Fic: Make the halls resound with joyance

[rusakko]

The Hotakainen family attends a wedding in their home village. Runo singing is involved.

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It is a fine wedding: the food is plentiful, the beer even more so, and there are several strong singers among the wedding party. There have been laments performed for the two young people leaving their homes, boisterous songs giving advice to the happy couple, and love songs both wistful and raunchy. The parents of the newlyweds have been praised for their hospitality, and the guests have been thanked in turn.

Onni has stationed himself comfortably in a corner that is at a safe distance from the more spirited young wedding guests, who are trying to drag everyone around them into a circle dance. Onni doesn’t care much for dancing – he has two left feet, and the mere thought of having to hold hands with some giggling girl or smirking boy makes his palms sweat. He has, however, secured a big slice of the wedding cake, and feels quite content munching on it by himself.

Tuuri, of course, is at the centre of a gaggle of children, no doubt orchestrating some sort of mischief. Onni can see their mother throwing the occasional watchful glance in the direction of her youngest child. Their cousin Lalli has already escaped outside. Onni suspects that they’ll have to coax him down from a tree again when they leave. Hopefully, Onni won’t be the one who has to do the climbing – Lalli may be small, but his teeth are very sharp.

There has been a momentary lull in the singing, and the father of the bride, who has already had more than a couple of pints of beer, raises his voice.

“We have heard many fine songs today, but the best singer in the village remains silent. Ensi, will you not sing for us?”

A hush descends on the crowd. All eyes turn towards the back of the room, where Onni’s grandmother is rising from her seat.

Ensi Hotakainen is not a tall woman, but she has the kind of presence that can silence a room full of people with one look. A powerful luonto, an implacable will and close to eighty years’ worth of wisdom make her a respected figure in the village – and sometimes feared, too. The father of the bride certainly seems to sober up rather quickly when Ensi levels her gaze at him, unsmiling.

Then, abruptly, she nods.

“Very well. We are celebrating a handsome couple today with good food and drink, and so I shall sing of another great wedding feast – that of Ilmarinen and the Maiden of the North.”

There are murmurs of approval: it is a well-liked song, and appropriate for the occasion. As two of the groomsmen carry a bench to the centre of the room, Ensi’s eyes scan the crowd until they find her grandson.

“Onni.” She jerks her head towards the bench.

Onni feels as if all eyes in the room are on him as he stumbles forward. His grandmother is already taking a seat and beckoning for Onni to join her. She must feel the blood thumping through his veins as they clasp hands, but she does not acknowledge his nervousness in any way.

It is not the first time they are sitting like this, with their hands joined and knees touching. This is how Onni has learned almost all the songs he knows: by listening to his grandmother and repeating her words, verse after verse. He has spent many a winter night committing stories and melodies to memory, his voice alternating with his grandmother’s over the crackling of the fire.

But he has never joined his grandmother for a performance in front of a crowd. She often has a second singer accompany her when singing the long story-songs, as is the custom, but usually, the honour has fallen on Onni’s father or uncle.

Onni has by no means been left thirsty at the party, but his mouth and throat feel full of sawdust as his grandmother begins the first verse. Lately, his voice has been prone to suddenly cracking and leaping an octave up or down at the most inopportune moments – what if he opens his mouth and an embarrassing squeak comes out? He’ll never live it down –

Strong old fingers squeeze his, and Onni startles, almost coughs – but somehow, the words about Louhi, hostess of the Northland, tumble out of his mouth. He is a little hoarse at first, but gradually, he is pulled into the rhythm of the ritual performance, joining his voice to his grandmother’s at the end of each verse and then repeating the beginning on his own until her voice joins in with his again and continues into the next verse. Line by line, the story of the great feast in the North comes alive in his mind and on his lips.

It is a long song, but Onni is almost surprised at how soon he finds himself reciting the blessings that end it, and he is definitely startled, when he finally falls silent after repeating the last verse, at the clapping and cheering that erupt around him. Most of the praise is, deservedly, directed towards his grandmother, but several older people stop to clap Onni on the back and congratulate him on his performance.

It makes his ears burn in embarrassment, but there’s a little spark of pride beneath that. Still, it’s a relief when the bridesmaids eventually start singing a mocking song about the groom, and everyone’s attention turns to them and the groomsmen’s vigorous response.

Onni takes the opportunity to retreat outside for some fresh air. This late in the summer, there is already a chill in the air around sunset, but Onni is grateful for it. Sitting on the porch step, the singing and laughter from inside the house are a comfortable background noise. Faint, wispy air-spirits are twirling around at the edges of his vision, dancing with the last rays of the sun. There will be fog tonight.

The door creaks and Tuuri plops down next to him. Her previously neat braids have come undone, there is a large, muddy stain on the front of her dress, and she is holding a holding a large chunk of cake in her grubby little hands, half of which she immediately proceeds to stuff into her mouth.

Onni is torn between exasperation and laughter. He settles for poking his little sister in in her bulging cheek, provoking an indignant squeak and a spray of cake-crumbs.

“Mom and dad are going to be so mad at you,” he tells her. “Whatever did you do to your dress?”

“We went to play in the hayloft for a while,” Tuuri replies, wiping crumbs from her face. “And we visited the cows, too. Anyway, it’s not that bad.” She pauses and takes a critical look at the stain. “…can I borrow your handkerchief?”

Tuuri’s industrious rubbing doesn’t do much to remove the mud. Onni suspects that she’s only spreading it over a larger area.

“I don’t think it’s helping,” he finally observes aloud. His sister drops the handkerchief with a huff.

“Do you think they’ll be really mad?” she asks cautiously.

Onni relents. “No, just a little bit. Scoot over, I can fix your hair at least, then you won’t look so bad overall.”

Tuuri’s hair is damp with sweat, and there are stray bits of hay sticking out here and there. She sits quietly for a while, letting Onni comb out the worst of the mess with his fingers, but when he starts gathering the loose strands into a braid, she suddenly remarks: “Grandma made you sing today.”

“Yeah.” Onni is almost an adult, and definitely above caring about a nine-year-old’s opinion, but he still can’t resist asking: “Did you like it?”

“You weren’t terrible,” Tuuri generously concedes. “But I don’t like that song. It’s boring.”

“Well, which one do you like then? The one about Aino?”

“No! It’s stupid. Why did she go into the lake when she could’ve just run away and had lots of adventures?” Tuuri sniffs contemptuously. “But I like the one where Louhi turns into a giant eagle. Can you sing that one?”

“Only if you promise to keep your head still so I can finish these braids,” Onni grumbles, but it’s mostly for show. “Okay, do you remember what happened before that? With the Sampo?”

“Yeah, yeah, they gave it to Louhi but then they stole it back and she got angry. Just sing the song already!”

He does, though not without interruptions – Tuuri, of course, has many comments and questions. The air-spirits gather around them as if to listen. A careful observer might notice the air around them shimmering into strange, shifting patterns: a young man carrying a little girl in his arms – a high pole fence – a giant ship – a troll rearing up to strike – and finally, a swan, swooping down.

But Tuuri is blind to omens, and Onni, focused on his singing, doesn’t notice. And so the peace of the evening remains unmarred by forebodings of what is to come.