While the man was completely lost in his thoughts, the Bog Witch wanted to put an end to this.
“By now you must have seen enough of the hodgepodge chest,” she said. “You know what it is now. But I haven’t told you the important thing you must know. The Will-o’-the-Wisps are in town! That’s much more important than poetry or fairy tales. I really should keep my mouth shut about it, but it seems that a compulsion—a force—something has come over me, and it sticks in my throat and wants to come out. The Will-o’-the-Wisps are in town! They are on the loose! Take care, you mortals!”
“I don’t understand a word you’re saying!” said the man.
“Please sit down on the cabinet,” she said, “but be careful not to fall through and break the bottles—you know what’s inside them. I’ll tell you about the great event. It happened only yesterday; yet it has happened before. And now it has three hundred and sixty-four days to go. I suppose you know how many days there are in a year?”
And this was the story of the Bog Witch:
“There was a great commotion yesterday out here in the marsh! There was a christening feast! A little Will-o’-the-Wisp was born here; in fact, twelve of them were born all at once. And they have permission to go out among men, if they want to, and move around and command, just as if they were human beings! That was a great event in the marsh, and for that reason all Will-o’-the-Wisps, male and female, danced across the marsh and the meadow like little lights. Some of them are of the dog species, but they aren’t worth talking about. I sat right there on my cabinet and held all the twelve little newborn Will-o’-the-Wisps on my lap. They glittered like glowworms; already they had begun to hop, and they grew bigger every minute, and after a quarter of an hour each of them was as big as his father or uncle. Now it’s an old-established law that when the moon stands just where it did yesterday, and the wind blows just the way it blew yesterday, it is granted to all Will-o’-the-Wisps born at that hour and at that minute that they may become human beings and each of them exercise their power for a whole year.
“The Will-o’-the-Wisp can go about in the country, or anywhere in the world, as long as it is not afraid of falling into the sea or being blown away by a great storm. It can go right into a person, and speak for him, and perform any action it wants. The Will-o’-the-Wisp can take any form it likes, man or woman, and act in his or her spirit, and so go to the extreme in doing what it wishes. But in the course of that year it must succeed in leading three hundred and sixty-five people into bad paths, and in grand style, too; it must lead them away from the right and truth, and then it will receive the highest honor a Will-o’-the-Wisp can, that of being a runner before the Devil’s stagecoach; it can then wear a fiery yellow uniform and breathe flames from its mouth. That’s enough to make a simple Will-o’-the-Wisp lick his lips in desire. But there’s danger, too, and a lot of work for an ambitious Will-o’-the-Wisp who wants to reach that height. If the eyes of the person are opened and he realizes what is happening and can blow the Will-o’-the-Wisp away, it is done for and has to come back to the marsh. Or if, before the year is over, the Will-o’-the-Wisp is overcome with longing for its home and family, and so gives up and comes back, then it is also done for; it can’t burn clearly any longer, and soon goes out, and can’t be lighted again. And if, at the end of the year, it hasn’t led three hundred and sixty-five people away from the truth and all that’s fine and noble, it is condemned to lie in a rotten stump and shine without being able to move. That’s the worst punishment of all for a lively Will-o’-the-Wisp.
“Now, I know all about this, and I told it all to the twelve little ones that I held on my lap, and they were quite wild with joy. I warned them that the safest and easiest way would be to give up the honor and just do nothing at all, but the little flames wouldn’t listen to that; already they could imagine themselves dressed in fiery yellow uniforms, breathing flames from their mouths.
“ ‘Stay here with us!’ said some of the older ones.
“ ‘Go and have your fun with the mortals!’ others said.
“ ‘Yes, they are draining our meadows and drying them up! What will become of our descendants?’
“ ‘We want to flame with flames!’ said the newborn Will-o’-the-Wisps, and that settled it.
“Then presently began the minute ball, which couldn’t have been any shorter. The elf maidens whirled around three times with all the others, so as not to appear proud, but they always preferred dancing with each other. Then the godparents’ gifts were given—‘throwing pebbles,’ it’s called. The ‘pebbles’ were flung over the marsh water. Each of the elf maidens gave a little piece of her veil.
“ ‘Take that,’ they said, ‘and you’ll be able to do the highest dance, the most difficult turns and twists—that is, if you should ever need to. You’ll have the best manners, so you can show yourselves in the highest of society.’
“The night raven taught the young Will-o’-the-Wisps to say, ‘Goo-goo-good!’ and to say it at the right times; and that’s a great gift that brings its own reward.
“The owl and the stork dropped their gifts. But they said these weren’t worth mentioning, and so we won’t talk about it.
“The wild hunt of King Valdemar was just then rushing across the marsh, and when the nobles heard of the celebration they sent as a present a couple of handsome dogs which could hunt with the speed of the wind and carry a Will-o’-the-Wisp, or three, on their backs. A couple of old witches, who make a living riding broomsticks, were at the party, and they taught the young Will o’-the-Wisps how to slip through any keyhole as if the door stood open to them. These witches offered to carry the young ones to the town, which they knew quite well. They usually rode through the air on their own back hair fastened into a knot, for they prefer a hard seat. But now they sat on the hunting dogs and took on their laps the young Will-o’-the-Wisps, who were ready to go into town to start misleading and bewildering human beings. Whiz! and they were gone!
“That’s what happened last night. Today the Will-o’-the-Wisps are in town and have started to work—but how, and where? Can you tell me that? Still, I have a lightning conductor in my big toe, and that always tells me something.”
“That’s a whole fairy tale!” said the man.
“Why, it’s just the beginning of one,” said the woman. “Can you tell me how the Will-o’-the-Wisps are behaving themselves and what they’re doing, in what shapes they’re appearing and leading people astray?”
“I believe,” said the man, “that one could tell quite a romance about the Will-o’-the-Wisps, in twelve parts; or better still, a complete comedy-drama could be written about them.”
“You should write it,” said the woman. “Or perhaps you’d better leave it undone.”
“Yes, that’s easier, and more pleasant,” said the man. “Then we’ll not be condemned by the newspapers, which is just as bad as it is for a Will-o’-the-Wisp to be shut in a rotten stump, shining, and afraid to say anything.”
“It doesn’t matter to me what you do,” said the woman. “Let the others write, if they can, or even if they can’t. I’ll give you an old tap from my cask; that will open the cabinet where I keep the poetry in bottles, and you can take anything you want. But you, my good man, seem to have stained your fingers enough with ink, and at the age and stability you have reached, you don’t have to be running around every year looking for fairy tales, especially as there are much more important things to be done. Have you understood what’s happening?”
“The Will-o’-the-Wisps are in town,” said the man. “I heard you, and I understand. But what do you think I ought to do about it? I’d be locked up if I were to go up to people and say, ‘Look! There goes a Will-o’-the-Wisp in honest clothes!’ ”
“Sometimes they wear skirts!” said the woman. “The Will-o’-the-Wisp can take on any form and appear anywhere. It goes into the church, not for the sake
of our Lord, but perhaps so that it can enter the minister. It speaks on election day, not for the good of state or country, but only for itself. It is an artist with the paint pot, and in the theater, but when it gets complete power, then the pot’s empty! Here I go, chattering on, but what’s sticking in my throat must come out, even if it hurts my own family. But now I must be the woman to save a lot of people. But, truthfully, I’m not doing it with good intentions or for the sake of any medal. I do the most insane thing I possibly can; I tell a poet about it, and soon everybody in town gets to know about it.”
“The town won’t take it to heart,” said the man. “It won’t disturb a single person. They’ll all think I’m only telling them a fairy tale if I say, ‘The Will-o’-the-Wisps are in town, said the Bog Witch! Beware!’ ”
Aleksis Stenvall (1834–1872), more commonly known as Aleksis Kivi, was a Finnish novelist and poet who was often called the father of the Finnish novel, thanks to his Seven Brothers (1870). His imagination grew from a love of reading and can be seen in all his works, especially Seven Brothers. It was the first novel written in the Finnish language and is an adventure story full of romantic humor. Kivi’s play The Heath Cobblers (1864) was also a noteworthy addition to the literary archive. In 1865, it was awarded the biggest literary prize in Finland and remains the most frequently produced play ever written in Finnish. Kivi had a magnificent sense of both tragedy and comedy. The novel Seven Brothers includes elements of both lyric and myth, and the excerpt published in this volume showcases that talent eloquently.
The Legend of the Pale Maiden
(EXCERPT FROM SEVEN BROTHERS)
Aleksis Kivi
Translated by David Hackston
Simeoni: Listen to the hoot of the eagle owl in the wilds—his hooting never foretells of good. Old folk say it bodes of fires, bloody battles and murders.
Tuomas: It is his job to hoot in the forest and it bodes nothing at all.
Eero: But this is the village; the turf-roofed house of Impivaara.
Simeoni: And now the seer has moved; look, there he hoots upon the mountain ridge. That is where, as legend tells us, the Pale Maiden prayed for the forgiveness of her sins; there she prayed every night in winter and in summer.
Juhani: This maiden gave Impivaara its name. I once heard this story as a child, but I fear it has mostly faded from my mind. Brother Aapo, tell us this tale to while away this sorry night.
Aapo: Timo is already snoring like a man; but let him lie in peace. I will gladly tell you this tale.
* * *
—
And thus Aapo recounted to his brothers the legend of the Pale Maiden:
In the caves beneath the mountain there once lived a terrible troll, bringing horror and death to many. Only two passions and pleasures did he have: to see and behold his treasures hidden deep within the mountain caves and to drink human blood, which he craved fervently. But only nine paces from the foot of the mountain did he have the strength to overpower his victims, and thus it was with stealth that he undertook his journeys into the woods. He could change his form at will; he could often be seen roaming these parts, sometimes as a handsome young man, sometimes as an enchanting maiden, depending on whether it was the blood of a man or a woman he craved. Many were ensnared by the demonic beauty of his eyes; many lost their lives in his abominable caves. In this manner did the monster lure his hapless victims into his lair.
It was a fine summer’s night. Upon a green meadow there sat a youth holding in his arms a young woman, his beloved, who like a resplendent rose rested upon his breast. This was to be their final farewell, for the boy was to travel far away and leave his bosom friend for a time. “My love,” spoke the young man, “I must leave you now, but barely shall a hundred suns rise and set before we meet again.” And to this the maiden replied: “Not even the sun as it sets looks with such fondness upon its world as I upon my beloved as we part, nor as it rises does the blazing sky shine as gloriously as will my eyes as I run to meet you. And all that will fill my soul each bright day until then is the image of you, and through the mists of my dreams shall I walk beside you always.”—Thus spoke the girl, but then the young man said: “You speak beautifully indeed, yet why does my soul sense evil? Fair maiden, let us swear eternal fidelity to one another, here beneath the face of heaven.” And thus they swore a holy vow, sworn before God and the heavens, and the forest and the hillside listened, breathless, to their every word. Yet alas as day broke they embraced each other one last time and parted. The young man hastened away, but for a long time the maiden wandered through the forest twilight, thinking only of her handsome beloved.
And there as she wanders deep amongst the thick pine woods, what strange figure is this she sees approaching? She sees a young man, noble as a prince and as resplendent as the golden morning. The plume upon his hat shines and flickers like a flame. From his shoulders hangs a cloak, blue as the sky and like the sky lit with sparkling stars. His tunic is white as snow and around his waist is tied a purple belt. He looks towards the maiden and in his eyes a burning love smoulders, and most divine is the note in his voice as he says to the young lady: “Fear not, fair maiden; why, I am your friend and can bring you unending happiness, if but once I may take you into my arms. I am a powerful man, I have treasures and precious stones beyond number—I could buy the whole world, if I so wished. Follow me as my beloved and I shall take you to my wonderful castle and place you by my side upon a glorious throne.” Thus spoke the man in a charming voice and the maiden stood in awe. She remembered the vow she had just sworn and turned away, but soon turned back towards the man once again, and a peculiar worry filled her mind. She turned towards the man, covering her face as if looking into the glaring sun; again she turned away, but glanced once more at the strange figure. His powerful charm beamed upon her, and all at once she fell into the arms of the handsome prince. Off sped the prince, his prey lying spellbound in his arms. Over steep hills, through deep dales they travelled, and the forest around them became ever darker. The maiden’s heart throbbed restlessly and drops of pained sweat ran down her brow, for suddenly she saw something beastly, something terrifying amidst the captivating flames in the man’s eyes. She looked around as thick spruce groves flew past as her bearer dashed on apace; she glanced at the man’s face and she felt a terrible trembling throughout her body, yet still a strange attraction burned in her heart.
Onwards they travelled through the forest until finally they could see the great mountain and its dark caves. And now, as they were but a few paces from the foot of the mountain, something horrible took place. The man in his regal cloak turned suddenly into a terrible troll: horns burst forth upon his head, his neck began to bristle with thick hair, and the forlorn girl could feel the sting of his sharp claws in her breast; and thereupon the maiden began to shout, to struggle and kick in frantic agony, but all in vain. With a wicked cry of joy the troll dragged her deep into his cave and drank every last drop of her blood. But then a miracle occurred: her spirit did not leave the maiden’s limbs, and she remained alive, bloodless and snow-white; a plaintive ghost from the realm of shadows. The troll saw this and, thus vexed, lashed out at his victim with his claws and teeth, with all his might, but still he could not bring death upon her. Finally he decided to keep her for himself, deep in the eternal night of his caves. But what service could she perform for him, what use could she have for the troll? He commanded the maiden to polish all his treasures and precious stones and to pile them endlessly in front of him, for never did he tire of admiring them.
And so for years this pale, bloodless maiden lives imprisoned in the mountain’s womb. Yet by night she can be seen quietly praying high upon the ridge. Who could have given her such freedom? The power of the heavens?—But every night, come storm, rain or hard frost, she stands atop the mountain praying for the forgiveness of her sins. Bloodless, snow-white and like a picture, so motionless and silently
she stands, her hands crossed upon her breast and her head bowed deeply. Not once does the poor maiden dare raise her head towards the heavens, for her gaze is fixed upon the church spire, far away at the edge of the forest. For always in her ear there whispers a voice of hope; though nothing more than a distant murmur across thousands of leagues, she catches a glimpse of this hope. And thus she spends her nights upon the mountain ridge, and never can a word of complaint be heard from her lips; nor does her praying breast rise or fall with sighs. And thus the dark nights pass, but come daybreak the ruthless troll drags her back into his caves.
Barely had a hundred suns shone upon the earth when the young man, the maiden’s beloved, jubilantly returned home from his journey. But alas his fair maiden did not rush towards him to welcome him home. He enquired where his beauty may be, but not a soul knew of her whereabouts. He searched for her everywhere, every day and night, tirelessly, but in vain: like the morning dew the maiden had disappeared without a trace. At last he lost all hope, forgot all the joys of life and for many years he wandered these hills as a silent shadow. Finally, as another shining day broke, the endless night of death extinguished the light from his eyes.
Frightfully long were the years for the pale maiden: by day polishing incessantly the troll’s treasures under the gaze of her cruel tormentor and piling them before his eyes; by night atop the mountain ridge. Bloodless, snow-white and like a picture, so motionless and silently she stands, her hands upon her breast and her head bowed deeply. Not once does she dare raise her head towards the heavens, for her gaze is fixed upon the church spire, far away at the edge of the forest. Never does she complain; never does her praying breast rise or fall with sighs.
It is a light summer’s night. On the mountain ridge stands the maiden, remembering the agonising time she has spent in captivity; a hundred years have passed since the day she parted from her betrothed. Horrified, she swoons and cold pearls of sweat run from her brow down to the mossy soil at the foot of the mountain as she thinks of the terrible length of those bygone decades. At that moment she felt the courage, for the first time, to look up to the heavens, and a moment later she discerned a blinding light approaching her like a shooting star from the furthest outreaches of space. And the closer to her this light came, the more it began to change its form. This was no shooting star; it was the young man, transfigured, a flashing sword in his hand. And with that the maiden’s heart began to beat feverishly, as the wonderful familiarity of that face dawned upon her; for now she recognised the face of her former groom. But why was he approaching with a sword in his hand? The maiden was vexed and said in a weak voice: “Will this sword finally end my pain? Here is my breast, young hero, strike your shining blade here and, if you can, bring me death, which for so long I have yearned after.” Thus she spoke on the mountain ridge, but the young man did not bring her death, but the sweet breath of life, which like a fragrant, whispering morning breeze enveloped the pale maiden. The young man, his eyes filled with love, took her in his arms and kissed her, and at this the bloodless maiden felt the sweet ripple of blood running once again through her veins, her cheeks glowed like clouds at the glorious break of day and her fair brow brimmed with joy. And with that she threw her head of fine locks across her beloved’s arm and looked up to the bright heavens, her breast sighing away the suffering of the bygone years; and the young man ran his fingers through her locks as they swayed gently in the breeze. How wonderful was the hour of her salvation and the morning of her deliverance! The birds chirped in the spruce trees along the sides of that steep mountain and from the north-east shone the first radiant sliver of the rising sun. This morning was indeed worthy of the morning the couple parted on the green meadow for so long a time.
The Big Book of Classic Fantasy Page 42