A league of swift-flowing river, almost straight, with gently sloping
meadows, forest-crowned, on either hand.
A grand, impressive sight at all seasons. In autumn, the swollen
waters pour down as from a cornucopia; in winter, folk from the town
come driving over the frozen flood, racing one against another; in
spring, the river overflows its banks, spreading silt on the meadows
as in the land of the Nile; and in summer, the haymakers are lulled
by the song of the grasshoppers and the scent of the hay to dream of
paradise, where the children of men even now may enter in for some few
days in every year.
A league of river, a league of meadow land--but at one spot two great
rocks stand out as if on guard.
One rises from the very verge, the water lapping its foot as it
stands dreaming and gazing over to its fellow of the farther side.
Neitokallio is its name.
The other is more cold and proud. It stands drawn back a little way
from the bank, with head uplifted as in challenge, looking out through
the treetops across the plain. And this is Valimaki.
At the foot of Valimaki a camp-fire was burning. It was midnight. A
group of lumbermen were gathered round the fire, some lying stretched
out with knapsacks under their heads, some leaning one against
another. Blue clouds of smoke curled up from their pipes.
The red fire glowed and glowed, flaring up now and again into bright
flame, tinging the fir stems on the slope as if with blood, and
throwing weird reflections out on to the dark waters of the river. The
men sat in silence over their pipes.
"Look!" said one at last, nodding up towards the head of the rock.
"Looks almost as if she was sitting there still, looking down into the
river."
Several nodded assent.
"Maybe there _is_ someone sitting there."
"Nay, 'tis only a bit of a bush or something. But 'tis the very same
spot where she sat, that's true."
"What's the story?" asks one--a newcomer, on his first trip to
Nuolijoki. "Some fairy tale or other?"
"Fairy tale?" one of the elders breaks in. "You're a stranger, young
man, that's plain to see. 'Tis a true story enough, and not so long
since it all happened neither."
"Fourteen years," says Antti, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "I
remember it all as plain as yesterday. Ay, there's queer things happen
in life."
"Did you see it yourself, then?"
"Ay, I did that--and not likely to forget it. 'Twas on that rock I saw
her first time, and a young lad with her."
Some of the men sat up and began filling their pipes afresh.
"Her betrothed, maybe?"
"Ay--or something like it. I didn't know at the time. I was clearing
stray logs here on the shore, and saw them sitting up there together,
looking at the water. I sat down too for a bit, and lit a pipe, and
thinking to myself; well, water's water, and water it'll be for all
their looking. Anyhow, I doubt they must look at something, just to
pass the time."
"Well, and what then? What happened?"
"Nay, they did but sit there a bit and then went away. But next day
again, I was working there same as before, and there's my young miss
a-sitting there in the very spot--only nobody with her this time."
Olof had been lying on his back, hands under his head, looking up into
the darkness. All at once he sat up, and stared at the speaker.
"'Twas a queer girl, thinks I, and lights my pipe. Walking all those
miles out from the town to sit on a rock--as if there wasn't rocks
enough elsewhere. Anyway, 'twas no business of mine. And after that
she was there every day--just about midday, always the same time, and
always sitting just there in one place."
"But what was she doing there?"
"Doing? Nay, she wasn't doing anything. Just sitting there, and
staring like."
"'Twas Antti she was staring at--that'll be it," laughed one. "You
must have been a fine young fellow those days, Antti!"
"You keep your tongue between your teeth, young fellow; 'tis no
laughing matter I'm telling you."
The men looked at one another, and nodded. A faint breath of wind
sighed through the trees on the slope, a pair of twin stems creaked
one against the other with a melancholy sound. The men puffed at their
pipes.
"Well, there she sits, and never song nor word to hear. Lord knows
what she'd be thinking of all the time. Then one day I came down to
the river, and was going over to Metsamantila for some butter. Just
passing by the rock I was, and there she is all of a sudden, coming
towards me, and all dressed in black from top to toe."
"Ho!"
"I was all taken aback, you can think. She'd a black veil over
her face, and all. But a sweet, pretty thing to see, ay, that she
was--like a blessed angel. I pulled off my cap, and she looks up at me
and nods. And it gave me such a queer sort of feeling, I just turned
round and stood staring after her."
"Was it just a young girl?"
"Young? Ay, no more than twenty, at most. Well, I stood there watching
her till she's out of sight among the trees. And then it all seemed
clear enough. 'Twas her father or mother was dead, no doubt, and
that's why she came out here all alone, for comfort, like. Anyway, I
was going on. Then, just past the rock there's a man calls out, 'She's
gone!'
"I was near falling backwards at that. I called out to see what was
the matter, and ran down to the shore.
"'Thrown herself down!' cries out the other man, and goes racing off
down to the water.
"We both ran all we could, but there was nothing to see. We waited
a bit, but she didn't come up. So I went off to the village, and the
other man to the town.
"They got her up after--at the first haul. She'd gone down like a
stone to the bottom, just at the spot. But there was no getting her
to life again, try all we could. Just as beautiful to look at she was,
for all she was dead. Ay, a lovely thing, a lovely thing. We'd had to
undo her clothes a bit, trying to bring her round, and her skin--'twas
like white silk. Seemed almost a sin to touch her with our rough hands
and all...."
* * * * *
No one spoke for a while.
"And was it just for sorrow, like?" asked one at last.
"Ay, sorrow enough. But 'twas neither father nor mother she was
sorrowing for."
"Ah!... 'Twas a lover, then? Maybe she'd got into trouble."
"Nay, 'twas none of that sort. Just set on him--the young lad she'd
been sitting there with at first--and he'd left her, that was all."
The men sat in silence. Olof's heart was beating so that he almost
feared the rest must hear it. His eyelids quivered, and his brow was
furrowed deep as he sat staring into the fire.
"'Tis that way sometimes with fine folk when they're in love,"
murmured one.
"'Tis a woman's way altogether," put in another, with an attempt at
gaiety, as if to dispel the feeling of gloom. "Their heart's like a
flimsy fairing--little watch looks all right, but just shake it a bit,
and 'tis all to pieces."
"Maybe 'tis so with fine folk and ladies and such, but peasant girls
are not so foolish. More like a grandfather's clock, say. Anything
goes wrong, you've only to give it a shake, let it stop for an hour or
so, and shake it again, and scold it a bit--and it's as right as ever.
Go any way you like."
The men laughed--it was a relief to turn to something lighter.
"Ay, you're right there," put in a stout fellow with a loud voice.
"'Twas so with my old woman once when she was young. Got set on a bit
of a greenhorn chap, all soft as butter, and took it badly. But I saw
'twas no good for her nor anyone, and heaved him out of the way and
took her myself. And well I did, for she's never troubled a thought
about him since."
A shout of laughter went up from the men. They had recovered their
spirits now.
"Ay, you may laugh," said an elderly man. "But 'tis not every man
that troubles if what he thinks best is best for a woman herself."
He paused a moment, and sat cleaning his pipe with a straw. "There's
girls of our own sort that can't be handled that way to any good--and
there's both men and girls that don't take things so lightly."
There was an earnest ring in his voice, a note almost of pain, and
the men ceased to smile. Olof turned in surprise, and looked at the
speaker--some of the others were making signs behind the old man's
back.
"I know one man at least," he went on, "that loved a girl when he was
young, and couldn't marry her. He didn't go off and kill himself--but
it marked him, none the less, for all he was only a peasant himself.
Sold his place, he did, and drank away the money, and wandered about
the rest of his life to this day--and never forgotten her."
The old man was silent.
"Ay, 'tis plain to see she's in his mind now that he's old and grey,"
said one who had pointed to the speaker before.
The old man bowed his head, and pulled his cap down over his eyes;
but they could see a quiver in his face, and the brass-bound pipe-stem
trembled in his hand.
The men exchanged glances; none seemed wishful to speak.
"Ay, 'tis no light thing to play with," said one at last. "And each
knows best what he's learned for himself."
Again a sighing of the trees on the hillside, and a mournful sound
from the straining stems. The coming dawn threw a grey light on the
rocky face of Neitokallio; far over the meadows a bird was calling.
"Getting light--'tis time we were about," said Olof, rising to his
feet.
The men stared at him in wonder; his voice was strange and hard as
that of the old man who had spoken before.
"Up with you--come!" said Olof, with sudden impatience. And, turning
abruptly, he strode down to the shore.
The men stared after him, then, rising, covered their fire, and
followed down to the river.