The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy

by Johanna Sinisalo

  ‘That my eyes should see the wife I first beheld as a young maid amongst the lambs now attack those same lambs as a werewolf and drink their innocent blood!’

  And with that he quickly stood up, reached for his musket hanging on the wall, and threatening his wedded wife Aalo he shouted:

  ‘Out of my sight, wolf’s whore! Go and join your kin!’

  And thus Aalo’s hands dropped from the side of the bed, to which in fright she had clung, as a drowning man clings to a log as the waters swallow him into their depths, just as her soul now left her body, leaving forever the community of Christ and the protection of the church.

  Thus Aalo hurried past her husband, through the door and into the garden, and from there into the forest she ran, along the pathless paths of the wolves to join her sisters and brothers in joys which belong not to humans, but to wolves, and are eternally shrouded in secrecy.

  1‘He, who believes that something may happen …’

  The Legend of the Pale Maiden

  Aleksis Kivi

  Aleksis Kivi (born Aleksis Stenvall, 1834–1872) is widely considered the father of the Finnish novel. Kivi also wrote poetry and plays which are now considered classic works, but Seven Brothers (‘Seitsemän veljestä’, 1870) is his seminal work and without a doubt the classic of Finnish literature; indeed it was the first full-scale novel ever published in Finnish. Although it is written in the spirit of realism, the novel demonstrates through the brothers the extent to which the world of myth and legend was very real and palpable, and fundamentally rooted in the Finnish mindset of the day. In the extract presented here the brothers recall how their village Impivaara (literally ‘Maiden Hill’) acquired its name.

  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 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.

  But then the angry troll, his tail on end with rage, climbed up the mountain to drag the maiden back into his caverns. But no sooner had he bared his claws at the maiden than the young man’s sword like lightning struck his breast, whereupon his black blood spurted across the mountain. The maiden turned her face away from this sight and pressed her brow into her beloved’s breast, as shrieking wildly the troll breathed his last and plummeted down the mountainside. And so it was that the world was saved from this terrible monster. And upon the bright edge of a silver cloud the young man and the maiden rose up to the heavens. The bride rested upon the knee of her groom and with her brow against his breast she smiled with joy. Through the skies they flew, and into the infinite depths below them sank the forest, the mountains and undulating valleys and dales. And finally, as if into blue smoke, everything disappeared from their view.

  And thus ends the legend of the Pale Maiden, which Aapo told his brothers that dreamless night in the turf-roofed cabin in the glades of Impivaara.

  Island of the Setting Sun

  Mika Waltari

  Mika Waltari (1908–1979) was a prolific writer who, in addition to his many novels, published hundreds of short stories, poems, columns and scripts for stage and screen. He wrote a number of international bestsellers, the most famous of these being The Egyptian (‘Sinuhe, Egyptiläinen’, 1945) and his works have been translated into over 30 languages, including English. Waltari was fascinated by mythology, mysticism and the nature of love and desire, and he made particular use of such elements in his early output. At the age of 17 he published the collection of horror stories Kuolleen silmät (‘The Eyes of the Dead’, 1926) under the pseudonym Kristian Korppi (the word korppi means ‘raven’ and is presumably an allusion to Edgar Allan Poe’s poem of the same name). It is from this collection that the present text is taken.

  I, the final king of the vanquished Viking tribe of the Valley of Three Suns, have commanded Father Anselmus, newly arrived from the land of the Gauls, to commit to posterity that which I am about to impart: the tale of our journey to the Island of the Setting Sun; else it shall be lost, it shall disappear along with me into the land of eternal shadows, where my ancestors have stepped before me, and in whose footsteps I, the last of my kin, a few years hence must follow.

  My mother belonged to the Celts, ennobled in lore. My father brought her home as the glorious spoils of a great sea voyage and made her his wife, so in love was he with her eyes of deepest green and her body that smelt of seagrass. Throughout the long winters, when the sun was banished far from our snow-covered valley, my mother would sing in a strange, soft and wistful language peculiar songs which I did not understand, but which filled my heart with a yearning for far-off lands.

  And so I grew into a young man, and the learned men amongst our slaves taught me the wisdom of eastern and southern lands. And when my father’s time was done and in a burning ship he set off upon his final journey, so I became king of our valley’s feared and powerful tribe.

  My mind was ablaze with thoughts of battles and a soldier’s honour. Many a summer we undertook great sea voyages in our dreaded longships to fertile southern climes, to the fruitful land of the Gauls, down to the blue waters of the Midd Sea, where the sky glowed and the sun was hot. There on those fertile shores we would fill our ships to the brim with treasures and mothers would fright their children in my name.

  But all this had my ancestors done before me, and I was not content with the heroic honour of old. On dark evenings, as autumn storms raged out at sea and thick black clouds passed above us like great, shrieking birds, in the king’s quarters people drank from goblets of pure gold the heavy, spiced wine of those southern, sun-kissed groves to the sound of dice rattling, strange tales and songs of heroism. But my mind was far from them. I thought only of the Land of the Setting Sun, guarded by monsters of the sea, where no man had ventured before. Neither heroic glory nor the spiced wine; neither the tense, fierce game nor the gentle bodies of maidens with silken skin and in whose flesh there lay an intoxicating pleasure – none of this could contain my yearning. On the contrary, in their every pulse, in every momentary glance and in every curve and fibre of their bodies I sensed this unknown land.

  I told the others of my longing and of my secret intention. Some said that I had lost my wits, some that I had been possessed; but a number of them, the red thrill of adventure
running in their veins, decided to join me.

  And so when spring finally arrived and the sea broke free of its icy shackles and was born again, young and unbridled, as the storks sped in great arrows across the sky, their cries full of an untamed longing, we set sail. We pushed our most gallant dragon ship out to sea, and as the wooden boards wailed we felt as formidable as gods at the beginning of time taking their first valiant steps into an unknown world.

  On the day of our departure the sun was hidden behind grey clouds and from atop the fells owls hooted menacing words. Those who stayed ashore were sullen and melancholic. But as a hundred slaves took up their heavy oars and the bow of our dragon ship began to cut through the murky, green water like an eagle soaring across the infinite sky, we let out a cry full of life and adventure, and that cry shook the sheer cliffs above the heavy clouds, and no longer were we burdened.

  We rowed day and night, with a hundred slaves at the oars and our purple sails bulging in the wind. And we felt the thrill of racing ahead and sang proud, menacing songs.

  We steered past the familiar shores of the lowlands. At the sight of our feared ship and the ruddy shadow of our sails people would flee into the forests and the dull sound of warning bells would peal out from towers across the towns. But we cared not for them, and soon the jagged edges of those towers were nothing but ghosts on the horizon.

  We sped past the misty shores of the isles of the Celts on the wings of a storm from the east. After we had helped ourselves to food and water from the outermost point of the land of the Gauls, we finally arrived at the great ocean which only few ships have sailed. With the stars as our guides we set off towards the sunset.

  The final shore disappeared behind us. We were a mere spot between two infinities. But we were not afraid, for the wild, red blood of sea-kings flowed through our veins.