It Came from the North

by Carita Forsgren

  Alice dares not look at her son until the forge is definitely fired. The embers glow with a familiar warmth that lightens Ilmar’s face, shining with happiness. The boy has rarely succeeded in anything as well as here; he glows with pride like a forge. He blows and blows until Alice tells him to stop.

  The silence feels strange after the bellows are quiet. No one has appeared. It has of course been stupid to expect that. Perhaps Alice’s world is now too far away from other worlds and Ilmar is the only one left of his kind. Forever between two worlds, like his father, never at home anywhere.

  Suddenly Ilmar announces that he’s hungry. Alice is seized by hysterical laughter. She remembers The Five, where no adventure was too special to be interrupted by a proper break for snacks. Ilmar has earned his provisions and eagerly attacks the bottle of soft drink and the potato chips.

  Herself, Alice just takes a bite of chocolate. The wine, a small bottle of whisky, cheese, ciabatta, apples, and grapes are left in the rucksack. She tries not to think about it, but the sight of raisins brings tears to her eyes. No more wonders left for her.

  Ilmar, however, is exceedingly happy about the marvelous adventure as he crunches the chips. Alice keeps staring at the forge, blinking away her tears. Then Ilmar’s sudden terrified whisper rouses her; the boy is staring open-eyed at the door.

  “Mummy, Grandad’s ghost! He’s standing at the door.”

  Alice jumps up and turns to the door; Ilmar overturns his drink and cries in fear. He crouches behind his mother, but Alice just stares at the familiar shape at the door. Her own voice is calm and firm.

  “What are you looking for this time, Agenor?”

  The dark man stoops to enter. Alice can see he’s not aged at all; only his attire is changed. The silver decorations, fur-linings, and silken fabric tell a tale of luxury and peace. His rude manners are the same, however.

  “Good evening, wife. I need a smith again, and since there’s no one else in this godforsaken corner except your drunkard of a man, he has to make do. At least you have the fire burning again. Where is he?”

  Alice is unable to cover her astonishment. Obviously, Agenor never looks closely at people below himself; it had been dark ten years ago and she’d been sooty and half-dressed. It still doesn’t explain why Agenor is asking for her husband. She has to ask.

  “The smith you are seeking has been dead for a long time. There’s no smith here. Didn’t Reynard the Golden tell you this?”

  The man wrinkles up his brows and for a second, Alice thinks she can see real feeling on the face. His words hit her below the belt as if he’d taken a smith’s hammer to her.

  “My friend has died, almost a year ago, since the last time we came here.”

  “How . . . what happened to him?”

  Alice’s voice is but a tiny, frightened whisper. Agenor looks sharply at her but relents.

  “I suppose you have the right to know, since you tried to help. The death is not counted against you, wife, don’t worry. We couldn’t heal the strike of cold he received. Those are especially dangerous for people like him, and still he took it to save me. I owe him. But that’s past. If you don’t have a smith here, I’d better look elsewhere for help.”

  Agenor turns to leave, and for a moment Alice just stands, petrified. Then she suddenly dashes forward and catches his arm at the threshold. From the door she can see the dark, deserted yard and just one horse. Somehow that confirms it all. Agenor shakes his hand off, irritated, but Alice’s words bubble out in a rush.

  “Wait, please. I had . . . time to speak with your companion that night. He said he found the smithy, the last time. How did you find your way here?”

  “Now when you say that, wife, it is really a bit strange. Reynard the Golden taught us messengers some skills and we find the smithies when necessary. But only the ones with a smith. You tell me there isn’t one here. Are you sure? Not even a journeyman? Or an apprentice?”

  Agenor looks behind Alice and she turns her head slowly. Ilmar is standing alone by the forge, watching with a combination of fear and curiosity. The lips of the nine year old tremble with fear and yet his eyes shine with excitement in front of a live fairytale prince. The light from the forge shimmers on his face, and for a moment his skin seems to have a dull golden luster. Agenor’s question comes as a surprise, but so does her own answer.

  “Who’s that, then? A son of the dead smith?”

  “He’s my son. Reynard the Golden promised to return and make him a real smith.”

  The man nods, but Alice is terrified of her own words. That’s how the story goes in the imagination of a girl who reads too much. But Ilmar is a real child, even if the shimmering forge makes him look more like a fairytale creature.

  Then Alice’s tortured mind is flooded by all the weepy scenes of school mornings. The worried contacts by teachers and school counselors. The support group for parents of overactive children. The special class for emotionally challenged learners. The endless repetitions of numbers and letters. Alice yelling her own frustration to a small, scared boy. The only experiences of success have been with Mike and with tools. And here, by the forge. Alice remembers her own Dad, leaning against the smithy wall. She remembers Reynard’s words about what happens to those who have the ability but not the skills.

  Agenor watches as Alice goes to her rucksack. The cords of the leather bag have dried up to a permanent knot and she has to hack them apart with a knife. The jewel is uppermost. The warm colors of the gold and reddish stone shine on Alice’s hand.

  “He gave this to me as surety of his promise. You said you owe him. I know you are a powerful man. You must know smiths. I’ve spared your money, I’m able to pay you.”

  Agenor stares long at the jewel and for a moment, sorrow flickers across his face. Alice has never heard him speak with such a soft voice.

  “So this is why I ended up here. My actual business is minor, my other knife is broken. But Reynard the Golden taught me to find smithies. He knew the forge fires and they knew him. Jewels like this are made in living fire in his homeland, these help even us to find smithies. I will honor his promise. I’ll take the boy with me. The name of Reynard the Golden still has weight; the boy shall get a good place. But if I take the jewel with me, I’ll probably not find this smithy anymore.”

  Alice’s tears are running and she is only able to nod. She remembers the many times when she was a kid and wished there was anything she could do to make Dad stop drinking. Remembers her own anger for not being a boy, or otherwise a better child. Ilmar will not go through the same pain. His mother at least shall care about him. She asks Agenor to go out ahead.

  Ilmar’s eyes are still wide open in amazement, but also tired. The night is far gone. Alice squats down in front of him and takes his face between her hands. The boy’s skin feels hot in the forge’s warmth.

  “Ilmar, you lighted that forge fire wonderfully just now, and you are good with tools, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” The boy’s voice is weak and tired.

  “You are actually so good that you’ve got to get to a place where you learn to be even better.”

  “Oh, like the special class,” the boy’s interest is kindled for a moment.

  “Something even better, your own special grownup to teach you. But you have to leave there now, with uncle Agenor. He is a friend of your father and he’ll take good care of you. I’ll give you some provisions, and money.”

  “But aren’t you coming, too, Mummy?”

  “The training is only for those who can light a fire without matches. Later on, you can show it to uncle Agenor. But I’m not able to do it, and I cannot come, I have to stay with Siri and Sara.”

  “But do I have to stay there longer than one day, Mummy? Are you coming to pick me up afterwards?”

  The lie is a huge sticky lump in Alice’s throat. She’s gone too far now, however. If she cancels this now, Ilmar is old enough to remember it. What would he say to his mother, later? Would Alice herself have go
ne at eight years, if she could have got rid of everything? At eighteen, she surely would have. Perhaps everybody gets only one chance. The lie fights its way out between her lips. She hugs the boy firmly and presses her face to his shoulder.

  “You’ll see Mummy again very soon. I promise.”

  Alice shoves the food, the blanket, and the bag of coins into the rucksack. She almost packs the pajamas, too, but then has another idea and leaves them out. Then she pushes Ilmar tenderly out the door ahead of herself and to Agenor.

  “I could not foresee he’d be leaving today. There’s not much to send with him, he’ll need clothes and other stuff, but there’s money in the bag.”

  The man has got his familiar expression again, concentrating on managing things effectively.

  “I can afford to support a smith’s apprentice, for the memory of my friend. Don’t worry, wife. Reynard must have felt great potential in your son. I do not want to see such going to waste. Wrap my other mantle on him and lift him up to the saddle in front of me. What’s his name?”

  “Ilmar Franklin Vulpes Cuokos.”

  Alice is amazed how easily it all finally happens. The boy is half-dazed with tiredness and nestles in a bundle within the mantle. When the horse’s steps can no longer be heard, it’s time to concentrate on action. The striped pajama shirt is left crumpled in the grass by the smithy door, as if a little boy had just taken it off.

  Inside the smithy it’s easy to fill the forge with old wooden junk. Splashing the whisky makes sure the fire will have a merry path, and finally Alice even wets the ceiling around the flue with whisky. Then she starts blowing the bellows. The wood burns with a high flame, growing ever bigger all the time. When the air is thick with smoke, Alice has to leave. She closes the heavy door fast and walks home at a brisk pace.

  At home, Alice takes off her smoky clothes and puts them in the central heating oven where they use to burn trash. A little incendiary fluid added, and they burn along nicely. Her boots she washes and dries carefully. Then she takes a shower, washes her hair, and finally dries the bathroom floor.

  Mike is fast asleep, the girls sniffling in their camp beds. Alice sets herself quietly down by her husband and wraps her arms around him. Mike feels nice and safe. Alice is empty of thoughts. Sleep comes quickly.

  In the morning, Mum wakes them up and asks about Ilmar. Mike notices the pillar of smoke and steam arising by the forest. Alice cannot find the boy’s rubber boots anywhere. Mike calls the police and the fire brigade and goes to the smithy. Alice starts crying on Mum’s shoulder.

  2014

  There’s nothing more left of the smithy except some metal junk and a hollow in the earth. The fallen tiles of the forge form a slightly higher mound. There’s nothing to see any more in the place. Alice turns to go back home, when something glitters on the earth by her shoe. Curious, she bends down to pick it up, close to the late smithy’s stone threshold.

  The little object shines with newness in the sunlight. Alice turns it around in her fingers and touches the sharp end with her fingertip. Though she’s not an expert, she judges this horseshoe nail is remarkably well made.

  Not Before Sundown

  (novel excerpt)

  Johanna Sinisalo

  Translated by Herbert Lomas

  Johanna Sinisalo is an award-winning comic strip writer and scriptwriter as well as an acclaimed novelist; she also edited The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy(Dedalus, 2005), an excellent introduction to Finnish speculative fiction from 1870 onwards. Sinisalo first emerged in Finland’s speculative fiction scene, where her science fiction and fantasy stories earned her numerous Atorox Awards. In 2000, her first novel, Not Before Sundown (Ennen päivänlaskua ei voi), won Finland’s most prestigious literary award, the Finlandia Prize, bringing Sinisalo’s work to mainstream literary readers in a big way. In the U.S., where it was published under the title Troll: A Love Story, the novel also won the James Tiptree, Jr. Award (2004). In the opening pages of Not Before Sundown, we meet Angel, a young photographer, who is heading home from a rough night out when he discovers an unusual creature lurking in the courtyard . . .

  Angel

  I’m starting to get worried. Martes’ face seems to be sort of fluctuating in the light mist induced by my four pints of Guinness. His hand’s resting on the table close to mine. I can see the dark hairs on the back of his hand, his sexy, bony finger joints and his slightly distended veins. My hand slides towards his and, as if our hands are somehow joined together under the table, his moves away in a flash. Like a crab into its hole.

  I look him in the eyes. His face wears a friendly, open, and understanding smile. He seems at once infinitely lovable and completely unknown. His eyes are computer icons, expressionless diagrams, with infinite wonders behind them, but only for the elect, those able to log on.

  “So why did you ask me out for a drink? What did you have in mind?” Martes leans back in his chair. So relaxed. So carefree.

  “Some good conversation.”

  “Nothing more?”

  He looks at me as if I’ve exposed something new about myself, something disturbing but paltry: a trifle compromising, but not something that will inexorably affect a good working relationship. It’s more as if my deodorant were inadequate.

  “I have to tell you honestly that I’m not up for it.”

  My heart starts pounding and my tongue responds on reflex, acting faster than my brain.

  “It was you who began it.”

  When we were little, having a bust-up in the schoolyard and looking for whose fault it was, that was the most important thing. Who began it.

  And as I go on Martes looks at me as if I weren’t responsible for my behavior.

  “I’d never have let myself in for this . . . if you hadn’t shown me, so clearly, you were up for it. As I’ve told you, I’m shit hot at avoiding emotional pitfalls. If I’ve really no good reason to think the other person’s interested I don’t let anything happen. Not a thing. Hell, I don’t even think it.”

  Memories are crowding through my mind while I’m sounding off—too angrily, I know. I’m recalling the feel of Martes in my arms, his erection through the cloth of his trousers as we leaned on the Tammerkoski River railings that dark night. I can still feel his mouth on mine, tasting of cigarettes and Guinness, his moustache roughing my upper lip, and it makes my head start to reel.

  Martes reaches for his cigarettes, takes one, flicks it into his mouth, flashes a light from his Zippo and inhales deeply, with deep enjoyment.

  “I can’t help it if I’m the sort of person people project their own dreams and wishes on to.”

  In his opinion nothing has happened. In his opinion it’s all in my imagination. I crawl home at midnight, staggering and limping—it’s both the beer and the wound deep inside me. Tipsily, I’m licking my wound like a cat: my thought probes it like a loose tooth, inviting the dull sweet pain over and over again—dreams and wishes that won’t stand the light of day.

  The street lamps sway in the wind. As I turn in through the gateway from Pyynikki Square, sleet and crushed lime leaves blow in with me. There’s loud talk in the corner of the yard.

  A loathsome bunch of yobs are up to something in the corner by the rubbish bins—young oafs, jeans hanging off their arses and their tatty windjammers have lifted to show bare skin. They’ve got their backs to me, and one of them’s goading another, using that tone they have when they’re challenging someone to perform some deed of daring. This time it’s to do with something I can’t see at their feet. Normally I’d give thugs like these a wide berth—they make my flesh creep. They’re just the sort of slobs that make me hunch up my shoulders if I pass them in the street, knowing I can expect some foul-mouthed personal insult hurled at me—but just now, because of Martes, because I don’t give a damn about anything and with my blood-alcohol count up, I go up to them.

  “This is a private yard, it belongs to the flats. Trespassers will be prosecuted.”

  A few heads turn—th
ey sneer—and then their attention goes back to whatever’s at their feet.

  “Afraid it’ll bite?” one asks another. “Give it a kick.”

  “Didn’t you hear? It’s a private yard. Now piss off.” My voice rises, my eyes sting with fury. An image from my childhood is flashing through my brain: a gang of bullies from an older class are towering above me, sneering at me, and goading me in that same tone—“Afraid it’ll bite?”—and then they stuff my mouth with gravelly snow.

  “Stick it up your arse, sweetie,” one of these juvenile delinquents coos tenderly. He knows I’ve no more power over them than a fly.

  “I’ll ring the police.”

  “I’ve rung already,” says a voice behind me. The tough old pensioner who lives on the floor below me and covers her rent by acting as some kind of caretaker has materialized behind me. The yobbos shrug their shoulders, twitch their leather jackets, blow their noses on to the ground with a swagger and dawdle away, as if of their own free will. They shamble off through the gateway, manfully swearing, and the last one flicks his burning fag-end at us like a jet-propelled missile. The slobs have hardly reached the street before we hear anxious running feet.

  The lady snorts. “Well, they did do what they were told.”

  “Are the police coming?”

  “Course not. Why bother the police with scum like that? I was off to the Grill House myself.”

  The adrenaline’s cleared my head for a moment, but now, as I struggle to dig out my keys, my fingers feel like a bunch of sausages. The woman’s on her way to the gate, and that’s fine, because my pissed brain’s buzzing with a rigid, obsessive curiosity. I wait until she’s off and start peering among the dustbins.

  And there, tucked among the bins, some young person is sleeping on the asphalt in the yard. In the dark I can only make out a black shape among the shadows.