Songman stood with Raito and four other men, a bit further away. His expression was dark, and only a grueling hunger forced him to participate in the feast. The rest of the village gathered around Runtamoinen, his gang being stronger than Songman’s by one man. The villagers couldn’t have been more divided, with the tall men joining Songman and the short ones alleging with Runtamoinen.
Everyone filled their stomachs with soup and meat and the hunters had to tell the last two days’ events so many times they got tired. Runtamoinen took out his drum, made of wolf skin and bones, and started to pound it with a polished piece of bone. The even, hypnotic rhythm was catching and soon even Vierra noticed that she was nodding to it. Ulva started to sing with a low, sonorous voice. His eyes burned feverishly and sweat flowed down his forehead, even though it was very cold. Runtamoinen also joined the singing with his own, croaking voice. Vierra did not hear all the words accurately but one verse seemed to be recurring time and time again.
Hairy wolf, beast of forest
Wanderer so gray
Let me pass you in the dark wood
Do not pick me as your prey
We fell your kind, we slew your friend
Only in our dire need
So us men of lesser spirit
Could get our wretched feed
Songman stood up after he had eaten and started to walk toward another lean-to. His men also got up and intended to follow their leader. Ulva stopped the song and demanded, furiously.
“Where are you going? It is not appropriate to leave during the holy song!”
“We go where we go, the eating is done and we don’t care about your songs,” Raito answered.
“You southern brats don’t honor anything or anyone but you will learn,” Ulva replied ominously.
He got up, enraged. His eyes glowed in the campfire like a bright yellow flame as he attacked Raito with one agile jump. The man was caught completely off guard and had no time to react whatsoever. Ulva’s fist found its way to Raito’s cheek, throwing him down to the snow. Ulva stormed on top of the fallen man, pounding him mindlessly with both fists. His rage was accompanied by a low, guttural voice that came deep from his throat. The villagers, witnessing this event, were dumbfounded, so sudden and violent had Ulva’s outburst been.
Vierra rose to the occasion quickly and rushed to pull Ulva away from Raito, trying to calm him down. To her surprise, he jumped up and grabbed her throat with both hands. There was a mindless, sightless expression on the man’s face and Vierra felt how his strong grip started to squeeze with crushing strength.
Vierra reacted instinctively; her right knee jerked up and sank into her opponent’s crotch with a crunch. All the force of her short frame was behind the kick. Ulva bent from the blow as a broken straw, rolling on the ground with agony. He whimpered like a beaten dog but an angry, bestial fire still burned in his eyes.
Vierra let her stare circle on the frozen villagers, her green eyes allowing no argument.
“This fight ends here! You will all die unless you learn to work together. A farmer or a hunter, you’re both equally useless if you’re dead.”
Songman looked at her with open hostility.
“We will see. Keep your dogs in leash!”
Songman’s men lifted up Raito, who was still lying prone and bleeding, and walked him back to his lean-to. The tall men disappeared behind its blackened entrance flap. Runtamoinen’s group was left alone by the fading fire.
“Let’s go inside too,” Runtamoinen stated. “There’s nothing more we can do today. Carry Ulva to the lean-to, and we’ll take care of him.”
“Why did he attack me,” Vierra asked as they dragged the slowly recovering Ulva toward his lean-to dwelling.
“The spirit of the wolf enters him from time to time, and it is up to me to persuade it out. You’ll see. Keep your wits about you when you’re with him.”
“A wolf bit him while we were hunting.”
“The spirit enters more easily from a wound. It gives him strength though, and heals his wounds quickly, but he has no control over it yet. He still has lot to learn.”
Ulva’s gaze was threatening but he didn’t try anything as the men carried him into the dark of his abode.
The logs of the makeshift house were blackened on the inside. A crude fireplace and an opening for smoke had been created at one end and smoke could snake around the building to blacken the wood. The walls were patched with moss and the hard-trodden floor had been covered with straw. This was not the work of a master builder and the embers on the fireplace had to be properly set ablaze, if the men were to have warmth inside it. When the fire had been lit, Runtamoinen went close to it and a few men carried Ulva to him. The old man took his drum out again and started to beat it. This time the rhythm was slower and more primal and neither he nor anyone else sang to it. Vierra took a step backwards and pulled Armas with her to the back of the lean-to. They wrapped themselves to the pelts, side by side. Others were concentrated on the event that was taking place by Runtamoinen’s fire.
“Where did Songman come from,” Vierra asked. She instinctively and gently stroked the boy’s hair.
“Last winter, when there was a severe cold, he came with his men, three cows and a few sacks of grain. Ulva’s wife Ranna was our chieftain then, and she welcomed the travelers to our winter camp. At first, Songman pretended to be a good man, teaching us new songs and obeying when the women ordered. Soon his real nature started to show, however, and since the spring’s events he and Runtamoinen have turned against each other. In the beginning many of us rallied with him, he taught us how to slash-and-burn and to build these houses. In the end, his clearance yielded little, and he couldn’t preserve game like the women had. With winter came hunger and, as Songman isn’t a good hunter either, only his own men now listen to him.
Runtamoinen’s drumming strengthened and he let out low, guttural voices to the rhythm of the drum. The crowd was completely focused on the ceremony.
“Runtamoinen blames Songman for stealing the women. He says we wouldn’t have been surprised if we had gone for the spring hunt, like the old customs say, and not stayed put like we are now.” Armas glanced at Ulva. “Ulva has not been himself since his wife was taken. Sometimes I’m afraid of him.” The boy shuddered.
Vierra pulled the boy closer and he started to snooze. A year or two later, or in slightly different circumstances, their meeting under the hides would have been different. Now he only grabbed at her like she was his absent mother.
“We will talk sense to them tomorrow. If we can’t get people to work together, everyone here will starve soon. Sleep now.” Vierra tried to encourage the boy.
“The cows and the little crops we had left are all eaten, and so are the lingonberries. That moose won’t keep us alive forever, so something has to be done soon.”
Runtamoinen’s session soon faded and he looked happy. Ulva slept with a heavy snore by the fireplace. For a moment Vierra listened to the peaceful breathing of the boy sleeping next to her. She gathered more skins on top of them, to keep them warm. A strong human scent was mixed with that of smoke, and, momentarily, Vierra missed sleeping alone, under open sky. The house was very warm, though, and she quickly fell asleep as the firewood crackled on the back of the fireplace, while the frost snapped on the outsides of the log walls.
A dark song on the snow
It was the break of dawn when Vierra stuck her head out of the lean-to house. It wasn’t long when she went back and yelled to the sleeping men.
“Somebody has stolen the meat. There is not a single piece left.”
The sleep was quickly shaken off from the men’s eyes and they hurried outside. The snowfall grew heavier by the minute as they wandered around, searching. All the meat, including what Vierra had set to dry, was gone.
“The spirit of the wolf punished us,” was Runtamoinen’s opinion. “We have to soothe the spirits to get the moose back.”
“If the wolf spirit hasn’t suddenly lear
ned how to ski, we have to search for the perpetrator somewhere else,” yelled Armas, coming from the outskirts of the village. “Six pairs of skis are missing. Songman’s group is nowhere to be seen and there’s a trail of a sledge and skiers that goes south.”
The villagers quickly gathered to council about what to do next.
“We take our skis and go after them in numbers, they cannot be far,” said Vierra. “Songman betrayed the promise he gave on our bet and we have to get the meat back in any case.”
“My hunting and skiing days are long over, but there are other ways,” said Runtamoinen and went into his hut. Nobody was allowed to follow him there, and soon a hollow drumming and coarse singing echoed from his dwelling.
As nobody had a better idea, the men quickly gathered their gear and got on their skis. Vierra lead the group, along with the sharp-eyed Armas. Ulva was also there but he remained silent. They started moving at once but the journey progressed slowly due to the heavy snowfall, and the group had to stay very close together for not to get separated and lost from each other.
“The trail weakens, as if they were skiing on light snow and most of it only fell after them,” blurted Armas, distressed and poking the trail with his spear.
“Songman’s tricks probably, but I will show him,” said Ulva, breaking the silence and petting the end of his spear.
“We will carry on, there’s not much choice,” Vierra interrupted.
The snowfall got heavier, until the trail was impossible to see. The group, clueless, stopped to ponder about the next move.
“We keep on going south. There they’re going anyway, to Songman’s homelands,” mused Armas.
“The trail will fade again, just like with the ones that stole our women. This time I won’t go home until they’ve been caught.” There was harsh bitterness in Ulva’s voice.
“Look,” yelled Vierra, interrupting their contemplating.
The falling snow reduced the visibility into a white-gray mist, but at the edge of their vision was a great silver-maned wolf. It looked keenly at them, and when Vierra started to approach, it stood up and trotted further away. Then it sat again, looking at them as waiting for someone to approach.
“Wolf brings good luck,” said Ulva. “Let’s follow it.”
“I haven’t seen any of that good luck here,” Vierra snapped in-between. She didn’t have a better proposition, anyhow, so they let the wolf lead them into the thick snowfall.
Finally the snowing started to ease up, and they could see their surroundings again. The escapees’ trail was stronger now and the pursuers increased their pace, vitalized by the turn of their fortune. And so it was, that in a great snow-covered glade, they finally caught the fugitives. There were six men, with a sledge where the meat and goods were packed. Vierra yelled at them from the edge of the opening.
“Halt! You like to eat venison and haul it away too but won’t ski after it in the forest. Besides, you promised to obey me and submit to my will when you lost the bet in the sauna.”
“If you give us the moose, you can go,” added Armas. Vierra calmingly lowered her hand to the boy’s shoulder.
“Be careful, and stay beside me.”
Songman turned, and the others stopped as well. It was then when they saw a sword on his belt. It was a rare sight, and a valuable weapon. Its price would have fed the whole group for a long time.
Ulva skied straight to Songman yelling:
“Will you give me the meat or shall I beat you like I beat your slave yesterday? Nobody’s going to help you now.”
What followed would have been beautiful, had it not been so violent. Songman unsheathed his sword and struck in one, perfectly smooth motion. Gracefully, like a snake, the weapon swung through the air and severed Ulva’s head from his shoulders, spraying blood all over the surrounding snow. Songman’s white hair fluttered and his ice-blue eyes burned triumphantly.
“Come try your luck, the Blood Drinker calls its own. The moose you will get only over my stiff, cold body.”
This horrible act wiped away all possibility of negotiation and the long smoldered discord burst into a devastating flame. First it was arrows that flew between the enemies. The pursuers were still amongst the trees and so in better cover from the shooting. Two of Songman’s men fell from the arrows and one of Vierra’s group.
Vierra followed the shooting from her shelter, taking no part in it. This fight, if any, was mindless and in vain.
“Armas, don’t go,” Vierra yelled, but it was too late. The eager boy left the shelter of the trees during a lull in the rain of arrows and attacked Songman. He thrust his spear toward Songman’s chest but the man dodged and swiped diagonally down with his sword. The boy collapsed and the snow beneath him flooded red with blood. Vierra’s hopes of a rational near future were buried in bloody snow. Her bow fired an arrow toward Songman, who was standing alone. He was an easy target as he just stood there with no intention to run for cover. He laughed and sang with loudly.
I know now the birth of bow
Singing the song of death
Arrow will not touch the Songman
Draw my blood or breath
To her surprise, Vierra saw that her arrow had clearly missed its mark. Annoyed, she nocked another arrow. This time she aimed carefully before the shot, until she was absolutely sure that it would hit. Again the result was to disappoint her; the arrow passed its target, although barely. Songman flinched and looked at Vierra. The overconfidence that had been in his eyes before was gone now and he ordered his three remaining men to charge. Runtamoinen’s group faced them. The melee was clumsy in the snow as everyone was fighting on their skis.
Vierra dropped the bow and took the same broad-headed spear she had used as a ski-pole in her hands. It was heavy and clumsy for throwing but she nevertheless hurled it towards Songman. He dodged the incoming spear and skied toward Vierra, the blood of Ulva and Armas trickling from his sword.
“Even though you can’t be hit with an arrow, you have to dodge the spear,” Vierra mocked. However, the only weapon she now had left was her scramsax with a cubit-length blade, which she pulled out in order to face the man.
It was an uneven situation, Vierra’s blade was shorter than Songman’s and the man was much taller than her. She swung her weapon at the approaching man but he easily parried the blow and struck the blade from her hands, landing it far away into the snow. He raised his sword to strike and blurted out laughing:
“I will take your head back home and ask it for permission for my doings. This is my way of keeping my promise to you.”
The sword rose and Vierra prepared for a desperate dodge, but the blow was never delivered. A great silver-maned wolf jumped at Songman and both the animal and the man fell to the snow. There they wrestled each other until Songman managed to pull a knife from his belt. A few fast stabs and the wolf yelped jumping away. It dragged itself on the snow, staining the perfect white with a trail of blood, until it finally slumped, remaining completely still.
Songman took his eyes off the wolf only to see Vierra standing on top of him, her bow drawn and an arrow only half a meter away from his face.
“Sing this away,” Vierra said and released. And Songman sang no more.
***
With the last gaze of its glassy eyes, the great silver-maned wolf watched the forest glade, which had turned into a battlefield. Only a black-haired woman moved in the field, looking for any survivors among the fallen. When she found none, she skied to the sledge full of venison and filled her backpack with meat.
What the wolf’s eyes didn’t get to see was the woman stopping by the corpse of a young, blond boy. They didn’t notice her sad look as she closed the boy’s eyes, which remained open upon death.
And they didn’t see how she started to ski toward the north, towards her homeland, with a brisk pace. She did not look back.
On Treacherous Ground
In the swamp you could still feel it. The cold grasp of winter, which was reluctantly
leaving the northern lands. From amid twigs and moss, a cold, damp vapor rose to impede the three travelers who disturbed its peace. Foremost was a dark-haired man, hands tied behind his back. The eyes of the prisoner were bleak and glassy, and he clearly didn’t know where he was going. Behind him was a woman who jostled and directed her prisoner to the direction she desired. Her head was covered with a hood, and her face couldn’t be seen in the dark, cloudy morning. Behind these two came a sturdy, blond-haired man, who had an aura of sluggishness about him as was often found with larger men. He kept some distance from the two that walked before him. The man was immensely strong; he was carrying a large stone in each hand without them appearing to affect his progress at all.
No words were exchanged, and the trio walked in silence, concentrating on avoiding the morasses that crossed their path. The call of a lonely curlew echoed in the damp air. Many other birds hadn’t yet returned to the northern swamps to spend the summer there. Some snow still remained like last breaths of the resisting, dying winter.
The travelers arrived at a great quagmire. It was so wide that a grown man would have needed four leaps to cross it. There were no footholds for making these kinds of leaps though, only a calm surface of the water covered with a thin, grey layer of ice after the cold night. The woman yanked her prisoner to a halt and waved the man behind her to approach. She took the rocks that the strong man had been carrying and, with a rope that she’d been using as a belt, tied them to the dark-haired prisoner. He did nothing to stop her, just stood there as if in a dream. She yanked the hood off her head and her black hair flew free. With a strong voice she sang:
Spirits of the gloomy swampland
Little people in the deep
Chorus of the helpless children
Victims who the death will keep
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