by Blake Smith
Pekko patted his shoulder and went away. Aatu remained where he was. He couldn’t leave Onni.
Softer footsteps padded toward him. It was Sinikka. Aatu quickly cast his cloak over Onni’s cleaved skull, but she asked, “Is that Onni?” He nodded. She didn’t move for a moment. Then, “I was afraid of him. And I didn’t say good-bye. I didn’t say I love you.” The words were no louder than a breath.
“I think he knows,” Aatu said, because he had to believe it.
Sinikka nodded, but she’d stuffed her knuckles in her mouth as if to hold back the tears. Aatu managed to catch her as her knees buckled and they collapsed in a heap together.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the sound of Sinikka’s high-pitched keening. Small, delicate fingers wound into his coat with such force that he feared she would break her own bones. He held her. It was all he could do.
The sun was fully up and Aatu’s wounds had stiffened to the crippling point when Onni’s mother came to pry Sinikka away. Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet, but her hands were gentle as she helped Sinikka to rise and led her away.
Aatu might have sat by Onni until the end of time, but a hand clamped on his upper arm and tugged. “Come along,” Veikko said. “Or are you too hurt to help us bury him?”
It was a challenge, and Aatu responded to it. “I can help.” He hauled himself upright and joined the others who were gathering nearby.
The red wolf’s friends said he was called Jalo. Aatu recognized the name; Jalo was the blacksmith’s son, but they hadn’t known each other well. And now they never would. Aatu listened in silence to their lament. He felt empty, unable to speak, to say that he understood their hurt, but the act of talking about their dead friend seemed to ease their grief.
They had to bury Onni and Jalo as they were. Changing from wolf to man required an act of will, and neither one was capable.
It didn’t seem real, in Aatu’s mind. He’d known Onni as a human from their earliest years, but only for a month as a wolf. He knew that giant, shaggy-pelted creature was his friend, but he kept expecting Onni to pop out from behind a tree and laugh at them for believing he could die.
The ground was frozen, so the men went down to the shoreline and tore rocks loose from the low cliffs, using picks and shovels and their bare hands until their fingernails tore and red blood ran down their wrists. They would pile stones over the bodies to keep wild animals away, then bury the bones when summer came.
Pekko wept unashamedly throughout the task, so Aatu let his own tears fall, his mind running over the plans they’d made, plans that would never come to pass.
He was going to marry Sinikka, and make her smile again. We would have raised our sons like they were brothers. He wanted to build a house on that little hill overlooking the stream, and we would have hidden from our wives on warm summer days, catching fish under the shade of the trees and telling stories about the past.
We were going to be happy.
But now he’s gone.
Onni was laid under a pile of stones atop the ridge, and Jalo had his own cairn a few paces away. Until summer, and then perhaps even after, they would guard the smoking ruins of the outlaws’ camp. It was a good spot to rest, peaceful, warmed by the sun, and blessed by the shaman.
Aatu was heaving a massive boulder into place when the rest of the men came up from the camp. They had finished clearing away the remnants of the battle, Nyyrikki announced. Not a single Sword-Brother had survived. Most had been killed outright and the women of the village had dispatched the enemy wounded, fearing to leave them alive.
“We will destroy the rest of their camp, and give their bodies to the sea,” Nyyrikki said as the last stone was laid over Onni. “It will be as if no Sword-Brother had ever invaded our land. We’re safe now.”
They were safe. But safety came at a cost, and Aatu would never forget it.
The End.
Historical Note
I’ve played fast and loose with both history and legend in By the Light of the Moon. Finland was invaded twice during the Northern Crusades, but the invasions were conducted by King Valdemar of Denmark in 1150 and by the Swedes in the mid-1200s. The Sword-Brothers (also known by their more formal name, The Livonian Brothers of the Sword) were an order of warrior monks known for their brutality and lack of discipline, but their activities were concentrated in Estonia and Lithuania. After the Battle of Saule in 1236, in which most of them were killed, the surviving Sword-Brothers were incorporated into the Teutonic Knights, who had a slightly better reputation.
The Finnish legend of the werewolf has fared no better at the hands of my creativity. The original werewolves, known as Vironsusi, had no control over their transformations, which were usually the result of a witch’s curse. They were rare, solitary, and were more inclined to eat cattle than humans. The ritual cure of calling the cursed man by name and offering him a piece of bread is in accordance with folklore.