Fargoer (19 page)

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

Hear me good, my offer take
Down now pull him to you
Eat him with your hungry mouths
All blood, gut, all sinew

Give me luck and grant me hope
Give me back what life did steal
Though I come from world above you
All my wounds and ailments heal

The woman kicked her black-haired prisoner in the back, and he fell head first into the grey mire. The ice on the surface broke with a crack, and the victim sank like the rocks that had been attached to him. There was no sound heard greater than a splash, and only a slowly drifting trail of bubbles left on the surface to be seen. These subsided quickly, leaving only the broken ice on the surface as witness to the deed.

The woman and the man walked away from the swamp silently. Perhaps the mist that the swamp raised was a bit thicker than before. Perhaps the peat mosses’ squelch was livelier, or the waters in the quagmire glimmered brighter than before. The woman pulled the hood back over her head after combing her black hair back with her fingers. Only one wisp of hair, white like the flowers of wild rosemary, stayed, curled on her forehead, as if against her will.

The survivor

One step, then another. At first, when Vierra had become sick, she had counted the days until the fever would let go. After it had gotten worse, she had counted the hours of the day and counted each stick of firewood as she collected it with her fading strength, to make sure there would be sufficient for the coming night. Now, as she walked, she could only count steps, one at a time.

Those agonizing steps carried her through the forest that was freeing itself from the winter. The melting snow had revealed a brown-grey ground, which was waiting for warmth and light to green up for its spring blossoming. Shadowy spots were covered here and there with odd-shaped patches of snow, which were fighting a losing battle against the approaching summer. And even though the summer in the north was short, it would inevitably come, just like every year before this one.

Vierra followed a trail that hunters had trampled down. Every sound of the surrounding forest was familiar to her, its lights and shadows like invitations to a traveler who had been away from home for a long time. If she had been in full strength, the feeling of her homeland would have surely made her mistreated heart feel like bursting. Now, however, her eyes were fixed on the path before her. A pounding thought in her feverish head told to take one step after another, toward the lands of her tribe.

Vierra was a master at surviving in the wild, even by the standards of her own people, hardened hunter gatherers though they are. Still, being alone in the wilderness was going to kill her eventually. During the wet snows of the time between winter and spring, the wisp’s disease had gotten in her. Only when she had realized that she couldn’t survive without the help of other people had she set off to look for the people of her tribe. The northern forests and swamps were vast though, and her tribe constantly on the move now that the snows were melting. Vierra earnestly hoped that her tribe members hadn’t yet left for the coast, for the spring trading. With her diminishing strength, she wouldn’t make it there.

Vierra snapped awake from her slumber. She had fallen down on all fours, and felt the cold surface of snow against her burning cheek. It had happened many times before, and she had always gotten up to continue her journey. Now the cool snow felt tempting: maybe she would sleep for just a moment, gather strength and then continue on her way. With a creak Vierra clenched her teeth, trying to subdue this whispering voice inside her.

The voice of her inner struggle was quenched, not by her tenacity but by another’s voice that reached her ears from the forest trail as she lay down. Her sharp ears made no mistake, even with the fever: she was sure there were hunters of her tribe coming along the trail, maybe to check their traps. All strength went from Vierra’s limbs. She had wanted this meeting for so many days, counted steps and made her pain-filled mind believe that she would make it back to her people. Now that her objective was about to be met, her tormented body couldn’t give her any more.

Vierra stood at the swamp. The breeze of early spring blew to her back, and she shivered from the cold. Somewhere, a curlew let out its melancholic call. There were no smells of the swamp in the air; the ground was hard against her feet, as if frozen. In the reddened light of the sun that was setting on the horizon, Vierra saw a large quagmire. Its surface was black and immobile. It emanated coldness and she instinctively took a step backwards.

Only then did she notice the black-haired woman that stood beside her. She looked to the distance, and Vierra couldn’t distinguish her face even when she tried to look as sharply as possible. The woman slowly stepped into the mire, and the black water slowly engulfed her. Cold wind blew her black hair, amid which Vierra could see a few white wisps.

Vierra, shivering from the cold, was filled with horror. She wanted to help this woman, to pull her away from the cold and the death she faced, but her legs felt rooted to the spot and Vierra could do nothing but watch. The faceless woman sank into the water, first up to her hips, then all the way up to her neck. The woman turned to her, and Vierra still couldn’t see her face. She knew one thing though, sensing it rather than seeing; the faceless woman was smiling.

Vierra came back to her senses in complete darkness. With strength borne of the nightmare she tried to get up, but weakness forced her to close her eyes and take a deep breath. Vierra’s head was spinning and she felt a hollow, metallic nausea in her stomach. But she felt warm. Thick bed skins had been tightly wrapped around her, and the air smelled of smoke from a fire.

A wedge of light punctured Vierra’s darkened world as someone opened the entrance skin of the hut. In the dark she could distinguish red hair and the profile of round cheeks. She would have recognized her old friend Rika even after a lifetime of slavery. When Rika realized Vierra was trying to get up, she hurried to push her back down. The women hugged each other for a long time. Finally Rika huffed loudly and pulled back.

“Don’t try to get up, just rest.” Rika accidentally touched one of Vierra’s scars, which ran from her chest to her shoulder, and pulled her hand back.

Vierra smiled coldly. “They don’t hurt anymore, they healed a long time ago.”

“Can you eat? I have some trout broth. Eera says that we can’t give you any stronger food yet.”

No force in the world could have made Vierra decline the food. Even the thought of eating caused a painful feeling of emptiness on the bottom of her stomach.

“I can eat.”

Rika set a wooden cup to her lips, and Vierra grabbed it with both hands, gulping the broth inside her in huge amounts.

“Easy, easy. Otherwise you’ll throw everything up, and we haven’t gotten anywhere. There, now you have to sleep. I shall thank the spirits with Eera that we got you back, we all thought you were dead.”

“I’ve slept enough. And don’t bother the spirits on my account. Help me up, I want to breathe the air outside.”

Confused, Rika wrinkled her brow. She did as her friend asked though, and soon they stepped out of the hut. The spring sun blinded Vierra’s eyes mercilessly, and for a long time she stood outside the hut to get her eyes accustomed to the light. The patches of snow had lost their battle against the summer. It was the moment in spring that felt like everything stood still. The deciduous trees waited, the buds on their branches ready to sprout. The whole nature was full of coiled strength, which waited for the sun’s warmth in order to be unleashed.

The whole tribe, along with the elderly and the children, gathered around Vierra. She remembered leaving a larger tribe than what she had returned back to. The ones that remained looked ragged. If Vierra’s life had been hard, her relatives hadn’t had it easy either. Vierra’s sudden appearance had been like rejuvenating water to the people who had wilted under their burden. Questions were flying in the air like raindrops in a thunderstorm, and because of their torrent she couldn’t answer any of them.

“Let her be,” yelled Eera, who arrived swaying. Her hair had gotten even whiter and she had to rely on a cane to stay on her feet. The eyes, flaring deep in their sockets, hadn’t weakened though. “Vierra shall tell her story, when she feels able to do that. Until then, leave her alone.”

“I can do it, but give me something to eat. The trout broth won’t soothe my hunger.

“You can’t eat yet,” Rika interrupted. “Your stomach can’t handle stronger food yet.”

Eera looked at Vierra assessing her from under her brow.

“Let her eat. Give her food.”

With eagerness that burned with curiosity, the tribe prepared a feast for Vierra. There was fried trout, venison jerky and the first wild-plants of the year, making a meal tasty enough to tempt anyone. And Vierra ate like one who is starving does. Twenty pairs of eyes watched her every move, longing for the meal to end and the story to begin.

So, after eating, Vierra started to speak. She told of the baleful day of the fire festival, of her fight with the invaders, of slavery and all the strange things she had experienced. She told of her journey through the forests and the moose hunt that ended into the death of many men. She told of the harsh winter too, and what had almost happened to her with the disease.