Helena Waris
A PATH DRAWN TO A DREAM

Otava Publishing Company Ltd., May 2009

A Sample


Chapter 4
THE VILLAGE AT SKY ROCK

“Thunder men!” came the piercing cry of the boy running from the shore through the meadow. The child stumbled over his own feet as he crossed the grassy hillside. “A longship!” he yelled, fearful and excited, and pointed back along the river, where nothing could as yet be seen.
The doors of the houses opened and all work was interrupted. The women stepped outside, wiping their hands on their aprons and peering down the slope. The men formed a silent wall on the hillside. Quiet curses could be heard from the young men. The beautiful, bustling autumn day was filled with fear in a moment.

Their first sight of the longship was its tall, eagle-headed prow gliding fluidly into view at a turn in the river. The mast had been laid down and there were four pairs of oars stuck out of the sides of the ship, scooping up the water at a leisurely pace. A large man stood in the prow, shading his eyes with a gauntleted hand. His long, fair braids flowed over gleaming chain mail from under a helmet equipped with cow’s horns. He waved in greeting.
The people on the hillside stood motionless. A little brown-haired boy waved in answer to the stranger’s greeting, until his mother scolded him sharply. The men of the village stood in position and stared, their hands on their knife belts. The women and children had gathered in a large, murmuring crowd.
The longship came to a gentle stop on the riverbank, at the meadow below the village. The oars were taken in and the man in the prow jumped into the shallow water, nimble despite his heavy-looking armour. He waded a few steps and climbed the shore to catch a rope thrown over the side. He tied the boat unhurriedly to the tar alders on the shore and the villagers silently watched as another man climbed out. Numerous horned helmets could be seen moving back and forth behind the shields that were fastened to the side of the ship. More ropes and a narrow gangplank were tossed on the bank, but no more men came ashore.
The powerful laughter of the two thunder men could be heard as far as the sanded yards of the village. The foreigners straightened their backs, and although they chatted and smiled, the angular words of the Wind Island language seemed to screech a warning in the villagers’ ears.

Kiet and Troi looked up the hill and saw the fifty or so villagers standing in front of their homes. “Bareheaded?” Kiet said, removing the hot helmet from his sweaty hair.
“And without any visible weapons,” Troi added, taking off his handsome ferruled belt, from which his long, imposing sword hung in its sheath. Kiet tossed his battle axe against an alder. Then they walked along the beaten path up the hill, quietly conversing.
The villagers watched the large visitors tensely. One was dark as night, with black hair that reached to his massive shoulders. He brushed aside the hair that had fallen in his eyes to reveal an angular face. A cleft chin jutted from beneath his stubble of beard. A faded old scar ran along his upper lip, making his smile slightly crooked – a smile that didn’t reach as far as his ice-blue eyes. His watchful gaze was hard and cold. His pale linen shirt was wet through under his arms and his baggy pants were rolled up to the knees. On his feet he wore shoes made from leather strips that had seen better days. His rower’s garb wasn’t fooling anyone. Anyone could see he was a warrior.
The other visitor had braided his long, wheat-coloured hair on either side of his head. The gaze of his brave grey eyes and the broad smile that spread beneath his pale moustache made the women of the village sigh. He must be the leader. In spite of his mail shirt, he looked more approachable than his grim, deep-voiced companion.
The men of the village shifted their feet nervously as the visitors came to a stop at the edge of the meadow.
“People of Sky Rock, I bring greetings from Wind Island” the fair-haired man said. “We are passing through here on our way to the South. We are not robbers, but honest merchants. We don’t wish to make any trouble.” The villagers were surprised to hear him speaking clearly in the language of the borderland. He held out the palms of his hands for all of them to see.
“Our ship is full of goods to trade,” he continued, loud enough for all to hear, looking from one face to another. “We are not without arms, of course, should we need to defend ourselves.” Finally a substantial, big-bellied man stepped forward from the group of villagers and hesitantly stretched a hand toward the stranger.
“I am Ashwood, the smith in this village. You’re welcome here as long as you cause no unpleasantness. You thunder men have a bad reputation that precedes you. No woman of this village will dare to go out alone so long as your sail can be seen at the bend of the river, and no man will take his hand from his knife belt until you are on your way again.”
The thunder man gripped the smith’s blackened hand and squeezed it tightly.
“You have our word that we are civilised men,” he said. “I am Lightning of Wind Island. This is my brother Winternight.”
“Lightning and Winternight. How many of you are there altogether?” the smith asked, although everyone in the village had counted every horned head as soon as the bow of the ship appeared on the river.
“There are nine of us,” the warrior answered. “Loner, of Misty Island, who has seen fifty winters, was here once before.”
A grey-haired old man as thin as a boy made his way out from among the crowd, leaning on a staff. “Did you say Loner?”
“Yes. He’s from Misty Island.”
“So he is! Where the earth pushes up between the steaming hot boulders and the river’s water is as warm as cow’s milk even in winter... He sure told us all about it!”
“Are you an old friend of his?”
“You could say that. We fought long ago... for a woman’s favour!” he hastened to add. “Loner is certainly welcome. My name is Leino. I’m sure he’ll remember me.” The old man nodded and offered his hand.
“Can your village quarter us? The men have slept many nights on the ship – they could use a bath and a soft bed.” Lightning spoke in a voice that permitted no argument.
There was movement now among the women, and a round-faced matron ploughed her way through the crowd to stand before the tall visitors.
“My name is Lovey,” the little woman said. “There’s room in my house, provided you can pay.” She spoke energetically, her hands on her hips, staring first at one man, then another.
“You’ll be paid for your efforts,” the light-haired warrior said, bowing.

The sauna door got plenty of use as eight big men took turns running to the river and back into the sauna steam. The ninth was sitting a little way off on the deck of the ship, keeping watch, and carving bark boats for the village children with his thick-bladed sheath knife, puffing all the while on a long-stemmed pipe and sending curls of blue smoke into the darkening evening. He had given his helmet with its decorative horns to the boys to examine. Though he seemed at peace, his watchful gaze ranged continuously over both banks of the river.
He was still keeping watch when the village children had gone to their homes and the sauna-goers had scrambled away to the bunks in Lovey’s house or the maidservants’ granaries. He lay in the prow of the ship and stared with his ice-blue eyes at the stars that lit up in the autumn sky, impressing their positions firmly in his mind.

The next morning dawned. The grass crunched with the night’s light frost under Einar the Loner’s feet. He bounded up the gangplank to the ship.
“Ha! You’d stay here till the end of your days!” the well-travelled sailor said loudly. “Lovey is my kind of hostess! I’ve never been treated so well as at her homestead,” he said appreciatively, digging his long-stemmed pipe out from under a bench.
“Then you probably didn’t get a wink of sleep,” Troi Winternight said, yawning broadly.
“All the better! Three maids to keep me warm!”
“Three?!”
“But I would have taken a place beside Lovey. That woman has a kind of a gleam in her eye.”
“You might have sent someone here, too.” Troi snorted. “It’s so cold my blood won’t move.” He rubbed his numb hands together.
“Brother, it feels good to be back among people,” Einar sighed and sat down next to the dark-haired man. “The last few days... that last fjord! I was starting to feel like it would never end! The thing had no bottom! Of course I enjoyed the sailing, but once in a while you need solid ground under your feet...”
“A wild goose chase,” said the quiet voice next to him.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Troi,” Einar said. “This isn’t a goose chase. Think of Halvar – none of the rest of us will ever have as handsome a grave as the one he received on that dark shore. Even if it was cold and dark, the place radiated a kind of peace that a person here can only dream of. I wouldn’t take it badly, even if it was I who laid in Halvar’s grave. But these things are not for you or I to decide. Halvar’s time had come. And when you consider all the dishonourable deeds and killings on that warrior’s conscience, it’s a wonder his time didn’t come earlier. Halvar was warned, and he brought his death upon himself! Who was it that gave the order to offend the Northern Lights? To defy the heavens? No one else would ever think of doing such a thing!” He snorted angrily.
“Halvar never slipped in his beliefs,” Troi said. “He had no other god but the North Wind.”
“Well, now he knows whether there are any others,” Einar said gravely.
“The people here don’t put their faith in anything. It’s a village of unbelievers.”
“A godless bunch. They’ve forgotten almost everything. They even call each other by their real names all the time. What a waste of power! But this country’s not spoiled all the way through. There are villages inland where the old powers are given the respect they deserve. It’s these shore people who think they can get along on their own. And look at this place. Every kind of poverty and ignorance. It would be so easy to take this place over!”
“So that’s what you’re dreaming of?” Troi grinned. “That’s how you would repay the hospitality you were just praising?”
“I’m craving the weight of a mail shirt on my shoulders. And my sword is bored from lack of activity!”
“Does Kiet have the same inclination? Give him the slightest suggestion, and the fight will be on...”
“Your brother’s inclinations are well known,” Einar scoffed. “There he sits in Lovey’s house. Once again, he’s set his eye on some redhead. Go talk some sense to him.”

Troi Winternight of Wind Island opened the low door of the house and stepped over the threshold into the warmth of the room. Stones grey with soot were piled against the back wall to form a fireplace. The dirt floor was covered with straw, and the maidservants carried trays of food to the low benches along the walls, where his sailing comrades were bent over the first tankard of the day.
Troi walked over to his brother, who was gnawing on a bread crust, his hair in a tangle. He sat down beside him and grabbed the mug of beer that stood in front of him. His brother greeted him with a dreamy smile and nodded toward the serving maids.
“Well, which one is it?” Troi laughed, searching his brother’s smiling face. “Einar lost no time in telling me that you are a lost man. Again.”
“That is so. Very true. Look yourself at the charming creature!” Kiet pointed at a girl bustling about in the corner. “I saw her last night, and I haven’t been able to think of anything else since.”
“I see. You could have come to keep watch if you didn’t feel like sleeping,” Troi said uninterestedly, taking a bite of the bread his brother offered him. He glanced toward the corner and saw a plump girl trying to lift a large barrel. “She looks a bit weak to me.”
“She’s not weak, she just can’t get her arms all the way around it. I’ll go help her...”
“Fool!” Troi scoffed, and took a long drink of strong beer.

Kiet, Son of the Lightning, of Wind Island, dodged the maidservants criss-crossing in front of him and walked decisively toward the far corner where the struggling girl was. She started when she noticed the foreigner coming to assail her.
“Don’t be afraid,” Lightning said in a friendly tone. “I came to help. Where do you want that thing?” He reached past her for the keg.
“In the sauna,” she answered quickly, peeping at him from under her curls.
Lightning lifted the keg onto his shoulder and headed toward the door. The round-cheeked girl followed him, barefoot, into the cool morning, fiddling nervously with the hem of her apron. They walked single file across the sanded yard to the sauna shore. Many curious pairs of eyes followed their movements from the dark windows of the barns and granaries.
“Leave it there by the door,” the girl said when they had arrived at the low log building with its shingle roof.
“And what will you give me in return?” Lightning said, smiling mischievously, not putting the barrel down.
The girl’s grey eyes flashed. “Nothing,” she hissed sharply, taking hold of the barrel’s rim and trying to wrench it off of his shoulder onto the ground.
“Phew. I believe you,” Lightning relented. He bent over and set down his burden. “Tell me your name, at least.”
“That’s no concern of yours!” she said, tossing her head and disappearing inside the sauna, her plump braids swinging.
The man from Wind Island stood for a moment where he was, then went back across the yard, laughing, and left the girl in peace.

Winternight, Helm, and Loner sat with several old men in a corner of the granary, bent over their mugs, raising their eyebrows curiously whenever the old man Leino belted out the names of the villagers as he made his toasts to them.
“So, you say you’re coming from the North. If you are merchants, as you claim, what in heaven’s name were you looking for up there?” the grey-haired man asked in a quivering voice. “There’s nothing in the North but cold and endless darkness. Everyone has left to go south of here.”
“We thought we would go as far north as we could,” Loner hastened to say. “And we did go there. Then we turned around again. We have a gifted mapmaker in the crew.” He pointed at Winternight, who stood nearby.
“I guess you know that nobody lives up there? Too bleak... They say that the old power of the river has driven all the inhabitants out of the forests. We don’t go up north to hunt furs anymore. South is the way to go if you’re looking for game or hides.”
“Suppose we were looking for the forgotten river that is said to lead to a freshwater sea?” Winternight interrupted. His voice was calm and dispassionate.
“Eh? Freshwater sea? Has that crazy bedtime story spread all the way to Wind Island?” the old man scoffed. “Forgotten river indeed. Well, you didn’t find it beyond the North Fjord. As I’m sure you’ve seen, that channel hasn’t been navigable as far back as anyone can remember. Barely a ditch.”
“Have you been through it?” Winternight asked.
“That old ditch? Why in the world would I? You can see with your own eyes that it disappears into the fells. You won’t find a freshwater sea there. Black Ridge is where you’ll find what you’re after... Men like you should be sailing the coasts robbing and plundering.” Leino shifted his eyes and carefully examined the dark-haired Wind Island man’s wiry form. “That one might not even be a real thunder man at all. A mapmaker, eh?”
“What’s Black Ridge?” Winternight said, his expression sharper.
The villagers looked silently at the stranger.
“Where is it?”
“If you find it, put it on your map. We all know very well which destinations to stay away from.” Leino’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Loner, have you heard of this place?” Winternight asked.
The dark shadow that crossed the old warrior’s face revealed that this was not the first time he had heard of it.
“Yes, I know Black Ridge,” Loner said. He waved a hand toward the sunrise. “Somewhere far off that way, to the east, I hear. But as to whether or not the place exists, I remember that whoever goes there never comes back. Pretty poor proof, in my opinion.”
“There is proof,” Leino shouted. “Men still disappear there. Real men. Young men. And women are snatched away. It’s an evil place. Of course Black Ridge exists! But I’m not so sure about the freshwater sea.” He snorted. “The story of one babbler was written down at Joining Rivers. The old man claimed to have come from Black Ridge. He was the only one ever to return from there. That was long ago, of course... The poor man was nearly expired, but he wouldn’t take even a drop of water to refresh himself before he’d got a man beside him who knew how to write. He concocted a long litany of strange tales – some grave misfortune was at the bottom of it, and he placed severe blame upon himself. He said that beyond Black Ridge was a great lake with a river leading north from it. The freshwater sea. He spoke as if he really knew it. There had been all kinds of twists in the journey – the man was completely mad. But they wrote it all down – they had to when he insisted so. And they vowed to keep the record of it. Supposedly we’ll be needing it before another long winter comes... what rubbish! Well, we haven’t needed it yet, but we have got a few laughs from it. But the old man gave up the ghost right there, as soon as he’d got it all written down.”
Winternight squeezed his hands into fists to hide his excitement.
“Where’s Joining Rivers?” he asked, controlling himself.
“Inland. You can get there from here in a small boat, up Tar River to the lake called Tar Lake, and from there to Rust Lake, and then you have to portage over the ridge. Do you think the longship could make it over? I doubt it. And then you just go down the Black River and then the Hel River, and then you’re at Joining Rivers.”
“And that’s where the book is kept? Have you seen it?”
“I’ve seen it, but I don’t know how to read. Someone there ciphered it out so it could be heard. It was last kept at the inn there. The name of the inn has changed, too. It used to be Darling’s Malt House, but what the heck is it now? Do you remember, Hush?”
“The Pike’s Bride,” the laconic old man muttered, as if awakening from a dream.
“That’s right. The Pike’s Bride is the name. It’s connected to the story somehow... aha! look at this bride. The shepherd maid of the village, of noble lineage!”
Winternight turned a serious face toward the sun and saw a red-haired maiden stepping rapidly up the pathway to the main house. It was the same girl that his brother had taken a shine to earlier that morning. She looked at the ground in front of her, red-cheeked, and paid no attention to them, though Leino was shouting after her that the beer had run out. She looked young, perhaps sixteen summers old, but clearly of an age to marry. The damp clothes fastened about her frame revealed a shapely torso and her clothing showed that she was a maidservant, since she had no scarf on her head like the village housewives. Lightning appeared walking leisurely from the same direction and stared after her with a smile on his face.

“They’re shouting for drinks,” Neitha huffed when she reached the darkness inside the house.
Lovey turned from the stew pot and wiped the sweat from her brow.
“They eat like horses, too. Bring them a small keg. I won’t let them say they weren’t well treated at Lovey’s place!”
“I’m watching the malt sauna,” Neitha said, reluctant. “Perhaps someone else could bring it to them.”
“Not a chance – all the maidservants are at the shore doing the washing. Haul this out to them quick, and hold your tongue. If they give you any copper coins, bring them to me, understand? And stop swooning over their finery. They’ll get all worked up about nothing!”
Neitha lifted the keg onto her shoulder and pushed the door open. She crossed the yard and headed toward the laughing group of men, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on the ground. She put the little keg down at their feet without saying a word and had turned immediately to go when she felt a hand clasp tightly around her upper arm.
“What’s the big hurry, my little daisy?... The wolf won’t get your little critter if you keep us company a little while.”
Neitha recognised the croaking voice of old Leino. She made no attempt to struggle, and stood still, staring down at the feet of the recently arrived visitors, their calves wrapped with strips of leather.
“Look at me when I talk to you, girl!” Leino snarled, tugging at her arm.
She didn’t look at the old man. Instead she raised her eyes from the laced calves to the hem of the pale linen shirt and knife belt, and from there up to the broad chest and chiselled face, looking at her with friendly, curious eyes. It was the same man who had carried the barrel to the sauna and followed her around all morning. The blond giant.
Lightning bowed to her and admired her freckled, rosy cheeks, glowing in competition with her dazzling red hair.
“So now she’s being shameless,” Leino squawked, still holding her arm and squeezing it so tightly that she cried out and reluctantly looked into the grey old man’s face.
“I saw you first,” he croaked. “Tell me, will you be in the malt sauna this evening?” “Yes,” she answered fearfully, turning again toward Lightning’s gentle face, as if for shelter. “Maybe you’ll have some company, you could use some... and you won’t be able to get away.” Leino licked his lips. “There must be something wrong with you, since you’re going to the march. But you’ll do! Very well! There couldn’t be anything seriously wrong with you!”
She turned her gaze back to the old man.
“Some people think witchcraft is serious,” she hissed, and made her eyes quiver wildly.
The men drew back, startled, and Leino let go of her arm.
“The devil take you, whatever you may be.”
Lightning stood in front of her and looked at her plump cheeks, her flashing eyes above them composed again, bloodshot. She stood aside for a moment, then went briskly toward the smoking sauna on the shore. The men recovered from their shock and began to laugh nervously. Winternight took hold of Lightning’s shoulder.
“Are you alright, brother?”
“Yes, yes. Quite alright. What march were you talking about?” he asked the old man, who had splashed beer down his front in his fright.
“The New Family Day March... but you better not try anything. I saw her first!” he stammered. “
Even if she were a soul snatcher... and your kind can’t be in the march... Any armed man who touches a woman in the march will lose his life.”
“What is this march?” Winternight said.
Leino coughed into his beard and his friend Hush, sitting beside him, patted his back. “It’s a procession for unmarried women, at the beginning of the summer,” Hush began. “You can snatch yourself a wife there, if you succeed. Leino hasn’t been nimble enough to catch one. It’s the same bluster every autumn, but somehow, still no wife.”
“Loudmouth. You’re all talk. But it’s true. Darn that shepherd girl! No one else has got hold of her, either. I’ll be on the attack next spring! And there are a lot of other girls coming, too!”
“You’ll be on the attack next spring, eh? A dreamer’s babbling. But that wolf-girl is light on her feet. A particularly skilled shepherd. We haven’t lost a single lamb all summer. They say that she’d rather tame a wolf that lose an ounce of the wool from a lamb’s neck!”
Winternight glanced up, amused and curious, and looked at the old man’s nodding face.
“When exactly is this march?” Lightning asked, and his brother bent his head to hide his laughter.
Lightning walked calmly to the other side of the yard and followed the path to the sauna, which had grey smoke pouring from its vents. He went around to the shore side of the building and opened the low door, which swung inward. The smoke was so thick he could hardly see what was in front of him. He sat on the lowest bench and pushed the door closed. He coughed and squinted into the surrounding darkness. The girl froze where she was, on the bench near the ceiling, her face covered with a cloth.
“You would hardly think the village could afford to have a witch turn the malt,” Lightning said in a hoarse sauna voice, and rubbed his eyes. The young woman stirred, letting the warm grains flow through her fingers.
“I’m not really a witch, although sometimes I almost wish I were,” she said ruefully. She gathered the grain into hills and ridges, then levelled them again.
“Making your eyes shake is enough for many people, though. You scared those men good.”
“But not you,” she said, coughing, and stepped down from the high bench.
“You didn’t scare me, you put a spell on me,” Lightning confessed, and he reached out absent-mindedly and touched the wet hem of the girl’s petticoat as she passed.
She went outside and came back a moment later with her arms full of firewood. She crouched in front of the fire and poked fresh wood in over the glowing cinders. At once a white froth bubbled from the ends of the sticks over the hot embers.
She sat down next to the young man on the lowest bench, so that their thighs were touching. It was quiet in the sauna. There was only the hissing of the firewood, and the beats of their hearts in the darkness.
“If you’re not a witch, then who are you, Wolf-Maiden?” Lightning asked, looking at her face, her curls glowing copper coloured in the dark.
“I’m sure Leino has told you.”
“Are you a maidservant?”
“A maidservant and shepherdess,” she said, glancing nervously into the young man’s earnest eyes. “Lovey is my mother. But she doesn’t want me to call her mother. She had me when she was very young. My father was a trapper. A hermit at Summer Bay.”
“Summer Bay. I know the place. We sailed by there at the beginning of the summer.”
The girl’s eyes lit up momentarily with a golden yellow light.
“My father took me there for a visit when I was ten summers old. The sea and the sun, the cool breeze... Everything here upcountry is so stuffy and green.”
The Wind Island man nodded.
“It’s true. It’s hard to even breathe here. That must be why the people here are so peevish and disagreeable.”
The girl laughed.
“If you mean Lovey, she’s a very good mistress. She just does what she has to do. You know, she was expecting me before her time of mourning was over. Her first husband died of lung disease. And my father didn’t take her for a wife after her mourning, either. But Lovey is now among the most valued women in the village. She’s a widow a second time now, has been for several years, and she has five other children, so what do I matter? As far as my name is concerned, my father called me Neitha. And although I’d like to see a wolf, I haven’t yet succeeded.”
“That’s fortunate for a shepherdess, no doubt, Neitha. But tell me about this march.”
“The New Family Day March. More like the Parade of the Cursed, in my opinion. I’d rather not think about it.” She pressed her lips together and made a move to rise, but Lightning prevented her.
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ll be in the march against my will. It’s my father’s decree. A long, strange story... As far as Lovey is concerned, she doesn’t want to pay a dowry for me, so I’ll have to be in the march, an insignificant bride. The only alternative is to run away. Is it not a curse?”
“Listen. I am Lightning of Wind Island. In my home village they call me the Son of the Octopus.” “What does that mean?” Neitha asked doubtfully.
“Something happened to me... at home no one likes to talk about it, but I’ll show you.” He pulled his shirt off over his head. She turned her face toward the wall, embarrassed, but he took her hand and rested her fingers on the bare skin over his ribs.
Neitha felt a ridge on his smooth chest, and followed it with her fingertips all the way across his body. She had to look.
The young man’s chest was one large scar. The horrifying mark looked exactly like a giant had scratched deep wounds across his chest with its fingernails.
“I would have died without my brother Winternight. He fished me out of the water. I don’t remember much about it. Maybe that’s for the best. But where I come from, this is considered such a bad omen for a sailor, that I don’t have the slightest chance of getting a wife from my own island.”
“What did this? Is an octopus some kind of wild animal?” she asked, horrified, unable to tear her gaze from his pale chest with its dark stripes running across it in the darkness of the sauna.
Just then the door was wrenched open. Neitha got to her feet and rushed quickly past Lovey and out into the yard, stammering something about firewood. Lightning remained seated on the bench, put his shirt on calmly, and stood up to his full height, knocking his head on the ceiling.
“See that this isn’t repeated, you damned marauder!” Lovey hissed between clenched teeth. “Neitha’s a respectable girl, and no birdbrain. I’m responsible for her! Keep your shirt on when you talk to young girls and go give the other maidservants a squeeze if you feel the need. You’re like to spoil our good malt, too!”
“I was just keeping her company. I took off my shirt because I was hot.”
“I only have your word for that, and it doesn’t count for much! If you want her, you’ll have to wait until the spring and go to the march and win her. And you may not be the only one interested in her.”

The longship turned in the broad channel of the river the following morning. Lovey had a fistful of coppers, and couldn’t hide her pride at her sudden ascendence as the richest widow in the village. The whole village of Sky Rock had gathered at the edge of the water to wave good-bye, and many were sincerely upset to see the rare visit end. Several pleasant evenings had been spent listening to the strangers’ tales of their travels.
Others sighed with relief as the ship broke away from the shore. In exchange for furs, the village had received metals from foreign lands for the smith to work and beautiful fabrics for the women. It had been a useful encounter. The village was left unchanged, and no fights had broken out. It was best to be rid of the strangers before anything happened.
In her fist, Neitha clasped a bronze brooch that Lightning had slipped to her secretly when he made his good-byes to Lovey. He had told Lovey, “We’ll see each other again,” but Neitha hoped from the bottom of her heart that the words were meant for her. When the horned rowers disappeared down the river, she gave a deep sigh.

“We’ll come back first thing in the summer,” Kiet said decisively as he sat at the helm and watched the shore of Sky Rock disappear in the distance.
“How much did you offer for her?” a rower named Ivar said teasingly. “Much,” Kiet answered gravely. “But she’s not for sale.”
“Of course she is. Every girl child in these parts is for sale, if the price is right. You’ve gotten stingy, haven’t you?”
“No. I thought at first that Lovey was just an unusually tough haggler, but believe me when I tell you that no amount of money in the world would have changed her mind.”
“Well, she must have pressing reasons,” Ivar said, groaning as he rowed.
“I think Leino said she was of noble lineage,” Einar the Loner said. “Perhaps Lovey has someone in mind that she feels is worthy. Though out here in the backwoods, I doubt it. They’re all country people. Nobles don’t wander into these parts. Do you think they’ve even seen a noble here?” Kiet didn’t answer. He shot a glance at Troi, who sat rowing beside Einar. Even Troi didn’t yet know what Lovey had said – that she had promised to save the girl for the march. At the threat of a mortal curse.

Troi was secretly happy that his brother was smitten and intended to do all he could to keep the girl’s memory from fading over the long winter on the other side of the sea. They had sailed the northern waters for five summers now, looking for a place where no Wind Islanders had ever been. They had found many uninhabited regions: quiet fjords piercing steep mountain ranges, barren, desolate islands with breezy shores where you could still sense the breath of the long winter from the old times. They had looked with veneration on forgotten places of worship and blood-red pictures painted on the rocks. Even though all of it had been worth the searching, Troi felt disappointed each fall when they came ashore at their home harbour at Wind Island before the storms came and made sailing too dangerous during the long, dark winter months.
He had always felt disappointed and frustrated, until now. Now he felt that for the first time he had some hint of how to leave it all behind – maybe hidden somewhere deep within that corner of the world they called the Blue Forest was a place where the stars were in their right positions. He, too wanted to go back first thing in the summer. He wanted to continue the search. To find what he had lost. His mind was on fire for Joining Rivers.



Translated by Lola Rogers



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