It Came from the North

by Carita Forsgren

  But, we hated those in the grey round house more than we despised each other. We could not see them, but we knew they were there, watching through the narrow window, keeping track of who passed by, waiting for a mistake, an excuse. They were ever creeping there behind the grey round walls.

  We had to walk all the time, step after step, rough diamonds prickling our feet so that it was almost unbearable to touch the ground. We could never rest, never stop. We were always tired, always anxious. All the time they were watching and we lived in fear. We had to walk for if one of us halted the door of the house would open. Thus we kept circling the disc, going around the house so many times a day that it was impossible to keep track of the laps.

  And time after time the door would still open despite all our efforts. First there would be a warning gust, but the wind would soon grow incredibly strong. We would hang on to whatever we could, the path, the edge, each other. The wind would punish us, tear our skin, shred our wings into tatters, rip off our hair, until one of us would fall. Those that were the slowest or unluckiest would end up hanging from someone’s arm or leg. Those who were new might even try to help, reach out and offer one last chance.

  The wind would stop after our sacrifice. We would find our places in the circle and where one of us had fallen there would wait a new one. They were always the same, big eyes filled with wonder, touching their unspoilt fragile wings, playing with their smooth silky hair, clueless as to why we had to walk. For walk we must, each day and night. And as days went by they too would learn that to save yourself, to save us all, you never grasped anyone’s hand.

  3.

  I stand in the middle of the oval-shaped room and call the rodents to gather around me. Some of them obey immediately, others linger in the shadows of the grey wall. I try to be gentle when I herd them together, but sometimes they don’t listen and I have to grasp them by their tails. Then they squeal and whimper like they’re in pain, but they don’t really know anything about pain.

  The real pain is to know, to wait for your time to go. Remembering makes my bones ache, my hands tremble beneath the metal shell though my body has already healed. I pity the rodents and envy them although I know they fear and hate me. The rodents forget easily and have to be reminded, but even so they never understand that I’m protecting them.

  Most of the time the small creatures seem happy enough. They play on the floor, chase their tails, rub their whiskers together, and don’t listen to me. Their minds are elsewhere. They adore the Butterflies, consider the creatures outside the lucky ones. They think that it is freedom to walk the diamond path underneath the merciless sun and cold stars. They don’t know how tormenting it is to wait for the eventual fall, to wait for someone to push you over the edge.

  Lately my pain has grown stronger; the burden of knowledge is too heavy. Like always I ask the rodents to come to me, to listen to my words, and some of them come, but not all. I know one of them is near the small door, but I can’t make myself stop it. My agony has become overwhelming.

  As I start repeating the same words all over again the small rodent opens the door. He steps outside, squealing with excitement, and then the wind begins. The rodent reaches out for the door, but it’s too late. The Butterflies are screaming. I can hear their pleas for help, asking us to close the door, but I can’t make myself do that either. It is my time. One of them must fall.

  Then the door closes. Someone scratches the door outside, begs me to open it. I ask the rodents to come to me and they obey. They whimper behind me, quiver tails between their hind legs, hope I’ll protect them like I always do. Soon enough the scratching sounds become fainter, cease. The grey walls turn darker and the floor becomes cooler, but I speak softly to my herd until they forget and fall asleep.

  When it’s safe to leave the rodents alone I walk to the other door. The tall door slides open and I walk through the archway, enter the narrow corridor. Then I follow the curve of the wall until I come to the chamber.

  There is no other furnishing in the white room except a low table. On the table lies a fallen Butterfly, limbs broken, hair tangled, body mangled. I have seen the sight so many times before that it doesn’t make me shiver anymore.

  It is time to undress. I step down from my metal heels, unhook my mechanical gloves, open my silver belly, strip off everything. Finally I lift off my helmet. All that time the Butterfly lies still, unknowing, not remembering. Yet.

  I work carefully as I dress my armor on the Butterfly. I gently fold what’s left of the wings against its back, straighten the broken limbs, cover the burns with skin of metal. When I put on the helmet, the Butterfly jerks, once, twice, remembers.

  The new Watcher awakens, stands up. He stretches his artificial limbs, moves in agony, moans soft metallic hisses. He walks around the room in circles, habit well-learnt too difficult to stop.

  I wait, but I can’t stay still. I move my healed, shortened limbs. I can’t resist touching my fur, so soft after the days in metal prison. My tail curls up to my side like it has a life of its own and the ground feels cool under my paws.

  After a hundred circles the Watcher stops, comes to me and helps me up to the table. The Watcher stays silent as I close my eyes. He has been through the same cycle as many times as I have.

  I lay still and wait for the deep sleep. When the darkness comes I will forget, for there must be a balance. We are all the same and nothing will ever change.

  The Border Incident

  Tuomas Kilpi

  Tuomas Kilpi is both an author and publisher. Currently, he serves as the managing director of Finn Lectura, a small nonfiction and textbook publishing house in Helsinki. He has also written twelve books, including fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Kilpi has a degree in theoretical philosophy, which may have influenced the story to follow; in “The Border Incident,” a modern fairytale bumps up against dark, surreal imagery, and reality’s various layers appear to influence each other in mysterious ways . . .

  Somewhere, far closer than you may suspect, there is a land where turnips grow in neatly painted pots, all lawns are immaculately shaved, and there is a striped toucan standing on top of every lamppost each night.

  In this country everything is very ordered. The people there live their lives according to strict rules and regulations. They are known as the Norms and their country is called Normalia. Every morning, all of them get up from bed putting their best foot forward, brush their teeth with vinegar and vigor, and yodel their national anthem six times a day.

  Or at least almost all of them do.

  Because this is a story about a Norm who did not want to frogmarch to school or scrub pavement during the weekends; not to mention what part a wheelbarrow and a barrel can play in an incident at the border.

  The capital of Normalia is surrounded by countryside dotted with dams, whirling windmills, and fit farmers. But if you walk far away from the city, traveling from sunset to sunrise, sleeping during the daylight hours in groves or under bridges, you will finally reach the border of Normalia, not too far from mountains with snow-covered peaks.

  The border is marked on the ground by a straight chalk line, around which every blade of grass has been plucked away. At night, small insects build castles and mounds out of the chalk, and during the day the border guards of Normalia carefully smooth them out.

  There is only one place for crossing the border, and it is watched over by a very old Border Guard. He has been standing there from dawn till dusk for decades, guarding a border that nobody has ever even tried to cross.

  But this was all about to change one fine morning when a young girl approached the border crossing pushing a wheelbarrow in front of her. This was most unusual, for the Border Guard seldom had visitors.

  The newcomer was walking briskly along a road lined with sunflowers. She was wearing the official school uniform of Normalia, as was mandatory for all children in the realm. The wheelbarrow was by no means empty, as somebody had lifted a sturdy-looking wooden barrel into it.


  The approaching girl was therefore a most peculiar sight, but the Border Guard was nothing if not dedicated to his duty, so he did not let any trace of his wonder be seen on his face. The official set of rules as laid out by the governing committee of the Normalia Border Guards (section XIII, subsection 3, first paragraph) very clearly prohibited any inappropriate facial expressions, and the Border Guard had never broken any rules during his long years of service. In this regard he was a very typical Norm.

  The girl pushed her wheelbarrow down the hill and stopped only when the tip of the wheelbarrow was touching the Border Guard’s well-pressed uniform (which was in and of itself a violation of section XIX, subsection 7, third paragraph).

  “Move, you lumpen oaf,” the girl said.

  The Border Guard frowned. He was certain that this would be classified as an appropriate response by the official subcommittee of facial expressions.

  “And where do you think you are going, little girl?”

  “There,” the girl said and pointed with her finger across the border. “And my name is not little girl. My name is Sign.”

  “Sign? What nonsense is this? What is your number?”

  A great wave of anger appeared on the girl’s face, like a sudden swell in a storm.

  “I have no number, I have a name. And I have already told you what it is. So are you going to move, or do you want me to come and kick your fat ass?”

  Now the Border Guard was truly baffled. During all these years, nobody had talked to him like this. Nothing in his training had prepared him for such a situation. Filling out forms, yes. The careful pressing of the uniform, surely. How to pin your medals in a correct fashion, undoubtedly.

  Cheeky girls trying to get across the border, not so much.

  “Now let’s start from the beginning,” the Border Guard said. He was certain that he had simply missed something important in their discussion so far. There had to be a rational explanation for all this. But Sign just tapped her feet impatiently.

  “Why do you have a wheelbarrow and a barrel with you?” the Border Guard inquired, pointing at her belongings.

  “One never knows what one might come across, right? In case I find a treasure or something. And maybe it will be so big I cannot carry it. So I will just load it into the wheelbarrow.”

  “What about the barrel?”

  The girl sighed deeply.

  “Well, the treasure could be a liquid one, couldn’t it? It’s a bit hard to transport such a treasure in a wheelbarrow. It may spill. So you need a barrel, everybody knows that.”

  “And where exactly did you say you were heading to, little girl?”

  “Across.”

  “Across what?”

  “The border of course. Do you have mold in your ears or something? Are you just slow or truly dim?”

  The Border Guard touched his ears. A big lump of wax appeared on his finger and he stared at it with a confused look on his wrinkly face.

  “You mean . . . Across the border . . . There?”

  “Yes, yes. Across the border, over there, don’t you see? It should not be so hard to understand.”

  “But that just isn’t . . . It just isn’t done.”

  “And why not?”

  “My dear little girl, nobody has crossed the border since . . . Well, at least ten score years. That is how long I have been here. And before that my esteemed predecessor guarded this border. And he never mentioned anybody going across. Don’t you know what lies on the other side?”

  Now she was almost boiling with rage.

  “Of course I don’t know! How could anybody know what lies there if nobody has actually been there? But trust me, I will find out what ever it is.”

  “But there are . . . You know . . . It is not common knowledge but . . . ”

  “But what?”

  “There are . . . ”

  “What? Basilisks? Three-eyed cyclops? Your twisty toenails?”

  “No, there are the . . . ”

  At that moment a sharp whistle cut off the Border Guard, mid-sentence.

  Coming down the hill behind the girl was a thin man with a crooked nose, his coat full of shiny buttons and even shinier medals. He carried himself with an air of silent smugness.

  “A-ha! Got you at last. Well done, Border Guard!”

  “Um . . .Ahem . . . ” said the old Border Guard, who found this sudden onslaught of people to be quite baffling.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do?” the girl said to the newcomer. “Go swimming or something.”

  The air around the man grew even smugger, if possible. He pulled a big book from his bag and started to go through it. After finding the correct spot he started to write something down with a golden pen.

  “Date . . . Time of day . . . Encouraging . . . Unlawful . . . Swimming . . . No swim instructor certification . . . Conspiracy to commit . . . No redeeming circumstances . . . . ” After making a note of the notables he slammed the book shut.

  “Just one more thing to be taken into account when your case is heard. That I can guarantee, or I am no School Inspector.”

  “So what are you then?” Now the girl was beaming brightly. “A mean maggot? A great big ball of slime?”

  The School Inspector snorted and marched up to the Border Guard. With a slightly trembling finger he pointed at the girl.

  “Take a look at that seemingly innocent creature, Border Guard. In such a form lives a great evil.”

  “Well, then . . . ” The Border Guard was cut off before he could continue.

  “Yes, that is right. Because do you know what type of being stands there in front of us? How horrible is the burden of crime this young person carries on her slender shoulders? No, of course you don’t know. So let me tell you, but stand your ground, good man, for the truth is so dark that it will chill your blood and threaten to ruin the good name of our fair country.”

  Now the School Inspector was almost shouting, spittle spraying from his lips.

  “This girl is . . . Oh, the word is almost too gruesome to be said aloud, but she is . . . she is . . . a truant!”

  The Border Guard looked at the School Inspector with great bewilderment before fixing his gaze on the girl.

  “But there’s no . . . I mean we don’t . . . . ”

  “Yes,” the School Inspector said with a trembling voice. “There hasn’t been a single truant in Normalia for a dozen generations, but now we have one, an obnoxious being, society’s shame, a stain on our nation’s pride, a dark chapter . . . ”

  “All right, all right,” the girl said in a bored voice. “I admit and confess everything. I have had enough of this. Would you like me to get back to school?”

  The School Inspector could only nod, speechless.

  “Right,” the girl said. “I am just going to take my barrel and head back. And I will go straight to school once I get there.”

  A wild flash of cunning appeared in the School Inspector’s eyes.

  “Aha! Don’t even think of fooling us like that. I know that if I turn my back on you, you will just try to sneak across the border.”

  The girl sighed again.

  “Well then, let’s do it like this. You can both stand right there and watch out that I will really head back. Is that fine with you?”

  The School Inspector and the Border Guard nodded in unison. The girl grabbed her wheelbarrow and turned around, away from the border. With the official sets of eyes on her she started to push the wheelbarrow back up the hill. It was a steep climb, but the girl did not give up until she had made it to the very top. Once there, she stopped and lifted the barrel out of the wheelbarrow, giving the wheelbarrow a gentle tap.

  “Thanks for the help. You have been a good friend, but now I need a more speedy ride.”

  While all this was going on the School Inspector and the Border Guard were following her actions with great puzzlement.

  “What is she doing now?” the Border Guard wondered.

  “Who knows, but there is
a crooked soul in that small body,” the School Inspector fumed. “She is capable of absolutely anything. But so am I. After all, I am not for nothing the most senior School Inspector of Normalia,” he added, while making sure that all his medals were in order and shining brightly in the sunlight.

  Meanwhile on top of the hill the girl had turned the barrel on its side and pointed it down towards the border crossing. She climbed into the barrel, took a deep breath and said quietly to herself, “Going down, here I come.” Then she pushed hard against the side of the barrel, sending it spinning down the hill—directly towards the Border Guard and the School Inspector.

  “My . . . My . . . Goodness . . . . ” said the Border Guard.

  “No! This cannot be!” screamed the School Inspector and blew his whistle so hard that some plaster fell down from the walls of the border post, four roses dropped their petals, and several grasshoppers felt dizzy for a while. But the sound did absolutely nothing to the barrel, which kept on spinning down the hill, smashing into blades of grass and some daffodils—and finally into the Border Guard and the School Inspector.

  The officials had no chance to escape, so the force of the collision blew them apart like two bowling pins.

  The Border Guard found himself in a bed of roses—all carefully de-needled, as is the standard practice in Normalia—while the School Inspector landed on top of the border post in a most undignified manner and flopped back down with a twist and two spins.

  But the barrel carried on with an irresistible force. It crushed the gate at the border, took a high bounce, and flew straight out of Normalia.

  As the barrel hit the ground it was smashed into pieces, sending out a cloud of dust that covered the whole scene. Somewhere from within the cloud one could hear the Border Guard moaning, “Oh dear. I just knew this was not going to end well.”

  Far away from the border, within walls made out of cold stone, a very old woman woke up from an even more ancient sleep and filled her lungs with freezing air. Today, her creaky bones whispered, it all starts today.