IT CAME FROM THE NORTH
EDITED BY DESIRINA BOSKOVICH
Cheeky Frawg Books
Tallahassee, Florida
Copyright © 2013, Desirina Boskovich.
All stories are copyright to the individual writers as noted on the extended copyright page.
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Table of Contents
Introduction by Desirina Boskovich
Hairball by Carita Forsgren
The Horseshoe Nail by Mari Saario
Not Before Sundown (excerpt) by Johanna Sinisalo
Elegy for a Young Elk by Hannu Rajaniemi
White Threads by Anne Leinonen
The Laughing Doll by Marko Hautala
Delina by Maarit Verronen
Chronicles of a State by Olli Jalonen
Watcher by Leena Likitalo
The Border Incident by Tuomas Kilpi
Ospreys by Tiina Raevaara
The Garden by Jyrki Vainonen
The Gift Boy by Sari Peltoniemi
A Heart Clothed in Black an excerpt from Pereat Mundus: A Novel, Sort Of by Leena Krohn
Those Were the Days by Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen
Acknowledgments
Extended Copyright Page
Introduction
Finland, a nation of 5.4 million people, is the most sparsely populated country in the European Union. Three-quarters of the country’s land area remains blanketed in forests. And with 188,000 lakes, Finland’s lyrical nickname, “land of a thousand lakes,” actually turns out to be a serious understatement. For Finns, nature is always near: a great presence, uncanny and powerful. What’s more, a quarter of Finland’s territory lies above the Arctic Circle, making it one of the northernmost countries in the world. In Finland’s far north, there are weeks of midnight sun in summer, and weeks of endless dark in winter.
Of course, the winters are tough, but Finns have developed ways to cope. They have their electric saunas, their libraries, and their high-speed internet, not to mention a healthy appreciation of innovative architecture. And they are inveterate readers, with outstandingly high rates of national literacy. More than 13,000 books are published every year, both original Finnish and works in translation.
Perhaps surprisingly, Finnish as a written language is relatively new. It has existed since the sixteenth century, but did not come into prominence until the nineteenth. During this era (1835, to be exact), the Kalevala, the Finnish national epic, was published for the first time. Compiled by Elias Lönnrot from a number of historical sources, the 22,795-verse poem explores many of the literary and mythical themes that are nearest and dearest to the hearts of Finns. It remains both much beloved and heavily influential; in a way, it served as the foundation of all Finnish literature to follow. Some twenty years later, Aleksis Kivi published what would be his only novel, Seven Brothers (1870). Seven Brothers was the first great novel to be published in Finnish, and is considered by some to be the greatest still. Earthy and humorous, it describes the escapades of seven brothers who temporarily flee society and earn a living from the land. The text also incorporates retellings of folk tales and legends; in Finnish literature, one can trace the fantastic back to the very beginning.
Today, Finnish literature is flourishing: a healthy and inventive scene with great interest in literary and crime fiction especially, and a robust appreciation for diversity and cultural exploration. Entering this scene is a new generation of writers who are introducing speculative and fantastic elements to the literary mainstream. They are working in the realist tradition, while opening the doors onto a wider, odder version of “real.” A weird new subgenre is emerging: a uniquely Finnish surrealism, whose rules are being written by many of the authors contained in this volume. A few of these authors have even received the Finlandia, Finland’s highest literary honor and most prestigious prize—a generous financial award administered by the Finnish Book Foundation.
Meanwhile, the market for more traditional speculative fiction—science fiction and fantasy—remains fairly small. While the hunger for young adult fantasy has taken hold as firmly in Finland as it has around the world, serious speculative fiction for adults comprises only a tiny share of local publishing. Yet, the Finnish fandom scene is active and devoted, producing numerous fanzines and organizing a much-loved convention (FinnCon) that is open to all comers. Portti (Gateway) is probably the most widely recognized of the speculative fiction magazines; this hefty, glossy-paged publication also sponsors a prestigious competition. Portti, along with its associated contests and prizes, offers Finnish speculative fiction writers one of their main avenues for discovery, publicity, and financial compensation. The Atorox Award is another highly regarded commendation, awarded annually to the best science fiction short story.
For It Came From the North, I have selected stories from both sides of this literary divide: those working in the realist tradition, and those drawing more heavily on influences from genre fiction. Every story depends in some way on the magical and surreal, the weird and uncanny. Some of these worlds are completely foreign to us, distant and strange, while others look more like our own, perhaps a little skewed. In these stories, “reality” has many gradations and gray areas.
For all the variety and diversity of these stories, there are certain themes and resonances that emerge throughout. One theme is the nature of time and space; science (and science fiction) suggests that these concepts are fuzzier, slipperier, and more malleable than we might think. Both Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen’s “Those Were the Days” and Anne Leinonen’s “White Threads” explore this idea, and the human desire to shape our own destinies, conventional conceptions of time and space aside.
There is also a dark, melancholy theme running through this collection. Many of the stories suggest the isolation of the individual, amidst the strangeness and shadows of society at large. They hint that the true uncanny may lie in the human heart. And the characters who inhabit these stories seem isolated, remote, at a loss to connect, often bewildered by their encounters with others. Marko Hautala’s “The Laughing Doll,” Leena Krohn’s “A Heart Clothed in Black,” Sari Peltoniemi’s “The Gift Boy,” and Maarit Verronen’s “Delina” fall into this category.
Perhaps in corollary to the theme described above, several stories also explore relationships that bridge the gap between the human and inhuman. By their very nature, these relationships are complicated and bittersweet (but maybe no more than any others). These stories include Carita Forsgren’s “Hairball,” Mari Saario’s “The Horseshoe Nail,” and Johanna Sinisalo’s Not Before Sundown (Troll: A Love Story in the U.S.).
Several stories explore the political-as-personal: the negotiation of social order and its impact on the individual. I include among the
se Olli Jalonen’s satirical “Chronicles of a State,” Tuomas Kilpi’s whimsical “The Border Incident,” and even, in an odd way, Leena Likitalo’s surreal “Watcher.”
And finally, as befits storytelling from the land of a thousand lakes, the pieces in this collection are possessed with a healthy awe of the strangeness of nature. Tiina Raevaara’s “Ospreys,” Hannu Rajaniemi’s “Elegy for a Young Elk,” and Jyrki Vainonen’s “The Garden” all expand on this theme, as does, again, Sinisalo’s Not Before Sundown.
Reading these stories—and many other wonderful works of Finnish speculative fiction that could not fit into this particular book—has been a richly rewarding experience for me. These stories have challenged my imagination and stretched my vision of our weird, wonderful world, and all the other weird worlds it holds.
Hairball
Carita Forsgren
Translated by Anna Volmari and J. Robert Tupasela
Carita Forsgren is a novelist, graphic designer, and university lecturer in new media, who lives in Tampere with her husband and three sons. Her science fiction and fantasy stories have won numerous awards in Finnish genre competitions, and her debut novel, Queen of Three Moons/Months, occupied the Finnish bestseller lists for three months when it was released in 2009. She’s since published three additional novels. The story to follow was inspired in part by Alison Maclean’s short film Kitchen Sink (1989). In “Hairball,” Forsgren explores the more absurd aspects of love, identity, and the clog in the shower drain . . .
That morning, something stank. I noticed a slight odor as soon as I woke up. In the kitchen, it mingled with the aroma of fresh coffee.
“What’s that smell?” I asked my roommate, Rosa. (I sometimes wondered why her parents had given their daughter the kind of name you give a cow. On the other hand, Rosa did remind me a bit of a cow, with her large eyes and long lashes, round belly, and breasts that hung like udders.)
Rosa sipped her coffee. She was already fully dressed, as usual, with her hair and makeup done, and ready to go.
“Check the bathroom. Then you’ll know.”
“The drain?”
Rosa nodded her head, finished her coffee, and got up as soon as I sat down.
“You get to clean it.”
“Why me?”
“Because it’s your long hair that’s clogging it,” Rosa said flatly and ruffled her own one-inch crop.
It looked like I’d have to skip my morning shower.
After finishing my coffee, I took a tentative step into the bathroom. I soon had to retreat and return with reinforcements—an old dish brush, a bottle of chemical toilet cleaner (the label claimed it was groundwater-friendly, but I had my doubts), rubber flip-flops, a flashlight, plastic bags, a plastic bucket, and a done-in toothbrush. The shower drain had been a bit clogged for weeks, but now the floor had flooded.
I took off my socks and rolled up the legs of my sweat pants, and put on my flip-flops and long yellow rubber gloves. I was all geared up for combat. The stench tried its best to chase me away, but in vain. I was determined to win the battle, even if it rose to the epic dimensions of the Iliad or the Kalevala. A radioactive sign was printed on the packaging of the rubber gloves, which presumably meant that they could even handle nuclear waste. I hoped they would be enough protection.
My first attempt to defeat the drain almost failed. I couldn’t even get the plastic grating off. I made several attempts, but then realized that the hair and other goo were going to be stubborn adversaries.
I took off my gear and went back to the kitchen. I opened the flatware drawer and picked out a blunt, fairly worn-out knife, which might have belonged to Rosa. Back in the bathroom, I crammed the knife deep between the gaps in the grating and was able to use it as a lever. The grating came up slowly, inch by inch. I could now see that the grating was firmly in the grip of a black four-inch-thick mass of gunk-encrusted hair. To unclog the drain, I would have to pull it all out. By now, the smell had become like another person in the room. I had an image of it dancing around me in a shiny seventies disco outfit and John Travolta hair.
After a moment’s consideration, I grabbed the long, black glop of hair with my atomic rubber gloves and began to pull. I expected it to give, but it was surprisingly tough. It wasn’t easy, but I finally managed to pull it up, further and further, out of the darkness of the drain toward daylight and air. More and more kept coming out. I expected it to become thinner and sparser, but it only seemed to grow thicker and denser. Could all of this really be my hair? Some other garbage floating in the drainpipe must have been caught up in it as well.
How much did I pull out before I was done? Several yards, or at least that’s how I felt. When I reached the end, I almost tumbled backwards onto the damp floor. All I needed to do now was to stuff the gunk inside a plastic bag and take it outside to the trashcan. It lay in a pile on the bathroom tiles, reminding me of road kill that had festered on the highway so long it was impossible to tell what it had once been.
I poked the lump carefully with the handle of the dish brush. I was startled to notice that it quivered at the touch. I poked it a second time. The lump shrank back. After a third poke, it bunched up into a round mass. I opened the duck-shaped bottle of toilet cleaner and began to pour the green liquid into the drain, making sure not to turn my back on my new visitor. I wondered what would happen if I poured some of the poison on the hairball. I decided not to try. God knows how it would have reacted.
When I had scrubbed the drain clean enough, I began to detach the last hairs that still joined the hairball to the drain grating. I thought that something might happen when I removed the last strand of hair, but I was wrong. I decided to make my move. I grabbed the hairball with both hands and stuffed it into a plastic bag, which I then closed with a tight knot. The hairball barely fit inside the bag.
As I was carrying the bag out to the garbage shed, it felt as though the contents of the bag were wriggling a little. By then, it was 9:30 a.m. In an hour, I had to be at a lecture. I went back inside, got dressed, and left. By the time I was on the bus, I barely remembered my morning efforts. People are good at blocking out all kinds of unpleasant memories. Self-deception is the sweetest deception of them all.
In the evening, Rosa and I were relaxing by watching some silly talent contest on TV, trying to forget that we’d ever had brain cells. The doorbell rang.
“You expecting someone?” Rosa asked.
“My friends call or text before they come,” I said.
That could only mean one thing. Rosa and I had a plan for this situation. I turned off the TV and Rosa threw a floral tablecloth and some books on it. I went to open the door.
But it wasn’t the television license inspector. It was the hair creature waiting outside the door. Or it didn’t exactly wait so much as it slipped silently inside, as if returning home. Technically, it was.
“Who was it?” Rosa called from the living room.
“Some practical joker,” I answered.
“With a stink bomb?” Rosa asked, sniffing the air.
I was afraid of what Rosa would say if she saw our guest, but it stole quickly into the bathroom through the half-open door. I couldn’t let Rosa see it.
I found the hairball crouching behind the washing machine. I could just barely make out its dark mass in the beam of the flashlight.
“Stay there,” I whispered to it, not giving a thought as to whether it understood speech or not. “I’ll get you something to eat as soon as Rosa’s gone to bed.”
I’d already gone to bed myself, when I remembered the hairball and my promise to it. I poured a drop of milk into a bowl and left it in front of the washing machine. If Rosa asked about the bowl in the morning, I’d say that I thought the machine was leaking.
A surprise awaited me in the morning. The hairball sat by the kitchen table, drinking the coffee Rosa had made. I’m not sure whether it could be called drinking, though. Its top end stretched into something like an elephant trunk, which it then
dipped into the coffee and started sucking. Sure, it still reeked, but its aroma was less pungent than yesterday. Or was it just that I’d gotten used to it?
The hairball nodded to me, as though in greeting. Rosa noticed and asked, “So, you know something about that?”
I told Rosa the truth, because lying or holding back would probably have been useless at this point. Rosa let out a sigh.
“You planning to keep it?”
“It’s not exactly mine,” I said uneasily. The hairball seemed to be following our conversation.
“I guess it can stay,” Rosa said at length. “As long as it’s housetrained and sleeps in your room. And whatever it eats comes out of your pocket!”
I shrugged my shoulders as a sign of consent. I didn’t even know what the hairball ate. Maybe I could use it as a garbage disposal?
In the following weeks, I realized that our guest wouldn’t be useful as a garbage disposal. It liked to eat the same food as humans, sitting by the table, maneuvering a spoon as well as any two-year-old. It had started to grow, probably due to the nutritious food. One time, I came home earlier than usual and caught it in front of a mirror, trying out a more human posture. It could change its shape, and after a couple of day’s practice, it had been able to grow itself arm- and leg-like protrusions and learn how to use them.
At first, Rosa acted coldly toward the hairball. She’d wrinkle her nose at its smell and avoid sitting in the same room with it. I admit, I did the same. It spent its nights in my room, in the warm nook between the desk, wall, and radiator. I didn’t know whether it could sleep. One night I woke up to a stench more pungent than usual, and found that the hairball had climbed into bed and curled up next to me. I shoved it onto the floor without hesitation.
The following night, the hairball tried to climb into my bed again, and again I kicked it off. The same took place two more times. Finally I grabbed the creature and threw it against the wall as hard as I could. It left a wet mark next to a poster of a boy-band singer. I struck the hairball a few more times with the handle of my badminton racket, until it finally understood to crawl out of my room.
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