Fargoer by Petteri Hannila Page A

them eyed the surrounding forest suspiciously. These men had crossed the sea and were far away from their homes.
    On the bow of the boat stood a stunted old man. He created a completely different image with his dark, thin hair, crooked back, and bowlegs. They were on his business, though, and the silver he had promised was the force that had taken the longboat this far. And truly, he was guiding the boat like a bloodhound sniffing the wind, his large, crooked nose turned upwards.
     
    Upstream, far away from the eyes of the longboat-men, a much plainer vessel was traversing the river. The boat was narrow and unsteady, like riverboats tended to be, but it carried its three passengers evenly and without complaint.
    Vaaja sat at the oars, in good strength and with a smile on his face. Vierra was steering from the back and looking at her husband while she adjusted her black hair, with her free hand. Her green eyes glowed and her mind wandered free like a summer bird. She thought back to the time when Vaaja had arrived from the north, an arrow in his leg and a pursuer at his back. How this stranger’s life had intertwined with her own, lonely one. So tightly were they bound that she couldn’t see how they could ever be separated again.
    Coming from a trader’s family, Vaaja had quickly learned Vierra’s language. He was from Bjarmia, a country that lay far in the east on the shores of the vast northern sea. As natural traders they sold the harvest of the cold sea to go with the Vikings and Bolgars all the way to the far lands of the unknown south. Vaaja had been there, too, many times with his father. Often, while lying beside their evening fire in each other’s arms, Vaaja had told many amazing stories of these journeys. Of southern lands, huge cities lying behind great rivers, pathless passages, and of their riches. Vaaja’s tales meandered further, to the far ends of the world. There, glamorous cities rose straight up from yellow deserts and women walked on paved roads, their faces concealed. So rich and powerful were the rulers of the cities that even their slave women carried silver jewelry around their necks.
    Vierra listened to Vaaja’s stories often and with pleasure, but the longing in her heart was finally quenched. The blond-haired man had brought her peace, and she missed nothing. The memories of the First Mother were far, far away. Just distant ramblings, undoubtedly only apparitions of her own vivid imagination.
    If the man from Bjarmia had tamed Vierra, the boy that sat in the middle bench had cast a final, unbreakable bond on her. Vierra’s face melted into a rich smile as she looked at her son. His face was round and framed by yellow, stubborn wisps of hair. The hair and the blue eyes the boy had inherited from his father, who rowed the boat. The boy, who carried the name Vaalo, had seen five summers and had a curiousness that knew no boundaries. Even now, he was reaching over the boat’s edge, allowing the cool waters of early summer to flow through his small hand. He sometimes rolled over the edge in his enthusiasm, to be saved by his father or mother. Every day with the boy was full of happiness, of joy, of temper, and of all the little things their lives had to give. And Vierra needed nothing else.
    Vierra forgot the steering as she was watching the boy, and they almost ran aground. At the last moment, she took notice and steered the boat clear. Vierra smiled because Vaaja did not even notice. Even though he had learned to survive in the wilderness during their years together, he was still a born trader and a townsman. So, naturally, he left the responsibility to Vierra as they moved together in the wilds.
    It was the eve of the fire fest, the day when the sun would be at its highest point and would start the slow descent towards the winter darkness. The old ones said that fire fest was a custom of the southern peoples. Nonetheless, it had been celebrated by the Kainu for years. It was customary to