We are the Jápmemeahttun.
We are the guardians of the world.
Our memory stretches back to the start of days.
Our vision reaches beyond all tomorrows.
We sing together as one so that our one may always survive.
The refrain repeated over and over, mixing with his own thoughts and memories. The Avr. The Immortal army descending through the valley. Green fields. Flashing swords. Then a refrain that had been murmuring in the background came to the fore. He heard the new voices in his head, but felt their power in his heart.
We are the Taistelijan.
We are the warriors of the Jápmemeahttun.
Our swords serve our kind in death.
Our knowledge our continued life.
We walk into battle to end what was long ago begun.
Then he heard Dárja’s voice, as if she was within him. So strong. So full of purpose.
“Marnej?” Dárja said, shaking his arm as he swayed with his eyes open. “Marnej.”
He blinked, unhearing.
“Are you all right?”
He blinked again. The dark centers of his eyes narrowed. “It just takes getting used to,” he said.
He shook his head. His hair was a straw-colored halo.
It occurred to Dárja that, up until this moment, she hadn’t thought to inquire about what Marnej had experienced within the Song.
“What does it feel like?” she asked, masking her curiosity by picking up their supply bag.
Marnej looked around him, as if he were seeing the world for the first time. “Didn’t you ask my father that?”
“No. Why would I?” Dárja replied, bewildered by the question.
Marnej held out his hand for the supply bag, but she put it over her shoulder.
“Because we’re the same,” he said, his tone suggesting that he’d just stated something obvious.
Dárja was about to say that they weren’t the same at all but stopped herself. “I suppose I think of Irjan as Jápmemeahttun. He’s been with me my whole life.”
“It’s strange,” Marnej said, rubbing his face with both hands. “Everything’s slightly blurred. I feel dizzy, like when you spin in a circle too long.” He furrowed his brows as he took a step forward. “And it’s hard to walk. It’s like the ground is shifting under my feet. I can’t find myself in all the voices.” Marnej massaged his temples. “I want to shout at them to be silent. They make my head hurt.”
“I miss them when I’m Outside,” Dárja said. “I feel alone. Cut-off.”
Marnej’s confusion deepened. “Outside?”
“In your world,” she said, then clarified. “Not in the Song.”
“Well, inside or outside, it all looks the same. But it feels,” he hesitated, then gave her a rueful smile. “This is the first time I’ve had to think about it.”
“But you’ve been in the Song before,” Dárja said.”
Marnej nodded slowly. “But this is the first time I’ve talked about it.”
He took a wobbling step, then another more assured one. “At first, when we were escaping. I didn’t have time to think about how I felt,” he said. “I just knew we had to run. But now you’re asking me to look at what I see and feel.” He paused again. “It’s not easy.”
Marnej’s discomfort made Dárja self-conscious, as if she were causing him pain.
Changing the subject, she said, “Well, if you can walk, we still have a bit ahead of us.”
“I can walk,” Marnej said.
His prickly tone put Dárja immediately on guard.
Then he raised an eyebrow and gave a lop-sided grin. “You’re the one who’s hobbled.”
She laughed. “I’ll make it there before you.”
His grin widened. “That’s because you know where we’re going and I don’t.”
“Home,” she said. “We are going home.”
Squinting at the distant tree-line, Dárja began walking east. She wanted to run. She thought of Irjan and Kalek and Okta. They would all be there. Her friends, too. A twinge of conscience made her look over her shoulder at Marnej. He gave her a smile which she returned, even as doubt began to creep in around her. She’d been so focused on getting back to the Pohjola she’d pushed aside concerns. She’d told herself she’d think them when the time came. Now she had to face the fact the time had come. She had no idea how Marnej would be received.
“Alive,” Marnej said from behind her.
Dárja stopped. “What?”
“Everything feels more alive,” he said.
Marnej fell into step behind Dárja. There was something different in the way she held herself, as if the strain that had made Dárja so rigid had been replaced by something resembling ease. She was still impatient, but there was a quality of anticipation rather than agitation. For this reason, he’d allowed her comment about going home to pass without correction. He’d wanted to point out that it was her home, not his. But perhaps it would become his home as well, a place where he might belong, a place where he could begin to know his father. This idea filled him with wonder. He thought of Irjan, the father he’d never imagined wanting. The sudden need he felt unnerved him. Marnej shook the thought of Irjan from his mind, focusing on his own song while the words rose within him.
I am the vessel of a father’s soul.
I have journeyed into the realm of the dreams of the dark sky,
And traveled back in a blaze of light.
I enter into the world to meet my destiny,
Knowing that I have been touched by the gods.
As the rhythm of the chant rose and fell, some part of Marnej, perhaps the Olmmoš part, began to question how this song came to be a part of him. He’d never heard the refrain until he encountered his father that first time. Yet, he knew that this was his song. It was his soul made into music.
Marnej listened intently, as if he were hearing his song for the first time. And, in some ways, he was. His song sounded much stronger now, like a shout instead of a whisper. Each refrain came to him layered with meanings, all of which clamored for his attention.
“You’re singing,” Dárja said.
It took Marnej a moment to realize that she had spoken to him out loud.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re singing.”
“You said everything sings.”
“I mean . . . you’re singing out loud.”
Marnej felt a flush rise up his neck toward his ears.
“Not that it was bad,” Dárja added quickly. “You have a nice voice.”
Now Marnej’s skin burned with humiliation. Eager to shift her attention he said, “Where does your song come from?”
“It was given to me by my oktoeadni,” she said, her voice trailing away with the wind as she walked ahead of him.
“Oktoeadni?” he repeated, unsure of what she meant.
“The one who gave birth to me,” she said.
“Your mother.”
“Yes,” Dárja said after a slight pause, “but Irjan is the one who sang it to me. He is my biebmoeadni.”
“Your guardian,” Marnej said.
“Mmm,” she agreed, still ahead of him.
“Where did mine come from?” he asked, cringing at how pathetic he sounded.
Dárja stopped, then turned, waiting for him to fall into step with her. The Dárja he’d known before they’d crossed into the Northlands would’ve looked smug, every bit an Immortal. But this was a different Dárja, more human somehow.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Your mother?”
She said “mother” slowly, taking care to match his tone and inflection.
“What was your mother like?” he asked.
Dárja grimaced. Marnej glanced down at her ankle, thinking she had stepped wrong.
“I didn’t know my oktoeadni,” she said, picking up her pace. “She died.”
With his longer stride, Marnej caught up to her easily.
When it became clear that Dárja woul
d say nothing more, he said, “I didn’t know my mother either.” This confession made Marnej feel instantly weak and vulnerable. The truth was, he had learned the words for knife and sword before he had learned what a mother and father were. His father, Irjan, had killed his mother and left Marnej to die. This was the explanation offered by the Brethren when he was old enough to ask about his parents.
“I know,” Dárja said, bringing Marnej back to the present.
Startled, he stammered, “Do you know . . . how she died?”
Dárja shook her head but didn’t meet his eye. “Irjan rarely spoke of your mother.”
Marnej’s anger flared without warning, clouding his judgment. He reached out to make her stop and face him, but drew his hand back just as fast. He’d learned that forcing Dárja to do anything never worked in his favor.
As they descended a small stony ridge side-by-side, the sharp click of Dárja’s walking stick on rocky ground was the only sound, now that the harassing wind had died down.
“He rarely spoke of her because it was painful for him,” she said, breaking the silence.
Even though she’d spoken softly, Dárja’s pronouncement hit Marnej like a rebuke. And yet, desperation pushed him to ask her what she knew about his mother. What did she look like? Did Irjan truly love her? Did she love me? The questions within him cried out for answers, but the words would not come out.
Instead, fear of the very answers he sought made him ask, “How did your mother die?”
When Dárja didn’t answer right away, Marnej glanced at her. To an untrained eye, she appeared to be concentrating on where to step as they descended the hillock through juniper and birch scrub. However, he had spent a full moon cycle observing her. To him it seemed she struggled with something inside herself.
“You don’t have to answer,” he said, wanting to recapture the ease they’d finally found with each other.
Dárja nodded her head and walked on, her mouth pressed into a grim line.
As they trudged up the long slope of the next ridge, Marnej found it hard to settle into a comfortable stride. The voices bombarded him. They pushed against one another, competing for his attention. If he attempted to follow just one voice, he would become overwhelmed. But if he just let the sounds pass through him, without fighting for control, then he could almost discern the hypnotic melody of the All.
When they crested the hill, Marnej was so engrossed by new sensations that he hardly noticed the changing vista. Dárja, however, let out a gasp that brought him back to himself in time to see her break into a limping run across the plateau ahead of them. Off in the distance, the broad, dark outlines of a structure cut across the blue sky. His heart skipped a beat. He recognized the outlines of the wooden spires and the rounded cornice crenellation. He had seen them in one of his visions. Yet he couldn’t find the right name for what he now saw. The structure was neither fortress, nor temple, and it was clearly not a hut, nor a farmhouse. But it was the home to the Immortals. This much he knew.
Marnej ran after Dárja. He told himself he ran to protect her from falling. But really he ran, just as she did, to reach those far-off walls which he hoped would be a sanctuary. As they drew closer, he slowed, letting Dárja gain a long lead. When she reached a low stone wall with a carved gate in its center, she stopped. Though still some distance back, he watched her struggle to open the gate. Finally, she gave up and climbed over the stones.
Marnej slowed further, taking in all the details. A yellow lichen bloom on the dark wood of the edifice drew his attention. He recalled a verse he’d memorized as a boy.
The yellow-eyed raven god
dove down from skies with open claw,
to wrest the helpless soul from flesh
and make the journey into endlessness.
Marnej also recalled the resounding clout to the head he’d received for asking why a Piijkij needed to learn the verse. The old brother who’d taken pleasure in hitting him took equal pleasure in informing him that death claimed all, but rewarded few.
Reaching out, Marnej touched the wall before him. It was no trick or fancy he’d invented. Splintered and deeply grooved, the wood looked as if it had been charred by fire. The yellow lichen, by contrast, blazed like the sun. The yellow-eyed raven god.
Across a garden of herbs, Dárja banged on a door. Marnej stepped to the stone wall just as the door opened. A pale Immortal with long blond hair and broad shoulders appeared, then stooped through the low door frame.
Dárja collapsed to the ground. Her words lost in sobs. The pale Immortal dropped to his knees and embraced her in his arms, rocking her back and forth, his face tucked into her neck. Marnej felt he should turn away, but the part of him that longed for this kind of greeting made him stare, until he noticed that he also was being observed.
Part Two
BEYOND ALL
TOMORROWS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KALEK WRAPPED HIS ARM around Dárja’s shaking body, cradling her as she rested her head against his shoulder. He touched his forehead to hers and breathed her in. She smelled of forest, dirt, and sweat, but she was alive.
Movement beyond the garden caught Kalek’s eye. A tall, sinewy Olmmoš boy stood behind the stone wall. His grime-smeared face peered out below a thick crop of straw-colored hair. Kalek had not seen him before, but he knew this was Marnej. The boy possessed the same arrogant stance as his father. But for the color of the hair, it was like looking upon a young Irjan.
He and Irjan had been such unlikely allies. Irjan had saved Dárja’s life, and Kalek had saved his. Together they had risked both their lives for the boy. On the coldest days, he still felt a dull ache where he had been wounded. Kalek did not want to be reminded of Irjan sitting alone in his cell, blaming himself for the fact Marnej would grow up, as he had, to be a Piijkij. He wanted to remember Irjan as he was in their last moments—whole and honor-bound.
The boy stood still, watchful. He was likely as dangerous as his father had once been. If Kalek had learned anything in his time with Irjan, it was that the Brethren trained their Hunters to be ruthless. But the boy was with Dárja. If she had been his captive, then circumstances had changed. Still, Kalek could not shake the feeling of foreboding that almost overshadowed his joy in seeing Dárja once again.
“Come, let us get you inside,” he whispered in Dárja’s ear, pulling her to her feet.
“Both of you,” he added, beckoning Marnej with a curt wave.
Once inside the apothecary, Kalek sat Dárja down before the fire. He stoked the embers to life, glancing back to see if Marnej would enter. When the doorway filled with shadow, a small, petty hope died. Kalek secretly wished the boy would return to his kind. But, like his father, Marnej was as much Jápmemeahttun as he was Olmmoš. He was a part of their future, whatever that might look like.
“Come, sit and rest.” he gestured.
Still, the boy hung back.
“There is a stool here for you.”
The boy cautiously stepped forward. When he neared, Kalek saw that Marnej was taller than his father, with pale grey eyes instead of Irjan’s dark ones. Tightness squeezed Kalek’s chest.
He cleared the lump from his throat. “I am Kalek,” he said, stepping away from the fire to make room for the boy to sit.
“I am Marnej,” said the young Piijkij as he sat down warily.
Kalek busied himself with putting water to boil on the fire. “We have no food here in the apothecary, but I can make some tea to warm you.”
Dárja rewarded him with a weary, wordless smile.
Marnej said nothing.
Kalek noted that he kept his eyes on Dárja. She, by her expression, tried to reassure him.
Looking directly at the boy, Kalek said, “You are welcome here.”
Doubt narrowed his Olmmoš eyes.
With more force than relief, Kalek said, “The war is over.”
Dárja and Marnej shared another look that made him believe they both had been a part of the battle, but
had no desire to recount events.
Dread washed over Kalek as he walked to the clay pots lining a shelf. He brought down one and then another, fighting the urge to look back at Dárja. He scooped out herbs into two wooden cups, then ladled boiling water into them. The smell of warm uulo and muorji acted as a balm to his nerves. Kalek handed one cup to Dárja and the other to Marnej, then observed them with a healer’s critical eye.
Sharp angles carved Dárja’s tan face. Her arms, once roped with muscle, stuck out like twigs from her tunic sleeves. She was not the mánáid he had watched grow or even the fiery nieddaš who had defied them all. She looked as if only part of her walked in this world.
Marnej, on the other hand, twitched like an oarri whose cache of nuts was threatened. He sat with his spine straight, his eyes darting from side to side, poised to either fight or flee. The two of them, sitting in front of the fire, were like the sun and the moon. Yet, there was something between them.
I cannot tell them about Irjan now, Kalek thought, then promised himself he would, once they had rested.
“I will go and fetch food for you,” Kalek said, easing toward the door. “Drink the tea. When I return, I will look at your ankle.”
Dárja jumped to her feet, knocking over her stool. “Irjan,” she said, ignoring the scalding tea she had spilled down the front of her tunic.
Panic gripped Kalek as the two of them looked at him with hope in their careworn faces. He could not speak the truth. Yet. So he lied.
“Are you sure I’m welcome?” Marnej asked, pacing.
“Yes,” Dárja said, her eyes on the door. “You’re safer here than you were with your own kind.”
Marnej snorted.
“I’ve known Kalek my whole life. He would not lie.”
Marnej fiddled with the knife on his belt. “I can’t believe that a Piijkij would be a welcome sight here.”
“Irjan was a Piijkij and Kalek trusted him. You should trust Kalek,” Dárja said, impatient. Her stomach was in knots and no amount of tea would soothe it.
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