Fargoer

by Hannila, Petteri

  Thorleik was angered, and he shouted loudly, as if trying to reach his already unconscious brother:

  “For cursing me, I will not fulfill any of your requests! I shall sell your wife to slavery for the eastern traders, and your men to row the most miserable boats of the fat, Christian priests to their stinking cities!”

  And so died Ambjorn, son of Styr, but Vierra, who had had stood near her dying master unnoticed, had heard everything that was said. And then, the old Vierra took a grip of her, and wrested off all bonds of the dark years of the past. Her green eyes burned again, just like they had before.

  Now she stood with her bow drawn and an arrow on the string, ten paces from Thorleik. She raised her voice, and in the clear evening it carried to the ears of the men, still recuperating from the battle.

  “Ambjorn’s men, hear me! Your master has fallen, and like you well heard, Thorleik is going to sell you for rower slaves and get fat with your shares of the treasure, in some warm harbor. But there are many of you alive. Are you just going to submit and lower your head in front of Thorleik? Will you disgrace your master’s memory by bowing to the will of another power, and give away your future to the hands of this hideous man? I doubt you are men at all, if you let yourselves be led like sheep.”

  “Fool of a wench. We will trample you and all your allies to that sand. That shall leave more silver for each of us,” yelled Thorleik, enraged, and approached Vierra with his sword unsheathed. Vierra skillfully shot an arrow which flew between his legs, making him stop his advance. She pulled another to the string, faster than one could see in the dusk.

  “You will not butcher me like a lamb, Thorleik, even though you did that to my husband and son years ago. Your scabby face was branded to my mind forever when you came and destroyed my life. But even then you didn’t get me without a fight.” Vierra’s long, dark hair fluttered in the evening wind, and it was as if she looked taller than her short stature. Thorleik’s eyes narrowed with anger.

  “I wondered where I have seen you. Your whole tribe should be wiped out. Your men let women control themselves and do naught but sit in their leather huts.”

  “Yes that they do, and those Vikings who wander too far in our land, we put onto stakes for seagulls to peck, and to warn others. And you, Thorleik, I will shoot if you come a step closer, and I assure you the next arrow won’t miss.”

  An uneasy silence descended on the shore. Thorleik’s men dared not stop Vierra, afraid that she would shoot. But after a while, Ambjorn’s men walked behind Vierra, one after another.

  “So, Thorleik, shall we battle here and now, for the ownership of all the silver? It looks like if we can take even a few men from you to the land of the shadow, you will not have enough rowers to control your boat with the silver cargo. And the killing will start from you. On the other hand, if you don’t want to fight you can take your men and your share of the silver, and sail where you like with your boat intact. Decide quickly, for the evening is running out, and my hand is getting restless on the bowstring.”

  Thorleik thought for a long time, eyes flashing.

  “A thousand times be cursed all the power-hungry women on this earth! I promise before you and all the men that I will come and find you and send you after your son and husband, there where you won’t come back from.”

  “I hope you will come, for another time my hand will not hold back the arrow.”

  Jofrid sat in the beach sand beside her husband’s body, stunned by the twisted turns of the events. Thorleik’s men started to collect their treasure and belongings, eying Vierra and Ambjorn’s men suspiciously. The deceased they left where they lie, and it wasn’t long until their boat moved away from the beach, towards the red sun that was setting to the sea.

  Vierra started to act, as if driven by an inner rage. A few able men were left to fix their broken boat with the parts of the two boats that were rotting nearby. What was left was pulled further away to the sand, and the men who had died in combat were piled up on them with all their gear. Ambjorn was put on top. A sword and a broken shield were placed beside him, and, on top, pieces of equipment taken from the foes he had vanquished. They started the pyre from many spots. Against all odds it took fire, and the damp rotten wood burst into flames. The hungry fire rose high, and the men collected their gear and treasure and loaded it into their ship, readying it for their departure. Some pondered whether the pyre would entice the Sons of Termes to attack them again. Nevertheless, they wanted to stand on the side of the flames and thus escort their master on his journey to the other side.

  All this time Jofrid sat on the sand, not once lifting her eyes. As the men followed the pyre, Vierra drew her bow and yelled.

  “Hoa! Jofrid, my prediction came true. I have a bow, and you must make your choice here and now. Either you get on the boat, or try your luck here with the Sons of Termes.”

  For the first time after Ambjorn’s death, Jofrid lifted her head and looked at her former slave with cold, empty eyes.

  “And like you said, we’ll see how I face death. I will face it differently than you mangy dogs of leather huts. I will face it like our foremothers have through the ages.”

  Jofrid rose slowly and walked straight into the flaming funeral pyre, and the pain from the fire did not show in her petrified expression, as the flames swallowed her. And so Jofrid followed her husband, and a gust of wind spread the ashes rising from their fire on the sand and to the darkening sea. When the men finally turned their face from the pyre, Vierra was nowhere to be seen. It was as if the evening wind had taken her with it, leaving no trace behind. The men looked at each other for a moment, and then quietly hurried to the boat.

  ***

  From far away, Vierra looked at the last red glow of the pyre. There, on the side of the forest that darkened to night, she finally let everything out. For the last three years she had been dead inside and without any feeling, and nothing could have hurt her. Now she felt that the surge from inside her took her with it. Powerless, she fell to the moss, unable to rise.

  With tears came sorrow and weakness that she had carried for so long. She cried for her husband Vaaja and her son, Vaalo. She cried for the dark haired girl that she had never had the chance to embrace and for, those wise, dark and unborn eyes that waited for her on the other side. She cried for her own, miserable destiny and her torn life. For Ambjorn she also cried, for the only man who had cared for her in this repulsive world, and had never had his love returned. The First Mother she cursed and cried. She cried for a long time, and was alone.

  With the pyre had also burned her old life, maimed by slavery. Vierra turned her wet eyes towards the forest that loomed in front of her, dark. There, a future, filled with independence and insecurity waited her. The she-wolf talked to her again. It was like a beast that had been chained and finally unleashed. Wild and savage was the spirit of the wolf, and it forced her to get up; to wipe the tears away from her green eyes; to step forward to the shadow of the trees growing darker.

  The Song of Wolf and Moose

  Tracks on the snow

  A large, silver-maned wolf sat in the shade of the forest, waiting. The wait was shortly rewarded; in a moment a female moose ran heavily through the wintery wilderness that was gilded by the bright sun. The graceful legs of the animal sank deep into the snow with every step. Running in those conditions told of immense strength and endurance. The wolf smelled the moose’s strong scent, the strength and fear of a fleeing animal.

  The wolf waited patiently and let the moose pass by, which was something its kin would hardly have done. A moment later three pursuers appeared. The morning snow carried them on their skis, nicely speeding up the chase. The men were young, almost boys still. From underneath their caps flashed hair yellow as the autumn hay. The patched clothes they wore had seen better days. The last of them was pulling a sledge made out of wood and covered with worn skins. Two of the men were short of stature, which was common to northern folk, but the third was sturdier and almost a head
above them. As they passed the smells of smoke, hunger and despair wafted to the keen nostrils of the wolf.

  As it watched the men drawing away, a black-haired woman skied past its lookout. She could have been related to the men if her physique was concerned. Her short figure was draped in deer skins and furs, and on her back a bow swung to the rhythm of her skiing. For a while the wolf watched the receding shape of the woman and then silently slipped back into the shadows of the forest.

  She moved with a familiar, even pace, which swallowed miles but did not fatigue her. Vierra was pondering fervently what to do. She had followed the moose tracks for over a day now when by chance a party of hunters had started to pursue the same animal. Now they had caught the trail ahead of her. She had escaped the clutches of her Viking slavers last autumn but something prevented her from going back to her own people in the north.

  After the Vikings had killed her husband and son, her closest relative was Aure, her cousin and a chieftain of the tribe. There was bad blood between her and Aure which went back far into the past, all the way to the spring of their adulthood when she had made a choice. A choice between death and life. It had driven Vierra to live the life of a loner and it had led her to where she was now. What mattered then, and still mattered now, was that it was her decision.

  So Vierra lived wandering alone in the wilderness, which was, especially during the winter, something that only the best woodsmen could survive. This year the merciless north wind had blown colder than usual, as if wanting to destroy the lonely woman. Hunger was indeed a familiar companion and it had eaten away the strong figure she had grown in Ambjorn’s slavery, leaving her thin and diminished. Even now, hunger was gnawing in her guts and whispering in her ear, tempting her to reckless acts.

  Vierra disregarded their demands, anyhow, and settled for following the men from a distance, skiing in the weak trail they had left behind. The weather was perfect for hunting moose as the snow had a tough crust that could carry the skier all the forenoon, whereas the moose’s thin legs sank deep to the snow, tearing them with every step.

  The morning passed and the young men skied, keeping their prey constantly at move. From the west, the wind drove thick clouds to the sky the crisp frost soon turned to a thaw. The snow’s surface ceased to carry the skiers and large, wet snowflakes started to slowly float down from the sky. As Vierra rapidly gained on the men she noticed, that here and there, on the moose’s trail were droplets of blood.

  When the escaping moose finally ran into a thick forest, she managed to ski closer. The men stumbled as they followed the trail into the thicket and Vierra saw that they were exhausted. The men had skied too fast the whole morning, possibly assuming that they’d catch the moose sooner. In the sinking snow, the sledge started to weigh and slow them down. Then and there, persuaded by her hunger, Vierra decided to act.

  Her plan was to go round the trio that blundered among the branches, and also the moose that ran towards escape. She tried to get in front of the animal and onto a good spot for shooting. Hunting knowledge, inherited from her fore-mothers, told her to go round from the east, but her own instinct drove her west. She rarely opposed her inner feelings, but now she hesitated for a moment, unable to reach a decision. The wind, blowing from the west, would bring her scent straight to the moose struggling in the thicket and could scare the animal, causing it to change its direction, which would have been disastrous for Vierra.

  The she-wolf inside got the best of her, and Vierra finally decided to follow her instincts. After going around the thicket from the west for a while, she noticed that the wind started to act up and blow from the east for a moment. Choosing the other direction would have been her undoing, as the moose would surely have picked up her smell with its sensitive nostrils. Thankful, she skied forward as fast as she could, being weakened by hunger, and her hopefulness rose by every skid.

  After skiing for a while, Vierra stopped to wait in the thicket, sweaty and shaking, clinging to her luck. Following the sweat came shivers of cold and the nausea that followed exertion done under severe hunger. She managed to calm her empty stomach, though; vomiting and shooting a bow at the same time was not possible and she would only have one chance, if that.

  A moment passed and the female moose charged from the forest toward Vierra’s hiding place, the frozen terror of desperate flight in its eyes. Two feathered arrows stuck out from its sides. The men had reached shooting distance, but their bows had not been able to deliver death accurately enough. Vierra, letting the animal as close as she dared, stood up and released an arrow at the same time. The sharp arrowhead sank into the base of the moose’s neck, from straight in front of the animal. The moose grunted and halted in its tracks as if hit by a solid rock. It started a lanky escape toward the thickets as blood spurted from the grievous wound onto the snow. Vierra skied fast after the moose and found it lying in the thickets a dozen paces away. It twitched few times and then surrendered its life, as blood gushed intermittently from the gaping wound in its neck. The covering of civilization was left at the feet of a screaming hunger and Vierra stormed at the moose to drink greedily of the warm liquid of life that was spurting out. In the past, she would have poured blood to the ground as well, giving her thanks to Mother Earth or the Seita. She had, however, started to shun ceremonies more and more, as she did now.

  Suddenly, the men skied into sight. They stopped, astonished, seeing the prey they had followed for so long already felled, and an unknown woman by its side. Vierra wiped blood from the sides of her mouth and yanked an arrow on the string of her bow. The young men also groped at their bows and one of them yelled.

  “Hoa! What wisp are you that slurps blood here? You may have gotten the moose but the quarry is ours, for we have chased it for the whole long day.”

  “I am human just as you, and not a malicious fairy. And you can hunt an animal for as long as you want, and still it won’t be your catch unless you fell it.”

  “There are three of us but you are alone. You would dare to defend the bounty against us?”

  “You look like Kainu, but maybe you have lived this far south for too long. If you still respected the ways of our people, you would know that the feller of the prey has the right to decide its destiny. My blood is of chieftain’s blood. I am a woman. Perhaps you have forgotten the teachings of the old crones after you came this far to the south.”

  “We haven’t forgotten them. We just haven’t had a sight of a woman since the last summer. And our hunger is grave, so grave that we may well throw the old traditions for the wolves.”

  “I am as hungry as you. I rather die here quickly fighting you than slowly lying in the snow. I wouldn’t want to kill men of my people though, and a moose feeds more than one. I see that you have a sledge. Does that mean that you also have a village, or a winter camp? I suggest that we make a fire and sate our hunger together, and then ski to your village where we can share the meat with your kin. All I want, and I mind you my demand is perfectly reasonable as the kill is mine, is a week’s share off the carcass.”

  The young men looked doubtful for a while. Hunger was on her side, however, and they finally accepted her proposal. It didn’t take long for the handy woodsmen to gut the moose. They obeyed the traditions and drained its heart’s blood to the ground saying thanks to Mother Earth as the old custom demanded. Meanwhile, Vierra set up a crackling fire, in which they started to roast the fresh meat in the ends of wooden sticks. The meat was tough, and burned from the surface while still being raw inside. Even so, Vierra couldn’t remember eating anything half as good and gobbled down the meat large chunks at a time. The men’s thoughts were the same, concluding from the way they also stuffed their mouths with the barely fried flesh. The sounds of smacking mixed with the crackling of the wet branches in the campfire, until their stomachs were full. Only after they had eaten did the men introduce themselves as Ulva, Raito and Armas. Ulva was the oldest of the group, if one could call old a boy of eighteen summers. He was loud, had a hook
ed nose and seemed to be the undeclared leader of the group. Raito did not speak after the introduction, but sat, tall and serious, while the two shorter men did the talking. Armas was the youngest, a bit insecure, but an observant and talkative young man nevertheless.

  “It seems you’ve followed the moose since the morning,” said Vierra finally, preening her tightly combed hair back with the moose fat that was left in her hands.

  “Yes, and the journey home will be arduous. We must go soon to make it before the dark. Otherwise it might be the wolves that feast on the meat and not us. There are a lot of them around in these parts,” said Ulva seriously.

  “Let’s do it then,” answered Vierra bluntly and stood up. She covered her head with a fur cap and put on her skis.

  They lifted the moose carcass to the sledge and started to pull it toward the men’s home village. The voyage proved to be trying, however. Even though the sledge slid well, there was a lot of weight on it now and the snow didn’t carry it well anymore. They put two skiers to pull the sledge while the other two went forward and opened a path for them. They took only one short break but the night still started to darken frighteningly fast.

  “I think a pack of wolves is following us,” said Armas, ever-aware of his surroundings.

  “We will soon have to stop for the night or we won’t be able to see well enough to make a fire,” yelled Vierra to the two who were opening the track.

  Nobody resisted as it was still a long way to the village. They stumbled from fatigue as they started to gather branches and stamp the snow for a campsite. The campfire had to be lit fast if they wanted to make sure the wolves weren’t encouraged to attack in the dusk. Vierra got on with the task immediately while the others gathered more firewood. She struck the fire skillfully and the wood started to burn with a small flame.

  “We need more and bigger firewood. If the fire dies, so do we. Raito and Armas, come tend to the fire while I go find a snag with Ulva,” yelled Vierra over the sputtering flames. Her face was smudged with soot and her clothes wet from crouching in the snow.