The Song of the Blood-Red Flower Part 27

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 gra.s.shoppers 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 a.s.sent.

"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 sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.s 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 n.o.body 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 b.u.t.ter. Just pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.e.

"'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.