The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy

by Johanna Sinisalo

  He would visit his slaves whenever the fancy took him, and would generously deal out blows, kicking those nearest him with his steel-capped shoes, shoving them in the face with his fist, and if he ever saw one of them breathing his last, he would mercifully put him out of his misery with a large, jagged stone. The slaves would tremble and their eyes flicker. They would throw themselves at their master’s feet and stain his trouser legs with blood dripping from their eyes. This disgusted Werner Reiss, even though naturally he experienced a certain satisfaction. He would shake himself free, raise his whip in the air and begin his bombastic singing once again. ‘I am your king,’ he would cry, often to himself, out loud, sometimes almost bellowing. After all, he did command a realm which he could rule as he saw fit. He was the slave breeder and he rejoiced as his trusty whip curled round their disfigured faces and necks, as it sunk into their malformed bodies and spliced open the veins in their laughable, grotesque limbs. He was calm and content, whilst an unappeasing hatred and danger built up behind the gate.

  The climbing plants were wild and gnarled, the stone was flaking, the wooden fixings ramshackle; one of the railings had collapsed at several points, parts of it still visible in a deep pit in the courtyard. Noisy crows flew in and out of an opening in the gable. Nearby the sea churned against the striated rocks. Its roar and the mysterious sounds from the shore greatly stirred the imagination of one unaccustomed to such phenomena. Werner Reiss was ecstatic; he had bought a castle and a hundred acres of land in a renowned area for which most people did not care. A moustached, presumably English gentleman (who refused to give any clear information on his origins, though Werner discreetly enquired several times) peered sternly over the rim of his spectacles as Werner counted the banknotes into his hand. Werner could well afford to pay in cash. He had sold his entire stamp collection, his apartment, his share in a grand schooner and four thoroughbred stallions, all of which had galloped around numerous hippodromes to great success.

  ‘And now I shall return to the family grave in the county of my ancestors,’ said the gentleman and waited expectantly for some reaction from Werner, but when none was forthcoming he handed Werner a set of crenelated keys and strode off, his satchel full of money in one hand and a cane in the other.

  Werner could see that the castle’s previous owner was in something of a hurry: only once did he look behind him, then quickened his pace and disappeared amongst the trees and bracken.

  The forest surrounding the castle was thick and neglected. The path leading up to the gate was overgrown, peaty and full of stones. An enormous fir tree had fallen across the path and Werner spent the best part of a day doggedly clearing the path, sawing up the trunk, rolling away the blocks and such like, before the path was finally in reasonable condition; branches and thick chunks of bark had been cast out over a large area on both sides of the path.

  Werner reversed his car into a vault in the cellar, which he had discovered after an extensive search. He had an old Mercedes; admittedly it consumed far too much fuel, but was nonetheless sufficiently fast and spacious. He was a bad driver, he knew virtually nothing about cars; in fact, he hated cars and the sound of engines, but “one would have to be an idiot to go on foot”, he had once thought. He left his Mercedes in the vault, despite the fact that it hardly made a suitable garage: water dripped from the walls and ceiling, and the car’s front wheels sloshed through deep, dirty puddles.

  The castle was filled with small windows, thick walls, staircases both wide and narrow, corridors, closets, cupboards, chambers; it was cheerless, vast and impractical. A great balcony ran the length of the grand hall. The hall was furnished with heavy, tasteless fixtures; some of the smaller rooms felt cosier (one boasted a delicate brig hanging from the ceiling; another contained an array of oriental cushions, of whose authenticity Werner was not entirely convinced). He decided to sleep on the upper balcony on top of a large chest next to the railings. In a closet standing between two doors he found two fringed quilts, one of which he folded to form a pillow. He was rather tired, made himself a hot drink, smoked and examined four canvasses hanging one above the other depicting (from the top downwards): a group of dogs and fowlers; a voluptuous woman bathing – all chest, hips and thighs; a funeral cortège against a winter backdrop; and a still life containing a bowl of pears (some half-eaten), the plaster bust of a young boy and a long knife with flies sitting on its blade; after which he retired for the night to his unusual sleeping place. His sleep was hesitant, he imagined he could hear all manner of noises, and eventually awoke, propping himself up on his elbows. Periodically the door opened and shut, there was breathing in the hall, faint murmuring. He could see movement, people congregating on the floor below, tottering about here and there. Werner forced himself to his feet, leant on the railing and looked down. Their faces were staring up at him. Who were they? The moustached, presumably English gentleman had not said a word about anything like this. Did they come with the castle? Gardeners, butlers, guards? Werner did not move. He decided it would be futile trying to ask these people anything (though they did seem timid and harmless), people who in the middle of the night had forced their way into the grand hall of his castle, his home; what difference would it have made to him if one of them had responded by expanding at length on their predictably bitter, bleak past? And at that moment an idea occurred to him. He came down the staircase and walked through the bizarre crowd, which obediently made way for him. He went outside, double-locked the door behind him, drove his car out of the vaults, turned on to the path and headed for town. He was in an excellent mood, put his foot on the accelerator and sat listening to a foreign radio station broadcasting meditative piano fantasies through the night. He had to wait several hours for the shops to open. He then rushed in and ordered a considerable quantity of steel rods the width of a thumb. That afternoon a lorry filled to capacity pulled up outside the castle. Werner also contacted a team of professional welders; the next morning these men appeared and unloaded a selection of soldering irons, blow torches, gas cylinders and other indispensible tools at the designated spot. Werner was particularly pleased with his creation. He treated himself to a hearty meal (including peppered steak, which he adored) and drove back to the castle. A grand architectural plan was developing in his mind, as was his new occupation and conviction. And all the time these unknown people, his slaves, remained standing in the hall; no doubt they were completely unaware of being his prisoners.

  The welders listened morosely to Werner’s instructions, asked a few routine questions and set to work. That evening there stood beside the castle a vast roofed cage. The holes in the grating were minimal, barely the size of an eye; the floor of the cage was partly rock, partly trampled lawn. For the long rainy season Werner had acquired a protective sheet which could be drawn across the roof; of course the sheet would also have its uses during merciless heatwaves. He decided to think about how to deal with the harsh winter conditions later on, and naturally much depended on the endurance and resilience of the slaves themselves.

  The sun shone red against the curved steel, the final joins still glowed warmly from the welding; the whole complex resembled a feverish vascular system. Werner was overjoyed and extolled the welders’ craftsmanship; they spat on the floor, wiped their mouths on their shirt sleeves and pushed their caps back on their foreheads. Werner paid them well in excess of what had been agreed and gave them a brotherly wave as they were leaving. He then entered the cage and strolled back and forth. It was very orthodox indeed: spacious yet stiflingly cramped. He had bought a hefty lock for the cage door. And thus overwhelmed by waves of wonderful, unprecedented emotion he ran into the hall and stood before his slaves.

  ‘Follow me,’ he bellowed and showed them the way.

  The slaves humbly followed him and the crooked procession slowly approached the cage. Werner held the door open as one after the other they crouched down and made their way inside. Once all of them were inside Werner turned the lock and hung the key around his neck
.

  ‘You are now my slaves,’ he shouted as he lept around the cage admiring them from all angles.

  The sound of their petrified silence almost made him want to clap his hands.

  That night Werner did not sleep a wink: he was preparing his whip. To make this he used a length of flexible steel rope. He sat working for hours in a draughty woodshed in the bowels of the castle. The lantern was smoking; it fell over and went out. Werner was freezing, fumbling as he looked for some matches; but he did not allow this to upset him, for his intention was so simple and calming. He spliced the head of the whip into three prongs, used tweezers to prise apart the strands of wire, twisted them upright and supported them at the base with several layers of steel thread; he then attached a number of staples to the head of each prong. In addition he busied himself with the whip’s handle, wrapping it in soft leather and thin cotton thread. And with that the whip was ready. Werner’s hair was tousled, his head ached and his eyes were bloodshot. The draught had numbed him. As he was walking back upstairs he stumbled and hurt his knee. He then made himself a hot drink, smoked a great deal and looked once again at the four canvasses hung one above the other, focussing in particular on the lowest of the four featuring the plaster bust of a young boy next to the bowl of pears and the long knife with flies sitting on its blade. But no sooner had morning broken than he took hold of his whip and ceremoniously stepped out to address his slaves. Each blow was liberating, it was like unshaking proof of the great lie of God’s existence. He lashed them around the shoulders in a blind frenzy and herded them together; some of them writhed on the floor in agony, and he thrashed their quivering limbs all the more. Women, children and the elderly, men and young boys, and each and every one of them was his slave. And he roared this at them repeatedly so that they would know it and so that they would learn to respect and love him. When he left them he was happier and more satisfied than he had ever been. Goodness only knows how long he stared through the grating at their wounded cheeks, their contorted foreheads and lips; and he was particularly fond of their eyes, which were without exception deep-set and moist, yet which all seemed ablaze. Eventually he left them and went to attend to his whip. He washed and oiled it and placed it on a stand which he had made especially. This done, he made himself a hot drink, smoked and wondered what exactly the artist had meant by placing the plaster bust of a young boy and the long knife with flies frozen on its blade in the same painting. In the evening he gave the slaves another thrashing and repeated almost exactly the same steps; before going to bed he skipped joyfully around the cage, and the air he breathed was like thick, sweet smoke.

  That same winter, during which Werner destroyed all his papers, there was not a flake of snow to be seen. By Easter heavy rainfall had set in. The slaves were cowering in a field tent which Werner had mercifully erected inside the cage. Another example of his incredible generosity was a small stove, which in favourable winds did not smoke a great deal and which gave off a faint warmth. The pile of logs, considerably diminished after the winter months, was covered with a rainsheet next to the tent; a saw, an axe, a trestle and a chopping block were all under temporary cover near the logs.

  Werner spent a lot of time wandering near his castle. He enjoyed the rain and, besides, his rain clothes were second to none. He would stop on the shores, eaten away by the ageless sea; everywhere he looked there were hollows, caves, strange cracks and fissures; water bubbled inside the rock;floating logs battered against the nearby cliffs. The rain was unabating. Ugly wet birds circled overhead; the hillside was thick with willows; miserable cats roamed. On the first day after the Easter holiday Werner received a visitor. He had been busy stuffing an owl he had found dead on the steps. He rinsed his hands clean of feathers, innards and preserving fluid and went to the door. The visitor was driving a car with a two-stroke engine and indicators that were so stiff they often had to be moved by hand. Werner recognised his visitor through the rain trickling down the front window: he was an old friend with whom Werner had often gone hiking. The friend jumped out of his car and gave Werner a curt, loud greeting; he had a ruddy face, thin fair hair and a newspaper protruding from his coat pocket, just as it always had done before.

  ‘I see you’ve bought a castle,’ said the friend.

  ‘Indeed I have,’ said Werner. ‘Where did you hear about it?’

  ‘I follow matters like this, it’s part of my job,’ the friend replied.

  ‘Well, do come in out of the rain,’ said Werner and attempted a smile.

  Werner gave his old friend a tour of the castle. The friend was very polite and appeared interested in every little curio and detail. They walked around many rooms and talked either about the castle, salmon fishing or rifles. The friend was startled at the sight of the owl lying on Werner’s desk with its stomach slit open; at this Werner laughed and covered the bird with a white sheet. On their return to the grand hall Werner implored his guest to take a seat and went off to find something to serve up. They drank coffee and cognac and Werner was pleased to note that his guest paid due attention to the noteworthy vintage. They sat smoking and Werner suggested a game of cards, though he knew it would bore them both. They played together for many hours. Finally Werner introduced his guest to the cage and his slaves. He ordered them out of the tent. The wind was particularly unfavourable, so the tent was filled with smoke and the slaves rushed out spluttering, staggering; some fell flat on their faces. Werner recounted several witty anecdotes about his slaves and illustrated these stories by whipping them.

  ‘Watch,’ Werner beamed and nodded towards the ground: a thin, dishevelled boy was coughing up phlegm and gripping his stomach with both hands.

  ‘Is he … are they ill?’ the friend asked in shock.

  ‘No, on the contrary!’ Werner replied. ‘They are my slaves, my marvellous slaves, and I am their breeder.’

  Some of them slid around the boy, trying to drag themselves towards the wall and haul themselves upright. Werner’s face lit up like a settler surveying his bountiful harvest. Yet his friend was frozen to the spot staring blankly ahead. Werner nudged him lightly. The friend gave a start and muttered something.

  ‘Aren’t they a fine slaviary?’ Werner asked proudly.

  ‘ …a fine slaviary,’ whispered his friend, barely moving his lips.

  Suddenly Werner thought his friend particularly unpleasant. Why is he behaving like this? Why can’t he be happy for me and enjoy it? Werner looked at him out of the corner of his eye and thought: he’s just standing there like a stupid statue.

  ‘You might want to take a closer look and point out any flaws or deficiencies,’ Werner suggested opening the cage door to his friend and showing him the way. In a dreamlike trance the friend stepped inside the cage and Werner slammed the door shut behind him, turned his back and hurried away. He drove his friend’s car with the two-stroke engine and the protruding indicators off the cliff and into the sea, then hurried back home to make himself a hot drink, smoke and think hard about the plaster bust of the young man and the flies on the blade of the knife in the lowest of the paintings. After this he dashed back to his desk, where the owl awaited him under a white sheet with its stomach open.

  The following morning Werner graced his friend with a thrashing of the whip; the friend hardly flinched, Werner could barely draw blood from his body; this infuriated Werner considerably.

  And so Werner’s life merrily continued. He worked vigorously during the day. The owl was all but ready, all he needed now was a suitable branch on which to display it. Many an hour he spent walking around the forest, but still he could not find one that pleased him. The owl had therefore temporarily to settle for lying on Werner’s desk; he bought it an expensive pair of glass eyes and it looked wise. All he required from his slaves was continual subservience at the meticulous blows of his whip – he tried to teach them how to accept these blows like well-deserved gifts. And morning and night the sound of singing pealed out from the cage: Werner sang and thrashed away t
o his heart’s content.

  Every few years Werner would wake up in the middle of the night, next to his tacky whip (each night he took it from the stand he had made especially), as the wind rattled the grating on the roof of the cage and the vines of the climbing plants battered against the gutter and the window of the room in which he slept (alternately the room with the delicate brig hanging from the ceiling and the room with the array of oriental cushions, the authenticity of which was still unconfirmed). On nights like these he could never get back to sleep, so would go instead to make himself a hot drink, smoke vast amounts and walk back and forth around the grand hall considering where he should display the owl once he found an appropriate branch.

  As time went by the cage filled with slaves, none of whom remotely resembled ordinary humans. ‘No matter,’ thought Werner. ‘A slave’s a slave’s a slave.’ As he whipped them he would often comment wittily to himself on their appearance. Some of them were even missing essential body parts; their sensory organs had arbitrarily swapped places with each other; they all expressed themselves in terms of grim individual ailments (one warbled like a broken unmelodious flute, another hissed like a stove); and one of them (whose most striking feature was a set of dead, sunken eyes) had a hand on the end of its leg; another had a pencil-thin tail metres long. Any attempt to classify their gender was pure guesswork. Werner split them at random into two groups and lashed them together, so that the number of slaves would not drop. New slaves were born (some of the strangest looking creatures), yet the death rate was also considerable. In addition to this a virulent epidemic broke out (a fever of some description causing pearl-like boils to appear on the skin) and this took its toll on the slave population on four consecutive autumns. The first year this happened Werner too became ill and was forced to lie in bed in pain for over a month with a high fever until providence, in her immeasurable clemency, gave him back his health. During his recuperation Werner managed to turn one of the corridors in the cellar into a shooting range and spent day after day shooting his saloon rifle standing, kneeling and lying on the floor. The owl still lay on his desk. Its feathers and glass eyes were covered in dust. He no longer had the strength to roam the forest in search of a decent branch; he was approaching old age and needed all his strength to whip the slaves; still, once a week he would undertake a longer trip to the forest and scrutinise potential trees. He noticed that he was not quite himself after the illness. He made himself a hot drink, smoked and thought hard: the owl simply cannot lie on my desk for ever and a day, it’s almost finished.