Fic: Far from the treacherous world

[rusakko]

Onni performs a ritual for the dead. Set a couple of days after the flashback scene in chapter 8.

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Choosing the right tree is important. It must not be too young and small to be noticed, nor damaged by weather or disease. A straight, sturdy pine is what Onni is looking for as he follows the narrow path that leads from the lake shore to the Keuruu burial grove. The trees are silent around him, the rustling of dead leaves beneath his feet the only sound that breaks the stillness. Mild autumn sunlight trickles through the branches above, making the birches and aspen glow in their autumn colours and lending a momentary warmth even to the muted tones of the pines and spruces.

This is the only area within the walls of the military base where the forest has been left to grow as it pleases. It’s barely even part of the base, situated as it is at the very tip of Kinttuniemi, a spit of land separated from the main island by a narrow strait of water.

They rowed the coffins over early in the morning, one by one.

Onni knows the right tree as soon as he sees it. It stands a stone’s throw away from the path, in a small clearing probably left by a storm many years ago, dwarfing the small spruces and birch saplings that have taken root around it. A quick inspection reveals no signs of ill health: the bark is intact, the branches dark green with needles. When Onni rests his hand against the solid trunk, he can almost sense the sluggish flowing of the sap from the roots towards the leaves, and feel the living spirit within.

Onni hasn’t seen Lalli since their argument the day before last. Knocking on his cousin’s door hasn’t brought any reply, and when he passed by Lalli’s area in the dreamworld last night, he found its borders surrounded by a wall of tangled tree-branches and vines. If he had wanted to, he could probably have broken through it, but he refrained. Lalli’s seething anger ‒ at Onni, at the scout captains, at himself ‒ was thick and bitter in the air, and Onni would only have infuriated him more by forcing himself in.

He’ll try again tonight. Catch Lalli before his shift starts. Maybe his anger will have cooled off by then. Maybe Onni will be able to talk to him, make him understand why, as mages, they can’t afford to make mistakes. Why their failures have more serious consequences than other people’s. Why that means that they must always be more careful, more vigilant than everyone else.

It’s too big a burden to place on the shoulders of a thirteen-year-old, and the guilt weighs heavily on Onni as he raises his axe. The first branch comes off with a snap, then the second and the third, filling the air with the scent of resin.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hard on Lalli. Perhaps Lalli would have listened to him if he’d been less severe. But it always ends up like this between them. Onni tries his best to understand Lalli, to be patient when his cousin retreats into his shell and refuses to come out, but it’s no use. He’s neither the mage nor the teacher their grandmother was, and day by day, the distance between him and Lalli grows.

Of the three of them, Tuuri is the only one who seems to have managed to leave Saimaa behind her. Maybe it’s because the Silent world doesn’t force itself into her dreams every night, because no visions of warped and twisted souls plague her sleep as sickening reminders of the fates of those they’ve lost. Or maybe she simply has a certain toughness that both her brother and her cousin lack. The strength to cast off what lies behind her and make her future her own.

She’s throwing herself into her studies with an intensity that Onni admires, and with a growing interest in the outside world that terrifies him. She already speaks better Icelandic than he does, and has begun talking of wanting to learn Swedish as well. Tuuri is thirsty for new places, new people, new experiences. One day, Keuruu will become too small for her. There’s a certain irony in it: Tuuri is the only one of them whom the walls of the military base can truly keep safe, yet she’s also the most eager of them to escape their protection. Onni can’t find much amusement in the thought, however. Only the gut-wrenching knowledge that both his sister and his cousin are inevitably slipping away from him.

The tree is clear of branches as high as Onni can reach. That will do. Putting the axe down, he takes out his knife instead and begins cutting away the bark at chest-height, careful not to mar the tender wood underneath.

The real problem, of course, is not Lalli’s refusal to listen to his advice, nor Tuuri’s desire for adventure. They’re only reacting, each in their own way, to Onni’s own weakness and cowardice. He’s ashamed to lie safely in his bed at night while Lalli is outside facing the Silent world alone. No wonder that Lalli finds it difficult to respect him when the mere thought of stepping outside the Keuruu walls fills him with a nauseating dread. No wonder, either, that Tuuri is doing her utmost to avoid becoming like her brother, striving in every way to open herself to the world that he wants to hide away from.

Would he be less of a coward if the gods had given him the gift of immunity ‒ if he hadn’t had to live his entire life with the shadow of the Illness looming over him? Or did they refuse him that gift because they knew that he’d be a coward in any case? Because they knew that it would have been wasted on him? Just like it was a waste to name him after luck and happiness, when he can’t seem to hold on to either.

The incisions are sharp and ugly against the freshly peeled wood. Still, the hunter captain’s name takes shape under Onni’s knife, one cut at a time. And the writing doesn’t need to be beautiful. Merely visible enough that the captain, should she come walking through the trees, will see her name and be reminded that the paths of the living are no longer hers to wander.

There are many more names carved into the trees in this forest. Some are faded and weather-worn, others still deep and raw. Some of them Onni recognizes. Some of them, he has carved himself. Sometimes, when walking through the forest alone, he has more than half expected to see his own name among them.

Perhaps he will, today. At times like this, when he's tired and sick at heart, it becomes hard to distinguish between the physical world and the world of spirits. The two seem to blend into one another, making him unsure of what is real and what is not. His insides feel hollow and cold as he gathers his tools, and the prayer he sings for the captain before turning away from the tree sounds hollow, too, in his ears. The rays of the afternoon sun fail to chase the chill away from his skin.

But whether tonight will find him sleeping in his own bed or on the banks of the river of Tuoni, Onni still has work to do before his rest. He doesn’t look too closely at the names on the trees around him, therefore, as he returns to the path. Instead, he searches with his eyes for a trunk that is yet unmarked.

For there are four fresh mounds in the burial grove today, and three more names still waiting to be carved.