Day 4 of the last week before winter, Center month
Pounding a heated bloom at the forge refining the metal continued. He had days work to convert over the bloom to workable iron. He started to think of what to make. To be the smith of the north he should be making for the villages near and far. Weapons came first to mind though is that really what is needed? Iron pots would bring life through the cooking. An iron shovel is far more efficient than a wooden one for those turning fields. The reindeer herders don’t make fields but they uses for digging too don’t they? Perhaps pits for waste. These could be good things to make for life. Axe heads and knives were tools as much as weapons.
The next day billets of iron were fused together. Heated and pounded to weld. One for the bottom and four around in a great circle. The shape turned around on the anvil horn to bend, then bend next to it and so on to make the bowl of the pot. He let it have four small nubs he stretched into short legs, better for balancing in coals. One part of the lip he bent like a triangle for pouring out liquids. He punched the top through in two pieces. To this a yarn of iron was turned out bent through and bent to hook creating a handle. A fine pot for homestead’s cooking fire.
Holding the work up Calle put out lingon berries as a gift to the spirits. The sacrifice of thanks done most days to show respect, with berries or leaves or other foods. Sharing the cycle of life.
Pushing through the knee deep snow back to the door he kept close to his regular path. It was a little more worn though the old footsteps iced in places. To the cooking pot he bought he bought long ago. It was a simpler design without the inspired trimmings.
Calle laughed, “The homested for you new pot is this one!”
He would take pride cooking with the fine iron pot he made himself. The original would go the trade goods. The next day a newly made iron headed shovel and small knife joins it. Being almost midwinter Calle looks to spend a few days visiting a local village.
In the morning the skis were finally put on. Using the lakes and rivers as easy paths he came to the nearest people, the homestead of “Maiden’s Stream”. Aune, a Kaumolais woman known to him, is the first person he speaks to in months.
“Who is it that comes from the woods,” she called.
“Calle,” he called back.
“I though it might be you,” she said, “but one is good to be sure. Come. You’ve missed the midwinter night and its dawn was this morning. We still have our decorations up.”
Calle’s head dipped and a frown on his face. Somewhere in his isolation he had misjudged the passing of days.
“You aren’t are only guest,” Aune said, “A wounded man. Come share the hearth.”
Sampsa came along from his chores guiding Calle in, “Glad to see you alive in the winter. Neither North Wind nor Swan Maiden has taken you to other realms.”
“The former I’d protest,” grinned Calle, “The latter not so much.”
They laughed together.
“To the kotta my friend,” Sampsa’s arm swayed, “Tornia is in there.”
Calle knocked the snow from his leg furs as they listened to Tornia. It had been another case of a bear attack. Few things would attack a man in the woods. Wolves or bear the most common. A pack of hungry wolves is not so often escaped. A bear though might have its own thoughts other than killing you. Scared, protecting young or avenging some wrong you or the people in general had done to the woods.
Tornia added, “It was north west from here.”
Calle and Sampsa turned to look at each other. That was the direction of Swan Cabin!
“A couple of miles,” Tornia said, “On heathland so I could have a frozen puddle to chip to water. I used spruce from the coniferous forest to its south to make the shelter.”
Sampsa said, “It is a bear you must contend with. Surely this falls to you.”
Calle stroked his cheek.
“Yes,” Calle said, “That is to decide it. I am not sure if it will be killed in battle, this bear. There are heavy traps at my cabin. They might decide it.”
Tornia stammered, “You’re not going to let it go? After it did this?”
Calle took in a breath, “Two years ago my heart would have insisted on battle. Now wisdom speaks many words. Why did it attack? Why did it leave? Is it right or wrong it should live. Who might die hunting it? Shall the spirits calm it or is it a sickness of their world we need to set right. I ask these things for wisdom says to ask. The answer will come after asking.”
Tornia scowled while Sampsa looked confused.
Tornia looked up, “My precious handaxe was given to me in my test of winter years ago. Do you know of this quest?”
“Yes,” Calle said, “I won mine. A proof before I came here.”
Calle stood up. Both the others turned to look at him.
“My journey today is about life,” Calle said, “With a pot, shovel and knife not with weapons. I will not hunt this bear. I will make offerings to the forest to calm it. Bears do not eat axes. It is then that when you are well you might… showing respect… return to your camp. Remember this. The axe is not the greatest thing your father gave you. It is the wisdom of the ways. Think on this and put it in your heart.”
Calle turned away. Tornia brows furled with tears forming in his eyes.
Sampsa whispered, “Calle isn’t the same. He has stayed in a cave of the old ones and met a green beard.”
Aune entered through the flap of the kotta, “Feeding time for the wounded.”
Calle stepped out. Sampsa followed holding up a winter bear fur, the extra thickness of fur making it abundantly fluffly.
“You mentioned goods,” Sampsa said.
They began to barter for the excellent fur. Whether Calle would craft with it or save it for trading to foreigners he wasn’t sure. He traded over the pot, shovel and small knife for most of the payment. Then stacks of smoked bear and dried berries he brought, which would be shared in the celebration. A leather rope and one of the fine broadhead arrows from his quiver.
They spent the rest of the day and night in the cabin telling stories. Tornia was led in to join them a while. The children were especially happy to munch on the dried berries. Even in the morning the time sharing together resumed.
Traveling northwest home Called avoid rapids by skiing into the woods. Near this crossing he saw a man tending his own skiis.
“Greetings,” Calle said.
The man leaned to reach a large axe near his skis.
Calle made a gesture of greeting while staying back in open view. Now the man returned the greeting putting the axe back.
“Are you of these lands?” the man asked.
“Indeed,” laughed Calle.
“Mine is Unto. I have been traveling some time and my skis were damaged on rocks.”
Calle pointed with his skipole, “South east is a homestead. They may be able to help you. Farther from that is a village. Take the river way along my tracks and turn east into the woods when they do.”
“Thank you!” Unto smiled, “They say it is good luck to meet one who knows the Old Ones. I heard such a man lives in these woods. Perhaps he is there now. What is your name?”
“Me,” grinned Calle, “I am called Calle and you may have good luck. There is a man there who needs help. If not in battle then to help him search when he can travel again.”
Unto tilted his head at the strange answer.
Calle pushed off on his skis. Soon back in Swan Cabin laying on his bed platform next to a warm fire in the oven place.
<CALLE 139 a journey of life>>>