The rapids at Kohiseva are well known; none so well known, nor so ill
famed, in all the length of Nuoli River.
And the homestead at Moisio is a well-known place, for they are a
stubborn race that hold it; for generations past the masters of Moisio
have been known among their neighbours as men of substance, and hard
in their dealings to boot--unswerving and pitiless as the waters of
Kohiseva.
The daughter at Moisio is well known too; none carries her head so
high, and a tender glance from her eyes is more than any of the young
men round can boast of having won.
Kyllikki is her name--and no one ever had such a name--at least, folk
say there's no such name in the calendar.
* * * * *
The lumbermen's rearguard had come to Kohiseva. They came by night,
and here they were at their first day's work there now. Some were
still busy floating the last of the timber down; others were clearing
the banks of lumber that had driven ashore.
It was evening, and the men were on their way to their quarters in the
village.
In the garden at Moisio a young girl was watering some plants newly
set.
A youth came walking down the road beyond the fence. Some distance
off, he caught sight of the girl, and watched her critically as he
came up.
"This must be the one they spoke of," he said to himself. "The girl
that's proud beyond winning!"
The girl's slender figure straightened as she rose from her stooping
position, and threw back the plaited hair that had fallen forward over
one shoulder; she bowed her head in demure self-consciousness.
"She's all they say, by her looks," thought the youth, and slackened
his steps involuntarily as he passed.
The girl watched him covertly. "So that's the one they've all been
talking about," she said to herself. "The one that's not like any of
the rest."
She bent down to fill her can.
"Shall I speak to her?" the young man asked himself.
"But suppose she'll have nothing to do with you?"
"H'm. 'Twould be the first that ever took it so!" And he smiled.
The girl bent over her work again; the young man came nearer.
"I wonder if he'll have the impudence to speak to me," she thought.
"'Twould be like him, from what they say. But let him try it with
me...!"
"Like to like's the best way, I doubt," said the youth to himself. "If
she's so proud, I'd better be the same." And he walked by resolutely,
without so much as a glance at her, after all.
"Ho!" The girl spilled some of the water with a splash to one side.
"So that's his way, is it?"
She cast a look of displeasure at him as he passed down the road--to
go by like that without a word was almost a greater offence than if he
had spoken.
* * * * *
Next evening she was there again.
And this time he stopped.
"Good evening," he said, raising his hat with rather more of pride
than courtesy.
"Good evening." She flung the words at him over her shoulder, turning
her head but just so much as to show the corner of an eye.
Silence.
"What lovely roses!"
The speech was pleasant enough in itself, almost a compliment. But
there was a challenge in the words--as the speaker himself was aware.
"They're well enough," she answered carelessly, as if to imply that
she had no more to say--he could go on if he cared to.
"I wonder, now, if you'd give me one--one of the red ones yonder--if
it's not too much to ask?"
The girl drew herself up. "'Tis not our way at Moisio to give roses
over the fence to strangers--though there may be those elsewhere that
are willing enough."
"Though there may be those elsewhere...." The young man flushed. He
understood what was in her mind--the tone of her voice was enough. He
had expected something of this at their first encounter, but for all
that he was startled at the fierce resolution in her opening thrust.
"'Tis not my way to beg for roses over every fence," he answered
proudly. "Nor to ask a thing twice of anyone. Good-night!"
The girl looked at him, astonished. She had not expected anything like
this.
He walked on a few paces, then stopped suddenly, and clearing the
ditch with a leap, stood leaning against the fence.
"There's just one thing I'd like to say--if I may," he said, glancing
sharply at her.
"You can say what you please, I suppose," she answered.
"Just this, then," he went on. "If any day you should find you have
set too high a price upon your roses, then take the one I asked for,
and wear it yourself. It could not hurt your pride, I think. It would
only show that you counted me a fellow-creature at least."
"Too high at least to be given to any tramp that is bold enough to
ask," said the girl, facing him squarely. "If anyone cares for them,
he must venture more than that."
They looked each other straight in the eyes for a moment.
"I'll bear that in mind," said the youth, with emphasis. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said the girl.
He walked on, and she stood watching him.
"Not like the others--they were right in that," said she, and went on
with her work.
* * * * *
That Sunday afternoon a crowd of people gathered on Kohiseva bridge.
There was not room for all, and the banks were thickly lined on either
side.
There were rumours of unusual doings abroad--and folk had come out to
see.
"Next Sunday afternoon at four," the news had run, "a match at
Kohiseva--shooting the rapids."
And folk pricked up their ears aghast--down the rapids at Kohiseva on
a stick of timber; it was more than any had ever ventured yet. True,
there was the man some ten years back--a foolhardy fellow from a
neighbouring district--who had tried the lower reach, which was less
dangerous by far, but he was dead when he came ashore.
Anyhow, it was to be done now. There were two gangs of lumbermen in
the place, and, as it chanced, men of unusual daring and skill in
each. A dispute had arisen between the headmen as to the merits of
their respective parties, and the only way to settle it was by a
match, the headman of the losing gang to stand treat all round.
All Kohiseva was afoot, and many had come in from the villages round.
It was no light thing to try the rapids there.
The sight-seers on the bridge moved this way and that, eagerly
discussing the event.
"'Tis a mad idea, for sure."
"Ay, they'll have been drunk the time, no doubt."
"There's no man in his sober senses would ever try it."
"But which of them is it?" asked one. "Who's going down?"
"One of them's just a mad young fool that'll do anything if you dare
him."
"Ay, there's some of that sort most ways to be found. But 'tis a mad
thing to do."
"None so mad, perhaps," put in another. "They say he's the cleverest
of them all."
"I doubt but Kohiseva'll be one too clever for him. And the
other--who's he?"
"Why, didn't you know? There he is standing over there; Olof, they
say's his name."
"That one? He looks a sight too fine for a lumberman at all."
"'Tis him none the less for that."
"What's he doing in the gang, anyway? 'Tis not his business, by the
look of him."
"Ay, you may say so, but there's none knows more about him than all
can see. Book-learned, they say he is, and speaks foreign lingos, but
Olof's all the name he goes by."
"H'm. Must be a queer sort."
"Ah, there's more than one queer sort among these gangs. But if any
ever gets through the rapids, I say 'twill be him and no other."
"Wait and see," grumbled an adherent of the opposite party.
"Hey--look! there's old man Moisio pushing through to the foremen.
Now, what's he want with them, I wonder?"
The foremen stood midway across the bridge. One of them, Falk, was
leaning against the parapet, puffing at his tasselled pipe, and
smiling. The other, Vantti he was called, a sturdy, thick-set fellow,
stood with his hands in his pockets and a cigar between his teeth.
Vantti came from the north-east, from Karelen, and was proud of it,
as he was proud of his Karelen dialect and his enormous Karelen
boots--huge, crook-toed thigh-boots that seemed to swallow him up to
the waist.
Moisio came up to the two. "What's this about the rapids?" he said
sternly. "If you've put up a match, as they're saying here, then I've
come to say you'd better put it off before harm comes of it. Five
men's lives the river's taken here in my time. And we've no wish for
more."
"Easy, Moisio," says Vantti, taking the cigar from his mouth, and
spitting a thin jet sideways. "No call to take it that way. 'Tis but a
bit of a show we've got up to amuse the village folk."
"Call it what you please," answered Moisio. "You'll mark what I
say. I'm answerable for order in this place, and if any harm comes
afterwards, I'll call you to account for it. 'Tis no lawful way, to
risk men's lives for a bet."
"Moisio's right," cried several among the crowd.
The two headmen consulted in a whisper.
"Ay, if that's the way of it," says Vantti at last, and offers his
hand. Falk takes it, and turns to face the crowd.
"Listen," he says aloud. "Vantti, here, and I, we take you to witness
that we've called off our bet here and now. So there's none can blame
us afterwards. If the two men who've entered for the match will cry
off too, there's an end of it. If not, 'tis their own affair."
All eyes were turned towards the two competitors, who stood facing
each other, with their friends around.
One of them, a young man in a bright red coat, lifts his head boldly.
"I'm not afraid of drowning, and not going to drown," he cries.
"You draw back, then," says Moisio to Olof. "He'll not care to make
the trip alone. No man's gone down the rapids here and lived--'tis
madness to try."
Olof scans the water with a critical eye, the crowd waiting
expectantly the while.
"I'll not deny it," says he at last. "Don't think I'm paying no heed
to what you say. But I've a reason of my own for doing something more
than most would venture--and I'll not draw back." He spoke loudly and
clearly; all on the bridge could hear his words.
Moisio said no more, but drew back a little.
"Well, who's to go first?" said Falk.
"Let me," says Redjacket.
"As you please," said Olof.
Moisio turned to the headmen again. "You'll have some men on the
farther bank," he said, "in case of accidents."
"Not on my account," puts in Redjacket scornfully. "But if the other
man here wants fishing up...."
"Have them there if you like," says Olof. "'Twill do no harm."
The men take up their poles; those on the bridge look expectantly down
the river.
Kohiseva Rapids are a lordly sight in spring, when the river is full.
The strong arch of the bridge spans its powerful neck, and just below,
the rapids begin, rushing down the first straight reach with a slight
fall here and there. Then curving to the right, and breaking in foam
against the rocky wall of Akeanlinna--a mighty fortress of stone
rising straight up in midstream, with a clump of bushes like a helmet
plume on its top. The river then divides, the left arm racing in spate
down to the mill, the right turning off through a channel blasted
out of the rock for the passage of timber going down. A wild piece of
water this; the foam dances furiously in the narrow cut, but it ends
as swiftly as the joy of life; over a ledge of rock the waves are
flung a couple of fathoms down into the whirlpool called Eva's Pool.
Here they check and subside, the channel widens out below, and the
water passes on at a slower pace through the easier rapids below.
That is Kohiseva. The rock of Akeanlinna would be left untroubled were
it not for the lumbermen and their work. In the floating season, the
channel between it and the left bank is filled with timber, gathering
like a great bridge, against which new arrivals fling themselves in
fury, till they are drawn down through the cut.
The task which the rival champions have set themselves to-day is to
make their way down the upper rapids as far as Akeanlinna, and there
spring off--if they can--at the block--for there is no getting down
through the cut on a timber baulk, and none could go over the ledge to
Eva's Pool and live.
The men have taken up their places on the bank, and the two
competitors are preparing to start.
"Wouldn't it be as well to send a couple of baulks down first, for
whirlpools and hidden rocks?" suggests Olof.
"Ho, yes!" cries his rival. "And get a surveyor to mark it all out
neatly on a chart--a fine idea!"
Redjacket's party burst out laughing at this, and all looked at Olof.
He flushes slightly, but says nothing, only bites his lip and turns
away to study the river once more.
Redjacket looks at him sneeringly, and, pole in hand, steps out on to
the boom, a little way above the bridge. Then, springing over to the
raft, he chooses his craft for the voyage--a buoyant pine stem, short
and thick, and stripped of its bark.
The young man smiles, with a curious expression, as he looks on.
"Did you see?" whispers one on the bridge to his neighbour. "Mark my
words, he knows what he's about."
"Look out ahead!" Redjacket slips his tree trunk under the boom, and
steps out on to it. Then with a touch of his foot he sends it round
and round--spinning it, and sending up the water on either side.
"Ay, he's a smart lad," say the onlookers on the bridge.
Redjacket stops his manoeuvres now, gives a bold glance towards the
bridge, then, with a shrill whistle, fixes the point of his pole in
the wood; and, stepping back a little, with his hands on his hips,
begins, mockingly, to "say his prayers."
"There! Ever see such a lad?" Redjacket's partisans look round proudly
at the rest.
"Look at him--look!"
"Have done with that!" cries a stern voice from the crowd. "'Tis no
time for mockery."
"What's it to you whether I choose to sing or pray?" cries Redjacket,
with an oath. But he stops his show of praying, all the same, and
picks up his pole again. He is nearing the bridge now.
Already the angry water swirls over the stem and laps his boots, but
he stands fast.
The speed increases, the log itself disappears in a flurry of
foam--those on the bridge hold their breath.
Then it comes up again. The current thrusts against its hinder end,
and the buoyant wood answers to it like the tail of a fish, slipping
sideways round; the steersman sways, but with a swing of his pole
recovers his balance, and stands steady as before.
A sigh of relief from the watchers.
"Tra la la la!" sings Redjacket, undismayed. And he takes a couple of
dance-steps on his log.
"He's no greenhorn, anyhow," the crowd agree. And some of them glance
at Olof--to see how he takes their praise of his rival.
But Olof does not seem to heed; he is watching the water with a
certain impatience--no more.
Just then Redjacket's log strikes a sunken rock, and is thrust
backward. A swift movement--the log comes down with a splash into the
foam; the man bends over, straightens his body, and stands upright as
before, then strikes an attitude, and sails on past the obstacle.
"Well done--well done!"
"'Twas a marvel he cleared it."
The log goes on its way, the man standing easily as ever.
Then once more it collides. The fore end lifts--an oath is heard--next
second the red jacket shows in a whirl of water. Then it disappears.
A movement of anxiety on the bridge--the watchers on the bank spring
to their feet.
He is up again, swimming athwart the stream. A few powerful strokes,
and he reaches the dead water close inshore.
Cursing aloud, he sits down and pours the water from his boots. One of
the men posted at Akeanlinna brings him his pole--but his hat is gone.
He hurries up along the bank.
"Enough--give over now!" cry those on the bridge.
"Go and tell your mother!" he answers furiously.
"Maybe he'd like to have that chart now, after all," says one, with a
sly glance.
He pulls off his red coat. "Seeing I've lost my hat, I can do without
a jacket." A blue shirt shows up on the raft; he picks out a fresh
log, thrusts it angrily under the boom, and comes floating down
towards the bridge.
"Now you can stare till you think you'll know me again."
Not a sound from those on the bridge.
The log shoots down, the man stands erect, and passes proudly under
the gaze of all. He plies his pole to the right, and the log swerves
a little to the opposite side--the first obstacle is safely passed,
though it almost cost him his footing again.
"Aha! He's on his guard this time! Maybe he'll do it, after all!"
"Well, he said you'd know him again!" Redjacket's party are recovering
confidence.
The log hurries on, the man balancing carefully with his pole.
Nearing the second rock now--the figure crouches down and steps a
little back. A sudden shock, a crash--his pole has broken, and the
blue shirt disappears in the rapids.
"Look! Right down there! He'll never get ashore this time." The
onlookers crowd together, straining to see.
The blue shirt comes into view for a moment.
"He'll never do it--'tis right out in midstream."
"Hi--look out there on the bank!"
"He'll be smashed to pieces on the Malli Rock."
"No, no! he's too far out."
The blue shirt is carried past the threatening rock, but making
straight for the big raft below. A clenched hand is raised to bid the
men there stand aside--he will manage alone. But they take no heed.
One thrusts a pole between the swimmer's legs as he nears the raft,
another grasps him by the neck, and they haul him up--a heavy pull,
with the water striving all the time to suck him under. Inch by inch
the blue shirt rises above the edge.
He limps ashore, supported by a man on either side. One knee is
bleeding.
"'Tis more than man can do!" he cries in a broken voice, shaking his
fist toward the bridge.
* * * * *
There is a low murmur of voices on the bridge, an anxious whispering.
Olof picks up his pole. Close behind him a young girl plucks at the
sleeve of an elderly man, and seems to be urging him, entreating....
Moisio turns to Olof. "Once more I ask of you--let it be enough. You
have seen how your companion fared. Do not try it again."
"I must," answered Olof in a voice cold and hard as steel, with a ring
of confidence that impressed those who heard.
He goes off to the raft, picks out a log and tries its buoyancy with
care. A long pine stem, with the bark off, and floating deep in the
water.
"Ah--he's choosing a horse of another sort!"
"Tis another sort of rider, too, by his looks."
Olof was nearing the bridge now--calmly, without a word, watching the
course of the river all the time. Reaching the bridge, he raised his
eyes for a moment, and met the glance of a girl looking down. A faint
smile, and the slightest inclination of the head, no more.
"Good luck to you!" cried several of the onlookers; a certain sympathy
was evident among the crowd.
Now he glides under the bridge, on towards the perilous stage of the
journey--all watch with eager eyes.
The strange craft cleaves the waves, sending up spray on either
hand--but the heavy log, floating deep, hardly moves; the steersman
keeps his footing steadily as on firm ground.
"That's the way! Ah, he knows the sort of craft to choose for the
work!"
The log hurries on, the lithe figure bends a little, balancing with
the pole.
"Turn off--turn off! He's making straight for the rock!"
He stands poised, with muscles tense, his pole in readiness, his eyes
fixed on the whirl about the sunken rock, his knees slightly bent.
A shock--and he springs deftly in air as the heavy log is thrust
backward under him--taking his footing again as firmly as before.
"Bravo, bravo! Finely done!"
On again. A few quick, powerful strokes with the pole--and the rock
that had been his rival's undoing is safely passed.
"He'll do it! He's the man!" The onlookers were all excitement now.
The speed increases, the lithe figure swaying to either side. A thrust
from the left--he springs light-footed to meet it.
Once more his body is bent, his pole held firmly, knees crouching
deep--those on the bridge crane their necks to watch.
The next shock comes with a crash that is plainly heard by those
upstream; again he springs as the log thrusts back, and comes down
neatly as before. A few paces forward to get his balance, then back a
step or two like a tight-rope walker.
"That's the way, lad!"
"He knows how to dance!"
"Look out for Malli Rock!"
"Ay, if he can clear that!"
Malli Rock stands ready to meet the attack; the rapids are tearing
past on either side.
The log comes down, making full towards the smooth, sloping face of
the rock.
Olof swerves a little to the right, and leaps off, coming down in a
whirl of spray. The rock has done its part, and sent the end of the
log high out of the water; Olof lands on it and goes on again, the log
scraping the face of the rock as it passes.
"Sticks like a leech, he does! He's done it now!"
A cheer from the crowd.
Straight down in midstream now. A little ahead the river bends--he is
nearing the block at Akeanlinna.
"Now for the last lap!"
"Ay--and the worst of all!"
Two--three short paces back--the log brings up full against the block.
A leap and a crash, a run almost to the fore end of the log before he
can check his pace. The log is flung out again into the current, and
shivers as if paralysed by the blow. Then the water carries it down
again.
The men at their posts stare helplessly--one of them gives a cry, and
the onlookers shudder. "Heavens--he's missed it now!"
More shouting, and men running up and down the banks; others standing
as if rooted to the spot.
Olof glances at the mass of timber by the rock. A swing of the pole, a
sudden deft turn, and hurrying to the other end of the log, he begins
poling hard across the stream.
"He's making for the other bank!"
"He'll never do it--and there's no one there to help!"
"Oh--look! He'll be carried over the edge!"
Hard fighting now. Olof is striving to reach the farther bank,
the current is drawing the end of the log nearer and nearer the
falls--already the water is seething over it.
Two furious strokes, a swift step, and another, and, lifting his
pole, he flies through the air--toward the shore. The pole strikes
something, as all on the bridge can hear--then he is lost to sight.
A rush of men downstream, crying and shouting....
Then, a moment later, a waving of hats from the men at Akeanlinna, and
a cheer is passed from group to group upstream. Some stop, others race
on--he is saved--but how?
Then a tall figure appears standing on the shore, waving his hand
triumphantly. A mighty cheer from all the onlookers and a waving of
hats and kerchiefs. "There he is!"
Olof walks up with easy steps, but the blood is streaming down
his face. The first to meet him is a girl, her face pale, her body
trembling with emotion. She is standing by herself--the others are
still far off.
Olof stops and hesitates--shall he go to meet her, or turn off? The
girl casts down her eyes. He draws nearer--she looks up, and gives him
one deep, warm glance, and looks down again--her cheeks flushed.
Olof's face lights up, and he lifts his hat as he passes. Then the
crowd surges round him with shouts of applause.
"Bravo! Well done! Here's the man that's beaten Kohiseva! Who's the
best man now?"
Vantti steps forward and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Well done,
lad! 'Tis plain to see you're not born to be drowned." And the sturdy
fellow laughs till his great boots shake.
"You've made a name for yourself to-day," says Falk.
"'Olof' was a bit short, maybe...."
"Aha-a-a!"
"So now they'll call you Kohiseva--and a good name too!"
"'Tis as good as another," said Olof, with a laugh. "And longer,
anyway."
"And now we'll go down to the mill and see about drinks all round.
Twice round, it ought to be--'twas worth it!"
* * * * *
When Olof came home that evening, a girl sat anxiously waiting at
Moisio.
A bright rose was stuck between the palings of the fence beside the
road. Olof sprang across the ditch--the girl drew her head back behind
the curtain.
He fastened the rose in his coat. With a grateful glance he searched
the garden, up towards the house, but no one was to be seen.
In the safe shelter of her room a girl sat bowed over the table with
her face hidden in her arms, crying softly.