"Finland's national epic. That great big thing that sounds like Hiawatha, only you can't pronounce the names?"
"Now I remember," Eric nodded. "We've got a copy at home; every line sort of repeats? Dad has it with his saga collection; he used to read us that stuff when we were little kids- that's how Astrid got started on her schtick. The illustrations were cool, but I couldn't get through it. I can't remember anything about knives, though; I thought it was all witches and monsters and Santa Claus sleigh-trips with reindeer?"
"Yeah, the Old Country version could make sex sound dull, but the one my dad taught me was sort of modified; it goes-" He began to chant as they walked west along the traiclass="underline"
"I am driven by my knowledge,
And my understanding urges,
That I should commence my fighting,
And begin my strong ass-whupping,
With a nice sharp slashing puukko."
Eric hadn't expected to be forced to listen to poetry, but a smile broke through his frown of puzzlement as the words sank in. Havel cleared his throat and continued, in the solemn singsong shaman-type voice purists always used for the real thing when the old farts got together at the Suomi-American Society meetings:
"Fists are just for wussie girl-men.
Swedes and Danes and pansy girl-men…
Come and let us fight together,
And drink potato gin forever,
Or maybe made-from-pine-trees vodka,
In the dreary land of Pohja.
Let us clash our knives together,
Let us slice and cut our fingers;
Let us stab a cheerful measure,
Let us use our best endeavors,
While the young are standing round us,
Of the rising generation."
Eric Larsson was beginning to stagger and wheeze with laughter as they walked; Havel made a grand gesture with the rabbit stick, declaiming:
"Let them learn the way of mayhem,
And of all our fights and drinking,
Of the booze of Vaindmoinen,
Of the knives of Hmarinen,
And of Kaukomieli's pointy puukko,
And of Joukahainen's broken bottle:
Of the utmost bars of Pohja,
And of Kalevala's boozing cock-hounds… "
He carried on through the younger man's laughter, remembering the way the sauna had run that night, he and his brothers and father howling out the verses in turn until the one reciting couldn't go on, and falling back on the scalding-hot pine benches.
Six
"Hope Luther doesn't mind us dropping in past midnight," Dennis said.
Juniper snorted wordlessly, too tired to waste breath on speech as she pedaled her heavily laden bike along the rough patched pavement of the country road. She felt every jolt, all the way up her back. The muscles of her thighs burned and cramped; the day had wrung her limp as a dishrag, even after all the miles she'd covered on a bicycle over the years. Despite the chill damp of the air she was sweating under her down coat, and the straps of her knapsack cut into her shoulders.
"Hold up!" she said suddenly, stopping and putting a foot down. It skidded through dirt and gravel along the edge of the asphalt.
They all braked and swerved. It was dark, dark in a way she'd never experienced in settled country before. Between patches of cloud the stars were a bright frosted band across the sky, and the moon was rising huge on the edge of sight; it turned the grassy fields and woodlots to silvered mystery.
It's nearly Ostara, she thought. That would come with the vernal equinox; also Eilir's birthday. Night and day in perfect balance, with light on the increase. Maybe things will get better. All Gods above, I hope so!
The tin mailbox on its post beside the turnoff was prosaic by contrast, down to the little flag in the upright position to warn the mailman there were letters waiting.
If there's ever a postman by again, she thought, and swallowed.
"This is Luther's drive," she said. "Another quarter mile."
Luther Finney had farmed south of Corvallis most of his seventy-four years, like his fathers before him since they came west on the Oregon Trail the year before the California gold rush started; when the last of his children moved away, he'd rented out most of his land to neighbors and kept only the old house and a few acres around it. He still kept farmer's hours, but he'd complained to her that he slept lightly these days.
Dogs barked as the three fugitives walked their laden bicycles up the tree-lined gravel lane. The buds were out on the rock maples arching overhead-trees Luther's great-greatgrandfather had planted to remind him of Massachusetts- and they turned the lane into a tunnel of shadow even darker than the open road.
He probably does sleep lightly, Juniper thought, as light blossomed in an upstairs window.
First the buttery yellow flame of a candle, and then the brighter glow of a kerosene lamp. Nothing like the hard glare of electricity, which she was already starting to miss. Luther's two Alsatians came up, excited but polite; her own nondescript black-and-white mongrel threw himself into the air around them in wriggling transports of barking joy, before making his usual nosedive for the crotch to catch up on the olfactory news.
"Quiet, Cuchulain," she said, giving him an admonitory rap on the head.
She'd named him after the Hound of Ulster, which was somewhat appropriate given the beast's mixed ancestry, though not for his entirely nonheroic nature.
He jumped up and tried to lick her face instead. She pushed him down and thumped his ribs reassuringly. The dog sensed anxiety and whined a bit, then followed them with head down and tail wagging nervously. More lights came on downstairs, and the door opened; Luther Finney came out, wrapped in a long bathrobe.
"Juney!" he cried. "And Eilir! Weren't expecting you back for another few days."
The old man's face carried a genuine smile; so did his wife Sarah's, where she stood behind him.
Jack Sprat, Juniper thought as she smiled back; Luther was tall and lean and wrinkled, Sarah short and round with a face like a raisin dumpling.
"Come on in," the farmer said.
He shook hands with Dennis, giving the ax over his shoulder no more than a glance; he'd met the manager of the Hopping Toad before, and even come in to hear Juniper sing a couple of times. Sarah hugged Juniper and her daughter, and shooed them forward through the hall and into the farmhouse kitchen.
Good thing we can leave the crossbows inconspicuously with the bikes, Juniper thought. They might overwhelm even Luther's politeness reflex.
They were ugly squared-off things like stubby rifles with short thick bows across the front, but light and easy to handle.
I don't think Dennie's not-really-a-friend bought his story about a camping trip, but he wasn't asking any questions when he saw the cash. In fact, he practically drooled.
That made her feel a bit better about the transaction; she was mournfully convinced that camping gear and high-energy trail rations and garden seeds were going to be worth a lot more than portraits of dead presidents by this time tomorrow, when more people had figured out what was happening.
Luther's eyebrows did go up when Juniper took off her down coat and the blades showed. She sighed at the warmth, and at the lingering cooking smells-those pastrami sandwiches seemed like a long time ago.
"There a reason for the cutlery, Juney?" he said. "You and Mr. Martin on your way to one of those pageant things you sing at?"