Let's clasp hands together [aRTD leaders]
Oct. 20th, 2018 10:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: Let's clasp hands together
Fandom: A Redtail's Dream (x SSSS)
Characters/Pairing: aRTD village leaders
Rating: 0+
Length: 4.6k words
Summary: Everyone knows that something is coming. It's time to prepare for it.
Other: aRTD characters during Year 0 of SSSS's apocalypse. Written for Kiraly for the Fandom Trumps Hate charity event. :)
Let's clasp hands together
Rumour comes spilling through the air
and music's there in my hands
song in my fingertips
song in the strings.
Song spills from my voice
linking words together
to keep darkness at bay.
Can we chase it out together?
Tuomi walked as quickly as he could. When he neared the edge of the village, he was practically running.
The rain had stopped, at least for a while.
Hare ran in front of him, leading the way. He followed, somehow sure that if there was anything he needed to be wary of, his friend would know about it before he did.
At the edge of the village, someone – he wasn't sure who – had carved symbols into the trees. The hannunvaakuna were stark white slashes against the dreariness of the autumn grey.
He wasn't sure who had done it, but maybe whoever did it thought that it would help.
He could help, too.
Tuomi stopped in a familiar place, a fallen log in a patch of tall sprawling evergreens. He sank down, set his backpack on the needle-covered ground, and opened it up to slip out his kantele.
He knew he wasn't supposed to be out. There were all those notices on the internet, warnings on the radio, flyers posted in public spaces. His mother had told him to be careful. But Paju – she was the worst, telling him that he shouldn't ever go out, as if she was his mom, as if she knew everything.
Tuomi rolled his eyes as he thought of her. It doesn't matter, he told himself, glancing down at his friend, who'd settled down near his feet. As long as Hare is around, I'll be okay.
Hare was all he needed.
Besides, he had something important to do. And he wasn't sure why, but it felt more effective out here, at the edge of the village, than it would have been if he'd tried it at home.
Maybe whoever had carved those symbols felt the same way.
He readied himself. Took a deep breath. Then he played.
The music came easily. He didn't have to think about it any more. In the short time since he had started doing this, he'd become used to this tune, used to the way it felt to have the kantele balanced over his lap. All of it came naturally now. And the words came as effortlessly as the notes. He didn't have to think about the song; he only had to feel it.
A song of protection. A song to keep the good stuff in and the bad things out. Keep the sickness away, keep the nightmares away, keep out anything that might screw with the nice balance they had at home.
His chest felt tight. Tuomi brushed the thought away.
This would only work for a while. Hare had told him that, late at night, in his dream. Told him everything in those moments when it was just the two of them and nobody could interrupt.
What was happening out there was bigger than any of them, and there was no way that he or anybody else could keep it out forever. But they could try for a little while.
Try to keep it out.
Try to hold it back.
When the song finished, Tuomi stopped, letting the final notes fade. He tilted his head and listened.
Hare lifted his head.
Nothing.
Well – no, not nothing. There were forest sounds. Swishing treetops. The hush of droplets from last night's rain dripping down. Birds calling – and that was reassuring. But there was something missing.
They weren't far from the village. Usually, they'd be able to hear something. Sound from people living their lives. Vehicles on the nearest road, or the low rumble of the highway in the distance, maybe. People talking.
But ever since the rumours of danger started, the village had been quiet.
He listened, and there was nothing.
Tuomi carefully packed his kantele away, then stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He looked down at Hare.
"Let's go," he said, nodding in the direction of the north side of the village. Hare started off ahead, and he followed.
They had more songs to play.
It would be a while before they would be done.
The pantry will be empty soon.
No scent of bread.
No murmuring guests.
The oven will be cold soon.
Where will we go from here?
Jouko looked at the storage room shelves, then down at the checklist in his hands.
Recently, the deliveries had been erratic. What was worse, the supplies he'd actually ordered were not necessarily what he actually received. At other times, he'd get what he ordered, but only half of it would come in, along with promises that the rest would be on its way very soon.
Of course, the rest of the order didn't come. Not the next day, or the day after that....
His records of the outstanding deliveries were starting to get very long.
According to the drivers, there were delays at all ends of the line, and there was nothing that could be done about it.
"Stuff ain't getting to us so we can bring it up to you," one delivery man had said upon turning up with only half of Jouko's shipment of dry goods. "Nothing we can do about this business. Between you and me, I say this flu or whatever it is that's going around is to blame – folks are scared to turn up to work, you know?"
He did know. And that was why Jouko managed to push down his impatience. If it really was like that, then getting angry about it wouldn't improve matters. So, he thanked the driver for bringing up what he could – and sent an email to the supply company about the outstanding order.
It was best to make note of these things, after all.
Jouko pinched the bridge of his nose, and looked at the storage room shelves again.
They were not bare, but the stock was low enough that he was beginning to get seriously concerned. How long would this continue to be a problem? If he didn't get enough supplies delivered, would it even be worth the trouble to open the store? With no way to make bread, and fewer dry goods left on the shelves every day, there would eventually be no point.
We'll see, Jouko thought to himself. It was too early to be sure of anything yet. Maybe that rash fever that everyone was fussing over would turn out to be nothing more than nuisance and overblown paranoia.
Even he wasn't immune to the worry, in fact.
His dreams had been unsettled for a while now. Always the same thing: snowy landscapes. He would be walking beside a moose, who dipped his enormous head to murmur warnings in his ear about what was to come. About how he should prepare himself. About what he could do to take care of his family when the approaching disaster would finally reach their village.
Jouko was not the type to get out of sorts when faced with difficulties. A bit of stress was one thing; he had plenty of that. But odd dreams were another. They weren't nightmares, and the moose's presence was strangely familiar and comforting, but that didn't change their subject of conversation.
Still.
Dreams, he knew, were only dreams.
But as he looked over the checklist, he thought: maybe it wouldn't hurt to look the pantry over when he got home. Make sure the kids had everything they might need.
Just in case.
The doors are shut.
Dust settles on the desks
and there is no rustle of paper,
no whispered secrets.
When will the doors open again?
The school was closed upon orders from the district, and there was nothing that could be done about it. Announcements would go out through the usual channels when it was to start again – which it certainly would, even if the date at this point was uncertain.
It was just a precaution, and attendance had been halved anyway. But as she looked out her window at the drizzly streets, Vuokko couldn't help but feel concerned.
This was not an ordinary cold, not just a round of chicken pox; it was more than that. The reports had been measured, but the things that you could read between the lines, infer from the way the newscasters read their lines, all of it indicated that people were getting very concerned.
Well, then.
There was a squirrel on the bird feeder. Old, grey, and utterly soaked from the drizzle. It poked around, searching for peanuts. There was nothing; Vuokko hadn't been out to fill it that day, nor the days before.
It turned to look at her. Stared at her. Tilted its head expectantly.
This squirrel looked, curiously enough, like one she had seen before, at another time. She could have sworn she'd seen it before. But when?
Well, it didn't matter.
Vuokko thought about going out to fill the feeder. She didn't originally intend it to be for squirrels; usually, she didn't want to encourage them. They had no business stealing from her bird feeder, thank you very much.
But this one....
She thought about it for a moment more.
Then she did something else.
She pushed the window open. Then she said, lifting her voice to be heard, "Come in, dear."
The squirrel scampered down the tree and across the grass and up the wall and into her home.
There would be plenty of peanuts there, and other treats besides.
As the sky darkens
the swan gleams white
on the lake's surface.
She was dreaming again. At least, that was what it felt like.
Kielo wrapped her arms around herself and stared out at the lake from under the hood of her windbreaker.
All day, the sky had been steadily drizzling down rain, bleak and iron-grey. It made her bones ache.
Maybe – she had to admit – maybe a walk had been a bad idea. But the air inside her house and inside her office and inside the entire town was stifling. She'd needed some fresh air.
And now here she was, standing by the side of the lake, watching a swan swimming in the rain.
It turned its head to look at her, staring at her with one appraising eye. Kielo drew in a long, slow breath and watched it.
This was not the first time she had seen it.
Every time she passed the lake, it was there. And while one swan looked much like another, this one, she was sure, was the same every time.
When the time comes, you will know.
Know what?
Kielo pressed her eyes shut, trying to remember. She'd heard those words before, somewhere. But she couldn't recall who had said them. Why not? Was she really getting that old? So old that her memory was going already?
When she opened her eyes again, the swan was still there, watching her. Then, slowly, it turned its head and swam away.
Kielo went home.
The telephone rang as she stepped through the door. Kielo took her time with taking off her shoes, but it didn't stop ringing. With a sigh, she crossed the floor, jacket still dripping from the drizzle that had misted her all the way home.
It was Lauri.
"Oh, I'm glad I caught you!"
"Hello to you, too," Kielo said. Lauri's voice sounded off. Nervous. Anxious. More so than usual. He always did have a touch of the nerves, Lauri did. But this was different.
Then again, wasn't everyone a bit worried these days?
"Ah, yes, sorry. I just – I was wondering if we could meet to talk some things over."
"Yes...?" And now she was worried, too.
There was a pause. "I think we need a plan," Lauri said, his voice shaking. "Collaboration in case things take a turn for the worst."
"What?"
"Have you seen the news today?"
"No. But I don't think there is anything to worry about." Kielo sighed, pressing the phone between her shoulder and ear, moving to shake off some of the water on her jacket. "Fearmongering, that's all it is."
"Yes, well." She could hear the huff in his voice, could imagine the anxious way he bit at his lower lip. "It won't hurt to be sure that we know what to do in case of emergency." His voice quieted a bit. "My parishioners are worried, Kielo. People have died from this disease, did you know?"
She had.
"I suppose you're right," she said softly. "Tonight?"
"Yes, thank you."
Well. It wouldn't hurt anything. And it would ease her old friend's mind, perhaps.
When she hung up, Kielo stared out the window for a moment. Grey and wet and silent. The village was still, as if holding its breath.
That night, after meeting with Lauri, she dreamed of the swan.
"When the time comes, you will know."
The swan was at once a bird, and then again a woman, taking the shape of both at the same time.
Kielo stood on a riverbank that smelled like blood. She shifted from one foot to the other, then looked up at the swan.
"I'll know what?" Kielo asked, feeling exasperated. After having the same thought running through her head all day, this was starting to get a bit ridiculous.
The swan cocked her head. "You'll know what to do," she said. "And how to survive. And how to bring others over."
"How...?"
"Follow me. If you learn from me, you can't go wrong."
Where are you leading me
my dear honey-paw?
What secrets do you tell
whispering by my ear?
The world will split
like dried branches
set aside for kindling.
The bear lumbered its way through the forest, and Anu followed.
He had told her many things.
Firstly: that something was coming. She waited for more about that, but he hadn’t elaborated.
Secondly: that she should stay away from both people and mammals.
"Even you?" Anu had asked.
"Well, not me," the bear had replied, a bit embarrassed. "I don't count. And I really mean – just if you don't know if they're well. You know?"
Thirdly: that if the people in her village stuck together, then they would be able to survive what was coming.
Anu wasn't the most social of people. But the bear had mentioned that "everyone" included her, too, and she supposed he had a point.
Now, she followed him, and wondered what he was going to tell her.
He took her through the forest until finally he turned to her and gestured with a broad paw. "There's something you'll have to do," he said, "when you can. As soon as you can get together the people you'll need for it."
"And what's that?" Anu asked, folding her arms over her chest. After that hike and all his cryptic nonsense, she was more than a little impatient.
Never mind that this felt like a dream, never mind that a bear had led her here – a bear that was talking to her, and not for the first time either. She had things to do and places to be, couldn't he see that?
"It would mean a lot to me if you took this seriously," the bear said gently, his big brown eyes wide and imploring.
Then he told her about perimeters, about sightlines, about how they would have to clear space to provide visibility for what would come, for what might come. He told her about fire, and how it could be her friend.
And he told her that all of this would require cooperation.
When she pulled a face, getting ready to give him an earful, he nestled up against her side, broad form reassuring but insistent.
"I really would like you to survive all this," he said, "because I like you. It's worth trying to get along, isn't it?"
Anu sighed, and leaned against him, staring into the expanse of forest.
Someone had hacked symbols into the trees. As if marking a perimeter. As if trying to make a barrier.
Magic nonsense, but there was something earnest about it all.
Who else was in on this?
"I'll think about it," she muttered.
That was all she could promise.
Waves lapping the lakeshore
bring news of things lurking.
Pay heed to sealsong
and take care on the water.
Åsa had long accepted that she was going crazy.
She didn't care.
Everything she had read and heard from the news terrified her. But the seal was calm. The seal was reassuring.
The seal knew what to do. She taught her the songs.
And once she started singing them, Åsa felt as if she'd known those songs all her life. The words came easily.
Spells of protection. Songs to keep away the coming storm. That was what they were.
"Pack your boat up," the seal whispered by her ear. Åsa ducked her head closer to listen. She sat on a rock by the shore, and it was cold and damp, but somehow that felt good. At least it was something right, something normal.
"The music won't be enough. But the islands will be safer."
"Not safe? Just safer?"
"Right. Just safer." The seal's voice was hesitant. Her whiskers quivered, brushing against Åsa's ear. "They can swim. You know?"
In truth, Åsa didn't know. Her seal friend hadn't said what they were preparing for. It was always "those things" or "them", or – once – "the ones with the illness". As if she was afraid of saying it. As if, by describing it, she might bring the world crashing down on their heads before they even had a chance to try to prepare.
Åsa sat up a bit. She looked toward the village, and swept a loose strand of damp hair out of her face. She knew what her seal friend meant; she'd even thought of evacuating to the islands by herself. Some of the people in town, well, they'd already left. But it was one thing to go to another village; it was another thing to pack up her boat and run, setting up on some rock and hoping like hell they could weather the storm.
But the option with less comfort was probably the better one.
"My family might take some convincing," she said. She thought of her brother. "...Maybe more than a little."
"You have to try."
Åsa dipped her hand to stroke her friend's smooth head.
They both knew she would.
Running or staying –
no matter what you choose
you won't slither out of this.
The viper sat beside him.
Well, perhaps "sat" wasn't the best word for it. Junnu had warmed a hot water bottle, and shoved it into a thick cover, and left things to their own devices; and the viper, well, he coiled up on the pillow, appreciating the warmth.
There hadn't been much warmth to speak of lately, what with the rain and the – well, everything.
"What if we went to..." Junnu squinted at the map, trying to make out the name. He couldn't recall it, but he was sure his family had property in that village, just a couple of hours north.
"Forget it," the viper said for the hundredth time. "I'm telling you, leaving won't be any help."
Junnu pushed the map away, and sat back in his chair, sighing. He looked out the window of his childhood home, out across the yard that he knew so well, and wondered.
It wasn't that he was worried about himself. His parents, however....
"I'm just concerned. Do you understand?" he said softly.
"Of course you are. But do you really think that a move like that is the right solution?"
Packing up his parents and bringing them to a place that was even more isolated than their home was the only solution, as far as Junnu was concerned. If the disease that everyone was worried about was communicable, which all reports indicated it was, then it made perfect sense to get his loved ones to a place where there was nobody else and it would be impossible to catch. Right?
He and the viper had been arguing about it off and on for days. The two of them hadn't even known each other for that long – it was only by chance that he had found the strangely familiar snake curled up in the barn, trying to escape the rain. After apologizing for disturbing him, Junnu had discovered that he could talk.
It was odd, but a lot of odd things had been happening as of late, so he'd decided that he might as well just accept it.
They got along very well, but this was one thing that they just couldn't agree on.
"Think of it this way," the viper said. He had uncoiled himself from the bottle and slithered over. Junnu dipped a hand to let him move up his arm, and drew him up to keep him close.
"What way?"
"Well." The viper looked up at him, a contemplative expression on his face. "Do you honestly think your parents would agree to leaving?"
There was a long pause. "No," Junnu reluctantly conceded. "They wouldn't, I'm afraid."
"Exactly." The viper slithered along until he finally settled, coiling around Junnu's shoulders like a scarf. "There you are, then."
Sagging in his seat, Junnu closed his eyes. "I wish there was an alternative," he said.
"There isn't."
"Optimistic, aren't you?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think you'll do fine here." The viper shifted his coils, nestling closer to warm skin. "This place will need your management skills."
"If everything is going to go the way you think it will–"
"Your skills, and your parents' knowledge and connections." The viper paused. "Just what exactly did you think you would do once you ran up north with them, anyway? Survive like people did in the old days...?"
In truth, Junnu had considered precisely that. He'd had grand visions of hunting to survive, of fishing, of tending vegetables in the summer. But the awful truth was, he could barely handle a pitchfork; after spending a few years back home, he'd had to admit that no matter how good he was in the business world, his skills were certainly not transferable to more practical matters, no matter how much his parents encouraged his efforts to learn to help.
Out in the middle of nowhere, it would be worse.
"Let's just... Never mind that," Junnu said after a while. "I see your point. We'll stay here."
As he stared out at the drizzle, he hoped that he wouldn't regret that decision.
Let's clasp hands together
and sing of good things
of warmth and safety and shelter.
Let's make a pocket for ourselves
to weather the coming storm
rumbling toward us, unstoppable.
It had taken them a long time to do it. To cut all those symbols. It hadn't seemed like much at first – the idea of carving a perimeter around the village was simple enough. But after a while, all that work got a little exhausting.
It was good to be done. Except that they weren't done, exactly.
"I'm tired, Hannu." There was an audible pout in Ville's voice. "Can we rest for a while?"
A sigh. "Okay. Fine. Just for a while."
He set the alarm on his phone, and they curled up together in bed.
In truth, Hannu needed some rest himself. His body ached. It wasn't just from the time they had spent tramping through the forest with knives; it was from work at home, too. All the packing, all the preparing, all the trying to get supplies together. Stuffing things in storage containers. Making sure they were both organised. It wasn't easy.
And when Hannu slept, even his dreams weren't restful.
Sometimes, they would be normal dreams. Sort of. Normal, but troubled and stressed, more like nightmares. Dreams of things coming.
Other times, his dreams were memories of the incident with the redtail. With the swan. With the moose.
He dreamed of being chased by rotting things.
But sometimes, the dreams weren't just dreams. Sometimes, he was conscious in his dream, and Ville was there. They would be comfortable, nestled in a place that looked a bit like the woods near their home. But somehow, they knew that if they left the perimeter of their area, if they strayed at all, it could be dangerous.
Hannu had found himself reluctant to sleep, and wasn't that a real piss-off, considering how much he needed it. But it was... whatever it was.
He'd have to take his rest when the opportunity came.
Hannu woke an hour later from a restless sleep. He had vague memories of something chasing him. The sound of hooves in the dark. The scent of rotting wood. Slowly, he breathed in, breathed out. Beside him, Ville slept on.
The kitchen was dark. He flipped on the light, then rummaged in the fridge for the few fresh things that they'd decided to keep for short-term provisions. There were some things that wouldn't last long in storage, so they reasoned, might as well eat it all now, and get everything cleared up before they left.
Hannu made himself a sandwich and flipped on the radio.
There have been reports of more people falling ill. Keep in mind, folks, these are unconfirmed rumours, but it doesn't hurt to take them seriously! Remember to stay away from public spaces if you can, guys. I hear that this thing is very contagious. Now, the weather....
He turned it off.
The two of them had selected an island far enough from shore that they would be safe from anything trying to swim there. Probably. Just in case, they'd made plans for a perimeter. They'd figured out ways to fence it, reinforce it, and booby trap the hell out of it.
There was a shack on that island. They'd been fixing it up for a while, long before anyone else had any idea about what was coming. It had taken some effort; convincing Ville wasn't as easy as he would have liked. It had been full of spiders, and he wasn't crazy about that. But considering they were a lot more worried about what was to come, Ville caved in the end.
They'd been slowly moving supplies over there for weeks.
There were words, too. The spells. They came to him in his sleep, and Hannu figured that he and Ville might as well put them to good use. Fat lot of good it would do, most likely, but how could he be sure?
When he wove the words, sang the spells, he felt as if he could practically see silver threads of protection surround the village. Which was probably bullshit, but it didn't hurt to imagine it, he thought.
He'd come around to feeling that way a whole lot, lately.
Footsteps and a yawn announced Ville's presence. Hannu didn't even bother turning around; just gestured to the sandwich things on the counter. "After you're finsihed lunch, we'll have to head out again."
"Another load?"
"Yeah."
"We really should ask about borrowing the boat this time, instead of just taking it."
"Why? It's not like Old Pekka is using it."
"Yeah, but..."
"Besides, I don't care." And he went to the front room to check whether anything else could fit in the bins.
Later, as they made their way to the water, Hannu muttered more words of protection under his breath.
It couldn't hurt. Like the words whispered around town. Like the bins full of canned food and camping supplies and every useful thing he could think of.
Like the symbols carved in trees.
It couldn't hurt.
Might as well try, then.
They wouldn't get through this any other way.
Fandom: A Redtail's Dream (x SSSS)
Characters/Pairing: aRTD village leaders
Rating: 0+
Length: 4.6k words
Summary: Everyone knows that something is coming. It's time to prepare for it.
Other: aRTD characters during Year 0 of SSSS's apocalypse. Written for Kiraly for the Fandom Trumps Hate charity event. :)
Let's clasp hands together
Rumour comes spilling through the air
and music's there in my hands
song in my fingertips
song in the strings.
Song spills from my voice
linking words together
to keep darkness at bay.
Can we chase it out together?
Tuomi walked as quickly as he could. When he neared the edge of the village, he was practically running.
The rain had stopped, at least for a while.
Hare ran in front of him, leading the way. He followed, somehow sure that if there was anything he needed to be wary of, his friend would know about it before he did.
At the edge of the village, someone – he wasn't sure who – had carved symbols into the trees. The hannunvaakuna were stark white slashes against the dreariness of the autumn grey.
He wasn't sure who had done it, but maybe whoever did it thought that it would help.
He could help, too.
Tuomi stopped in a familiar place, a fallen log in a patch of tall sprawling evergreens. He sank down, set his backpack on the needle-covered ground, and opened it up to slip out his kantele.
He knew he wasn't supposed to be out. There were all those notices on the internet, warnings on the radio, flyers posted in public spaces. His mother had told him to be careful. But Paju – she was the worst, telling him that he shouldn't ever go out, as if she was his mom, as if she knew everything.
Tuomi rolled his eyes as he thought of her. It doesn't matter, he told himself, glancing down at his friend, who'd settled down near his feet. As long as Hare is around, I'll be okay.
Hare was all he needed.
Besides, he had something important to do. And he wasn't sure why, but it felt more effective out here, at the edge of the village, than it would have been if he'd tried it at home.
Maybe whoever had carved those symbols felt the same way.
He readied himself. Took a deep breath. Then he played.
The music came easily. He didn't have to think about it any more. In the short time since he had started doing this, he'd become used to this tune, used to the way it felt to have the kantele balanced over his lap. All of it came naturally now. And the words came as effortlessly as the notes. He didn't have to think about the song; he only had to feel it.
A song of protection. A song to keep the good stuff in and the bad things out. Keep the sickness away, keep the nightmares away, keep out anything that might screw with the nice balance they had at home.
His chest felt tight. Tuomi brushed the thought away.
This would only work for a while. Hare had told him that, late at night, in his dream. Told him everything in those moments when it was just the two of them and nobody could interrupt.
What was happening out there was bigger than any of them, and there was no way that he or anybody else could keep it out forever. But they could try for a little while.
Try to keep it out.
Try to hold it back.
When the song finished, Tuomi stopped, letting the final notes fade. He tilted his head and listened.
Hare lifted his head.
Nothing.
Well – no, not nothing. There were forest sounds. Swishing treetops. The hush of droplets from last night's rain dripping down. Birds calling – and that was reassuring. But there was something missing.
They weren't far from the village. Usually, they'd be able to hear something. Sound from people living their lives. Vehicles on the nearest road, or the low rumble of the highway in the distance, maybe. People talking.
But ever since the rumours of danger started, the village had been quiet.
He listened, and there was nothing.
Tuomi carefully packed his kantele away, then stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He looked down at Hare.
"Let's go," he said, nodding in the direction of the north side of the village. Hare started off ahead, and he followed.
They had more songs to play.
It would be a while before they would be done.
The pantry will be empty soon.
No scent of bread.
No murmuring guests.
The oven will be cold soon.
Where will we go from here?
Jouko looked at the storage room shelves, then down at the checklist in his hands.
Recently, the deliveries had been erratic. What was worse, the supplies he'd actually ordered were not necessarily what he actually received. At other times, he'd get what he ordered, but only half of it would come in, along with promises that the rest would be on its way very soon.
Of course, the rest of the order didn't come. Not the next day, or the day after that....
His records of the outstanding deliveries were starting to get very long.
According to the drivers, there were delays at all ends of the line, and there was nothing that could be done about it.
"Stuff ain't getting to us so we can bring it up to you," one delivery man had said upon turning up with only half of Jouko's shipment of dry goods. "Nothing we can do about this business. Between you and me, I say this flu or whatever it is that's going around is to blame – folks are scared to turn up to work, you know?"
He did know. And that was why Jouko managed to push down his impatience. If it really was like that, then getting angry about it wouldn't improve matters. So, he thanked the driver for bringing up what he could – and sent an email to the supply company about the outstanding order.
It was best to make note of these things, after all.
Jouko pinched the bridge of his nose, and looked at the storage room shelves again.
They were not bare, but the stock was low enough that he was beginning to get seriously concerned. How long would this continue to be a problem? If he didn't get enough supplies delivered, would it even be worth the trouble to open the store? With no way to make bread, and fewer dry goods left on the shelves every day, there would eventually be no point.
We'll see, Jouko thought to himself. It was too early to be sure of anything yet. Maybe that rash fever that everyone was fussing over would turn out to be nothing more than nuisance and overblown paranoia.
Even he wasn't immune to the worry, in fact.
His dreams had been unsettled for a while now. Always the same thing: snowy landscapes. He would be walking beside a moose, who dipped his enormous head to murmur warnings in his ear about what was to come. About how he should prepare himself. About what he could do to take care of his family when the approaching disaster would finally reach their village.
Jouko was not the type to get out of sorts when faced with difficulties. A bit of stress was one thing; he had plenty of that. But odd dreams were another. They weren't nightmares, and the moose's presence was strangely familiar and comforting, but that didn't change their subject of conversation.
Still.
Dreams, he knew, were only dreams.
But as he looked over the checklist, he thought: maybe it wouldn't hurt to look the pantry over when he got home. Make sure the kids had everything they might need.
Just in case.
The doors are shut.
Dust settles on the desks
and there is no rustle of paper,
no whispered secrets.
When will the doors open again?
The school was closed upon orders from the district, and there was nothing that could be done about it. Announcements would go out through the usual channels when it was to start again – which it certainly would, even if the date at this point was uncertain.
It was just a precaution, and attendance had been halved anyway. But as she looked out her window at the drizzly streets, Vuokko couldn't help but feel concerned.
This was not an ordinary cold, not just a round of chicken pox; it was more than that. The reports had been measured, but the things that you could read between the lines, infer from the way the newscasters read their lines, all of it indicated that people were getting very concerned.
Well, then.
There was a squirrel on the bird feeder. Old, grey, and utterly soaked from the drizzle. It poked around, searching for peanuts. There was nothing; Vuokko hadn't been out to fill it that day, nor the days before.
It turned to look at her. Stared at her. Tilted its head expectantly.
This squirrel looked, curiously enough, like one she had seen before, at another time. She could have sworn she'd seen it before. But when?
Well, it didn't matter.
Vuokko thought about going out to fill the feeder. She didn't originally intend it to be for squirrels; usually, she didn't want to encourage them. They had no business stealing from her bird feeder, thank you very much.
But this one....
She thought about it for a moment more.
Then she did something else.
She pushed the window open. Then she said, lifting her voice to be heard, "Come in, dear."
The squirrel scampered down the tree and across the grass and up the wall and into her home.
There would be plenty of peanuts there, and other treats besides.
As the sky darkens
the swan gleams white
on the lake's surface.
She was dreaming again. At least, that was what it felt like.
Kielo wrapped her arms around herself and stared out at the lake from under the hood of her windbreaker.
All day, the sky had been steadily drizzling down rain, bleak and iron-grey. It made her bones ache.
Maybe – she had to admit – maybe a walk had been a bad idea. But the air inside her house and inside her office and inside the entire town was stifling. She'd needed some fresh air.
And now here she was, standing by the side of the lake, watching a swan swimming in the rain.
It turned its head to look at her, staring at her with one appraising eye. Kielo drew in a long, slow breath and watched it.
This was not the first time she had seen it.
Every time she passed the lake, it was there. And while one swan looked much like another, this one, she was sure, was the same every time.
When the time comes, you will know.
Know what?
Kielo pressed her eyes shut, trying to remember. She'd heard those words before, somewhere. But she couldn't recall who had said them. Why not? Was she really getting that old? So old that her memory was going already?
When she opened her eyes again, the swan was still there, watching her. Then, slowly, it turned its head and swam away.
Kielo went home.
The telephone rang as she stepped through the door. Kielo took her time with taking off her shoes, but it didn't stop ringing. With a sigh, she crossed the floor, jacket still dripping from the drizzle that had misted her all the way home.
It was Lauri.
"Oh, I'm glad I caught you!"
"Hello to you, too," Kielo said. Lauri's voice sounded off. Nervous. Anxious. More so than usual. He always did have a touch of the nerves, Lauri did. But this was different.
Then again, wasn't everyone a bit worried these days?
"Ah, yes, sorry. I just – I was wondering if we could meet to talk some things over."
"Yes...?" And now she was worried, too.
There was a pause. "I think we need a plan," Lauri said, his voice shaking. "Collaboration in case things take a turn for the worst."
"What?"
"Have you seen the news today?"
"No. But I don't think there is anything to worry about." Kielo sighed, pressing the phone between her shoulder and ear, moving to shake off some of the water on her jacket. "Fearmongering, that's all it is."
"Yes, well." She could hear the huff in his voice, could imagine the anxious way he bit at his lower lip. "It won't hurt to be sure that we know what to do in case of emergency." His voice quieted a bit. "My parishioners are worried, Kielo. People have died from this disease, did you know?"
She had.
"I suppose you're right," she said softly. "Tonight?"
"Yes, thank you."
Well. It wouldn't hurt anything. And it would ease her old friend's mind, perhaps.
When she hung up, Kielo stared out the window for a moment. Grey and wet and silent. The village was still, as if holding its breath.
That night, after meeting with Lauri, she dreamed of the swan.
"When the time comes, you will know."
The swan was at once a bird, and then again a woman, taking the shape of both at the same time.
Kielo stood on a riverbank that smelled like blood. She shifted from one foot to the other, then looked up at the swan.
"I'll know what?" Kielo asked, feeling exasperated. After having the same thought running through her head all day, this was starting to get a bit ridiculous.
The swan cocked her head. "You'll know what to do," she said. "And how to survive. And how to bring others over."
"How...?"
"Follow me. If you learn from me, you can't go wrong."
Where are you leading me
my dear honey-paw?
What secrets do you tell
whispering by my ear?
The world will split
like dried branches
set aside for kindling.
The bear lumbered its way through the forest, and Anu followed.
He had told her many things.
Firstly: that something was coming. She waited for more about that, but he hadn’t elaborated.
Secondly: that she should stay away from both people and mammals.
"Even you?" Anu had asked.
"Well, not me," the bear had replied, a bit embarrassed. "I don't count. And I really mean – just if you don't know if they're well. You know?"
Thirdly: that if the people in her village stuck together, then they would be able to survive what was coming.
Anu wasn't the most social of people. But the bear had mentioned that "everyone" included her, too, and she supposed he had a point.
Now, she followed him, and wondered what he was going to tell her.
He took her through the forest until finally he turned to her and gestured with a broad paw. "There's something you'll have to do," he said, "when you can. As soon as you can get together the people you'll need for it."
"And what's that?" Anu asked, folding her arms over her chest. After that hike and all his cryptic nonsense, she was more than a little impatient.
Never mind that this felt like a dream, never mind that a bear had led her here – a bear that was talking to her, and not for the first time either. She had things to do and places to be, couldn't he see that?
"It would mean a lot to me if you took this seriously," the bear said gently, his big brown eyes wide and imploring.
Then he told her about perimeters, about sightlines, about how they would have to clear space to provide visibility for what would come, for what might come. He told her about fire, and how it could be her friend.
And he told her that all of this would require cooperation.
When she pulled a face, getting ready to give him an earful, he nestled up against her side, broad form reassuring but insistent.
"I really would like you to survive all this," he said, "because I like you. It's worth trying to get along, isn't it?"
Anu sighed, and leaned against him, staring into the expanse of forest.
Someone had hacked symbols into the trees. As if marking a perimeter. As if trying to make a barrier.
Magic nonsense, but there was something earnest about it all.
Who else was in on this?
"I'll think about it," she muttered.
That was all she could promise.
Waves lapping the lakeshore
bring news of things lurking.
Pay heed to sealsong
and take care on the water.
Åsa had long accepted that she was going crazy.
She didn't care.
Everything she had read and heard from the news terrified her. But the seal was calm. The seal was reassuring.
The seal knew what to do. She taught her the songs.
And once she started singing them, Åsa felt as if she'd known those songs all her life. The words came easily.
Spells of protection. Songs to keep away the coming storm. That was what they were.
"Pack your boat up," the seal whispered by her ear. Åsa ducked her head closer to listen. She sat on a rock by the shore, and it was cold and damp, but somehow that felt good. At least it was something right, something normal.
"The music won't be enough. But the islands will be safer."
"Not safe? Just safer?"
"Right. Just safer." The seal's voice was hesitant. Her whiskers quivered, brushing against Åsa's ear. "They can swim. You know?"
In truth, Åsa didn't know. Her seal friend hadn't said what they were preparing for. It was always "those things" or "them", or – once – "the ones with the illness". As if she was afraid of saying it. As if, by describing it, she might bring the world crashing down on their heads before they even had a chance to try to prepare.
Åsa sat up a bit. She looked toward the village, and swept a loose strand of damp hair out of her face. She knew what her seal friend meant; she'd even thought of evacuating to the islands by herself. Some of the people in town, well, they'd already left. But it was one thing to go to another village; it was another thing to pack up her boat and run, setting up on some rock and hoping like hell they could weather the storm.
But the option with less comfort was probably the better one.
"My family might take some convincing," she said. She thought of her brother. "...Maybe more than a little."
"You have to try."
Åsa dipped her hand to stroke her friend's smooth head.
They both knew she would.
Running or staying –
no matter what you choose
you won't slither out of this.
The viper sat beside him.
Well, perhaps "sat" wasn't the best word for it. Junnu had warmed a hot water bottle, and shoved it into a thick cover, and left things to their own devices; and the viper, well, he coiled up on the pillow, appreciating the warmth.
There hadn't been much warmth to speak of lately, what with the rain and the – well, everything.
"What if we went to..." Junnu squinted at the map, trying to make out the name. He couldn't recall it, but he was sure his family had property in that village, just a couple of hours north.
"Forget it," the viper said for the hundredth time. "I'm telling you, leaving won't be any help."
Junnu pushed the map away, and sat back in his chair, sighing. He looked out the window of his childhood home, out across the yard that he knew so well, and wondered.
It wasn't that he was worried about himself. His parents, however....
"I'm just concerned. Do you understand?" he said softly.
"Of course you are. But do you really think that a move like that is the right solution?"
Packing up his parents and bringing them to a place that was even more isolated than their home was the only solution, as far as Junnu was concerned. If the disease that everyone was worried about was communicable, which all reports indicated it was, then it made perfect sense to get his loved ones to a place where there was nobody else and it would be impossible to catch. Right?
He and the viper had been arguing about it off and on for days. The two of them hadn't even known each other for that long – it was only by chance that he had found the strangely familiar snake curled up in the barn, trying to escape the rain. After apologizing for disturbing him, Junnu had discovered that he could talk.
It was odd, but a lot of odd things had been happening as of late, so he'd decided that he might as well just accept it.
They got along very well, but this was one thing that they just couldn't agree on.
"Think of it this way," the viper said. He had uncoiled himself from the bottle and slithered over. Junnu dipped a hand to let him move up his arm, and drew him up to keep him close.
"What way?"
"Well." The viper looked up at him, a contemplative expression on his face. "Do you honestly think your parents would agree to leaving?"
There was a long pause. "No," Junnu reluctantly conceded. "They wouldn't, I'm afraid."
"Exactly." The viper slithered along until he finally settled, coiling around Junnu's shoulders like a scarf. "There you are, then."
Sagging in his seat, Junnu closed his eyes. "I wish there was an alternative," he said.
"There isn't."
"Optimistic, aren't you?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think you'll do fine here." The viper shifted his coils, nestling closer to warm skin. "This place will need your management skills."
"If everything is going to go the way you think it will–"
"Your skills, and your parents' knowledge and connections." The viper paused. "Just what exactly did you think you would do once you ran up north with them, anyway? Survive like people did in the old days...?"
In truth, Junnu had considered precisely that. He'd had grand visions of hunting to survive, of fishing, of tending vegetables in the summer. But the awful truth was, he could barely handle a pitchfork; after spending a few years back home, he'd had to admit that no matter how good he was in the business world, his skills were certainly not transferable to more practical matters, no matter how much his parents encouraged his efforts to learn to help.
Out in the middle of nowhere, it would be worse.
"Let's just... Never mind that," Junnu said after a while. "I see your point. We'll stay here."
As he stared out at the drizzle, he hoped that he wouldn't regret that decision.
Let's clasp hands together
and sing of good things
of warmth and safety and shelter.
Let's make a pocket for ourselves
to weather the coming storm
rumbling toward us, unstoppable.
It had taken them a long time to do it. To cut all those symbols. It hadn't seemed like much at first – the idea of carving a perimeter around the village was simple enough. But after a while, all that work got a little exhausting.
It was good to be done. Except that they weren't done, exactly.
"I'm tired, Hannu." There was an audible pout in Ville's voice. "Can we rest for a while?"
A sigh. "Okay. Fine. Just for a while."
He set the alarm on his phone, and they curled up together in bed.
In truth, Hannu needed some rest himself. His body ached. It wasn't just from the time they had spent tramping through the forest with knives; it was from work at home, too. All the packing, all the preparing, all the trying to get supplies together. Stuffing things in storage containers. Making sure they were both organised. It wasn't easy.
And when Hannu slept, even his dreams weren't restful.
Sometimes, they would be normal dreams. Sort of. Normal, but troubled and stressed, more like nightmares. Dreams of things coming.
Other times, his dreams were memories of the incident with the redtail. With the swan. With the moose.
He dreamed of being chased by rotting things.
But sometimes, the dreams weren't just dreams. Sometimes, he was conscious in his dream, and Ville was there. They would be comfortable, nestled in a place that looked a bit like the woods near their home. But somehow, they knew that if they left the perimeter of their area, if they strayed at all, it could be dangerous.
Hannu had found himself reluctant to sleep, and wasn't that a real piss-off, considering how much he needed it. But it was... whatever it was.
He'd have to take his rest when the opportunity came.
Hannu woke an hour later from a restless sleep. He had vague memories of something chasing him. The sound of hooves in the dark. The scent of rotting wood. Slowly, he breathed in, breathed out. Beside him, Ville slept on.
The kitchen was dark. He flipped on the light, then rummaged in the fridge for the few fresh things that they'd decided to keep for short-term provisions. There were some things that wouldn't last long in storage, so they reasoned, might as well eat it all now, and get everything cleared up before they left.
Hannu made himself a sandwich and flipped on the radio.
There have been reports of more people falling ill. Keep in mind, folks, these are unconfirmed rumours, but it doesn't hurt to take them seriously! Remember to stay away from public spaces if you can, guys. I hear that this thing is very contagious. Now, the weather....
He turned it off.
The two of them had selected an island far enough from shore that they would be safe from anything trying to swim there. Probably. Just in case, they'd made plans for a perimeter. They'd figured out ways to fence it, reinforce it, and booby trap the hell out of it.
There was a shack on that island. They'd been fixing it up for a while, long before anyone else had any idea about what was coming. It had taken some effort; convincing Ville wasn't as easy as he would have liked. It had been full of spiders, and he wasn't crazy about that. But considering they were a lot more worried about what was to come, Ville caved in the end.
They'd been slowly moving supplies over there for weeks.
There were words, too. The spells. They came to him in his sleep, and Hannu figured that he and Ville might as well put them to good use. Fat lot of good it would do, most likely, but how could he be sure?
When he wove the words, sang the spells, he felt as if he could practically see silver threads of protection surround the village. Which was probably bullshit, but it didn't hurt to imagine it, he thought.
He'd come around to feeling that way a whole lot, lately.
Footsteps and a yawn announced Ville's presence. Hannu didn't even bother turning around; just gestured to the sandwich things on the counter. "After you're finsihed lunch, we'll have to head out again."
"Another load?"
"Yeah."
"We really should ask about borrowing the boat this time, instead of just taking it."
"Why? It's not like Old Pekka is using it."
"Yeah, but..."
"Besides, I don't care." And he went to the front room to check whether anything else could fit in the bins.
Later, as they made their way to the water, Hannu muttered more words of protection under his breath.
It couldn't hurt. Like the words whispered around town. Like the bins full of canned food and camping supplies and every useful thing he could think of.
Like the symbols carved in trees.
It couldn't hurt.
Might as well try, then.
They wouldn't get through this any other way.
Tags:
