this for something special,” he says, taking something from his vest pocket.

“Saving what?”

He dangles a little leather pouch in his outstretched hand. “Do you know what this is?”

“How can I possibly know?”

He hands it over. “Look inside.”

I untie the worn leather strings. Working the top open with two fingers, I dip one inside. Fine black dust coats my skin. “It’s ash.”

“It’s not just any ash, fool girl.” He takes the bag holding it reverently, his eyes misting. “It’s oak ash, taken from the first oak tree.”

I go still, heart racing. “You can’t mean... the oak you planted with Sampsa Pellervoinen?” I can hardly believe it. How many times has Mummi told me stories of V?in?moinen and that first oak tree?

“The very same,” he says, smiling.

“The oak that grew so tall it blotted out the sun, moon, and stars?”

He chuckles as he mixes a pinch of the ash into a bowl with water. “It was tall, yes. The songs may exaggerate it a bit, though.”

I frown at him. “You wrote the songs.”

He laughs again, that mustache twitching.

“The oak tree was cut down by the Copper Man, yes? They say he was as tall as the tree.”

“When I first met him, he was so small he could fit in my pocket,” V?in?moinen replies. “I thought it was a trick when he emerged from the water in his little copper suit saying he was sent to fell the tree. But then, my mother always liked a good joke.”

“Your mother,” I murmur. Sometimes I forget where I am. I sit before V?in?moinen, greatest of all shamans, and the All-Mother is his mother.

He hums, focused on his work as he turns the ash to ink. “Take the other leather pouch out of that box.” He directs me with a nod towards the small box on the table.

I flip the lid, curious to see what other treasures he keeps. Inside are a few trinkets: a fine-toothed comb, a jeweled brooch, a lock of black hair tied with a white string, and the pouch. I run my finger over the tines of the ornate bone comb. “These look like they belonged to a lady.”

“They did... they do,” he corrects.

“Who?” I say, plucking out the pouch.

“A friend,” he replies. “She left it with me for safekeeping.”

“What’s in this pouch?”

“Open it and see.”

I wrinkle my nose as I inspect the soil pinched between my fingers. “Is itdirt?”

He hums again. “Grave dirt. From Tuonela.”

I scowl down at the bag.

“Give us a pinch, then,” he says, stirring the ink with a thin twig.

My hand tightens on the pouch. “You’ll mix grave dirt into the ink? You’re asking me to wear Tuonela under my skin?”

Slowly, he looks up, his eyes somber and knowing. “Life and death, Siiri. A shaman must seek to understand, respect, and appreciate both. You don’t fear death any more than I do; you harbor hatred of the death gods, which is itself your great grief at the loss of your beloved Aina. If you are to become any kind of shaman at all, you must be willing to understand Tuonela and her gods. They are part of the great balance.” He holds out the little bowl of ink, waiting.

With a huff, I work a pinch of the black soil between my fingers, sprinkling it atop the wet ink. “Life and death,” I echo, watching as he stirs it in. I take a swig of his terrible barley mash, coughing as it burns its way down my throat.

Slowly, he reaches across the table for my hand.

Clutching the cup in my right hand, I extend my left. “V?in?moinen?”

He bends his head over my hand as he gently washes it. “Hmm?”

“Who was she?”

“Who was who?” he replies, not looking up.

“The girl who gave you that box,” I say. “The girl you stole out of Tuonela.”

He goes still. “What do you mean?”

“You say you took something from Tuonela,” I press. “I thought it might be some deep magic, another spell...”

“But?”

“But others before and after you stole spells from Tuonela—or so the stories say,” I continue. “I believe you took something else. The gods fought you to keep it. Once you were free of them, they continued to hunt you. They never forgave you. They can never forget. All these long years later, the Witch Queen still wreaks her vengeance on you. Few emotions have the power to create such enmity.”

“And which emotions are those?”

I know he’s testing me. I know he wants to see if I can puzzle this out on my own. We’ll call it more shaman training. “Jealousy is a powerful emotion. It tends to linger. It makes us irrational. Grief, too... but grief often fades with time, thank the gods,” I add, thinking of the scar in my heart where my mother once lived.

“Are those the only two motivations for the Witch Queen’s enmity?”

“Love,” I whisper, my gaze locked on our joined hands.

“Love?”

I look up. “You say that to be a shaman, I must understand and respect the death gods. Well, I think the Witch Queen and I have something in common. I understand her rage, her resolute determination.”

“Oh?”

I nod. “She fights with the same fire of will I now wield to free Aina. You took someone from her... didn’t you? It must be someone dear to her, someone important. A child, perhaps?”

His mustache twitches as he holds my gaze. “Your passion does you credit.”

“An answer that is no answer at all.”

“Knowledge is power,” he intones.

“Meaning you still don’t trust me with your secrets. What must I do to prove myself?”

“Continue your training,” he replies gently. “Master your itse, and I will tell you all I know of Tuonela. I will tell you who I met there... and what I took.” He picks up a sharp fish bone, dipping it in the black ink. “But first, we must get you tethered.” He taps the table with a tattooed finger.

Flexing my fingers flat on the cool wood, I relax, willing him to begin.

V?in?moinen proves to have gentle hands, but there is no ignoring that he’s piercing my skin over and over. Using a damp rag, he wipes away my blood along with the excess ink. He’s methodical, completing each rune and pausing to admire his work.

I spend most of the day gazing at the crown of his head. He stays hunched over my hand, humming quietly as he works. The rune of the bear-riding girl is followed by ones for the sun, a lake, reindeer and a hut, a bow and arrow, and two hunters denoting my brothers. Like the shaman, I now have runes going up my fingers as well, covering the first and second knuckles—runes for strength and joy, one for time, one for love, one for power.

“This hand represents life,” he says, putting the finishing touches on the rune for my shaman drum on the first knuckle of my thumb. “Your other hand will represent Tuonela.”

“Will I go there tonight? Am I ready?”

He snorts. “A girl with fresh tattoos who only just learned how to free her luonto? I’ll not send you through the veil until we’re sure you can inhabit your itse and recall it again.”

“We don’t have time to practice,” I counter. “The death witches could be working all manner of pain and suffering upon Aina. She could be injured. She could be—” I swallow the words, refusing to say them aloud, even if they burn in the quiet darkness of my heart.

Slowly, V?in?moinen gazes up at me. “Go on, girl. Say it.”

I shake my head.

“ Say it,” he barks. “Speak aloud that which you fear.”

A moment stretches between us; only the fire crackles.

“She could be dead,” I whisper.

He nods. “And is that your worst fear, Siiri Jarintytt?r?”

My gaze drops to my hand.

“Ah, I strike the proper chord at last.”

I jerk my hand away, and he lets me go, the tattoos now finished.

“You don’t fear your own death. You fear her death,” he goes on, his words like a knife to my heart. “You are right to fear it. For Tuonetar is unequaled in the skills of torture and bloodletting. If she stole all those maidens as you say, and if her design is merely to play her wicked games, then your Aina is surely dead.”

I raise my gaze to his and hold it.

He nods. “Yes... you have doubts too. You question the death gods’ motives. Why did Kalma take her? On whose orders? With whom does Aina now spend her endless nights?”

“What is your own theory?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

He clears away the mess on the table before us, wringing out the rag in the bucket of fresh lake water. Then he holds out his hand and waits. With a sigh, I extend my right hand, bracing myself for the next round of pain.

“This hand will represent Tuonela,” he says, brushing a calloused thumb over my skin. “The first rune I shall mark on you is the raven. Do you know who that is?”

I nod.

“Say his name.”

“Tuoni,” I whisper. As I do, the fire behind him sputters and hisses, moved on an unseen wind. I fight a shiver. “You met him in Tuonela.”

He nods. “He’s an interesting immortal. Not at all what I was expecting. I think you might actually like him. You’d surely respect his plight.”

“His plight?”

“When I was first captured, it was Tuoni who sheltered me, much to the dismay of the Witch Queen. We spent many long nights together, drinking and talking. He asked me many questions about the realm of the living. And he answered my questions about death in return.”

I wince as he makes the first stab into my skin. “What do you make of his character? Is he a cruel god? Would he hurt Aina?”

He’s quiet, focused on his work. “The Tuoni I knew was a lonely man,” he replies. “We had much in common. He told me of his dreams, his hope for the future of his realm. His hope for his own future... his legacy. Lonely men can do desperate things, Siiri.”

A feeling of dread creeps down my spine. Did Aina not say the same thing to me on the day she was taken? “Why do you say such things?”

He glances up over my splayed hand. “Because a girl as clever as you has surely thought about this puzzle from all sides. Why would the death gods take mortals to the underworld? According to you, they are all young women, all unmarried...”

“Please just speak your mind, old man,” I beg, too tired to keep puzzling this through on my own.

He sets aside his tools, holding my gaze. “I will, my stubborn little woodpecker. The Witch Queen has no fondness for mortals. She has no fondness for anyone except her daughters, and then only when they’re behaving monstrously. Her only interest in mortals would be in watching them suffer and die. So, if your dear Aina is still alive, someone is keeping her alive. Do you understand me?”

My dread grows, even as my voice remains calm. “You believe, if she’s still alive, Aina is being sheltered by another immortal?” My mind races as I consider the possibilities. “Only one other death god has the power to protect Aina from the bloodthirsty Witch Queen... right?”

“Only one,” V?in?moinen echoes with a nod.

“Tuoni,” I say again. “The stories tell of death’s maidens, but I always thought they were meant to be his daughters, not his captives.”

“Or his lovers...”

“One cannot call one’s captive a lover,” I snap. “And my Aina would never let any man use her in such a way. Not even an immortal.”

“You don’t know what’s at stake,” he replies solemnly. “I have seen people do wild and dangerous things, Siiri.” He pauses for a moment, his thumb brushing over the inkless skin of my right hand. “I know a woman who chose to drown herself rather than become a god’s prize.”

I stare at the top of his white head. He’s speaking of Aino, the fair sister of Joukahainen that was meant to be his bride. It wasn’t enough for her that she chose death over becoming his wife. In death she taunted him, appearing to him in the form of fish, only to transform and swim away, forcing him to catch her and lose her all over again.

“V?in?moinen...” I turn my palm in his grip, giving his hand a squeeze. “That wasn’t your fault. She made her choice—”

“As your Aina will make hers,” he replies. “You must prepare yourself, Siiri.”

“Prepare myself?”

“You fight to save a friend you believe wants to be saved. In your heart, you cling to the hope that she can be saved. But Tuonela is a realm of magic and monsters. It is a realm built from your darkest nightmares. There is no telling what your Aina has done to survive. The Aina who left you on the shores of your lakeside home may not be the same Aina you find once you cross the river. You must decide now whether she is truly worth the risk.”

“Of course she is,” I say without hesitation. “There is nothing she could do that would turn me from her.”

He nods. “Cling to that, then... and forgive her, Siiri.”

“Forgive her?”

“Accept her for who she is now, not who you wish she could still be. And if she declines your offer of escape—”

“She would never do that—”

“ If she declines,” he continues over me, “you must be ready to let her go and return empty-handed.”

I shake my head, pushing those fears down into the deepest, darkest parts of my being. “Aina will always choose to come home, and that home is with me. She would never betray me. And you will never deter me, old man. I’m rescuing Aina, and I’m taking you both home.”

He turns his attention back to his work, stabbing the rune of the raven into my skin. “I know where you must go to practice with your itse.”

“Where?”

“The first time you send your itse out, it needs to be to a place you know in body and soul,” he explains. “You should know it better than the backs of these hands I now tether. It will make it easier to navigate your way there and back.” He glances up with a twinkle in his eye. “Do you know of such a place?”

A smile quirks my lips. “You want me to return to Lake P?ij?nne.”

He nods, dipping the fishbone needle back into the ink. “We’ll try it tonight.”