The moon was still high in the west as Ristiinnä and her faithful husky slipped out the Hobbit-sized side door of the Prancing Pony. She carried a small bag with a few items in it, and wore her harp, now sporting its new strap, which gleamed with colors under the moonlight, as she headed past the stables. The streets were quiet; even the horses in their stalls only snuffled occasionally as she and the dog passed, and in the distance, a flickering torch told the tale of a Watcher doing rounds. But she turned off the road past the stable and started up behind the farmhouses, and so, was not seen by the Watcher. There were a few farmhands in the northern, hilly part of town already out and about, milking cows, and she waved pleasantly to them.
The harp strap was the result of almost a month's work, and had been finished late the previous night, in the entirely empty pub of the Pony. Not a single patron had come in since suppertime. Not good news for selling suppers and making Butterbur happy. Worse news for Ris's finances; she was making no tips, so the small room she was renting for Beri's convalescence, and Beri's meals, were costing Ris her entire salary. And she'd spent a lot on food for the Juhannus feast, and on the treatment for Beri. Though at least a few people had kindly contributed to the cost of the feast. Still, the sooner she could be selling soaps again, or selling suppers so she might get that promotion, the better. She had put aside a lot of tips in the previous months, so she would be all right for a while, but her savings were running lower, and she was regretting spending so much on soap-making tools and her guild membership. At least the harp strap, though magnificent and rich, had not cost much, other than hundreds of hours of work; it was mostly made from beads she'd carved herself from bones the butchers and hunters had given her for free.
It had started with the question of how to keep the ring from Godwin's mother, her last and only memento of him. Wearing it seemed out of the question, but setting it in a box and forgetting it was worse. A new bead-work harp-strap had turned out to be a good answer to this and several other questions. It had a backdrop of elaborate, colorful beads, each as small as a grape-seed and brightly dyed, arranged in patterns that seemed geometric at first, but on closer inspection resolved into stylized depictions of faces and features of animals and spirits, in traditional forms of Lumi-väki bead-work. But this was easily overlooked, due to the adornments that stood out from the pattern, in the hues of the rainbow. At top, a cluster of bright red beads and bits of thread resembling a ripe raspberry, a token of Beri, hung off the strap as if one could pluck it. Then, Godwin's mother's ring with its orange gemstone had been slipped between the strands of the bead-work, woven into it. Below this, a flat depiction in sunny yellow beads of a kelkka, or sled, represented her mother, who had taught her how sleds were used for gathering and transporting provisions to keep the tribe fed and warm. Bright green beads in the shape of a keihäs, the spear of a Lumi-väki hunter, arched as if in flight, a reminder of her brother Juvven, who she worried about endlessly since he was away in the hunter's camp at Kuru-lieri. A scrap of blue fabric had been pierced at its center by the bead-strands so that its folds resembled the bloom of a flower; it had been cut off the end of Eira's scarf and given to Ris for this purpose. Below, the pattern of beads, having been growing darker and bluer, transitioned into a skyscape against which purple sky-ribbons danced, the aurora called Náinnas about which her father often told great stories and sung mighty songs. The rainbow thus was a set of reminders of the people she felt closest to, or that she missed the most, a lifelong tale of sadness in dyed bone.
As she passed through the farms and climbed up the winding path up Bree-hill, she touched each of these mementos with a finger and thought about the people they commemorated, and how much she missed each of them. Soon, she stood at the round ruins overlooking the town, where she had used to sleep so often, where she had once met Beri in a surprising form. Today, it would be the nearest thing she could find to a shrine, to a Vesi-paistâ. From her bag she drew forth a block of wood, crudely carved. Anyone who saw it would not even guess what it meant to represent. She had gathered it and carved it herself, but she had no skill or talent as a woodwright, and it looked only like some sort of oblong, elongated shape. She set it in the center of the ruin, trying not to frown over the inadequacy of everything she was doing. Alone, with a poor carving in the wrong material at a place that was in no way a shrine. In the Lumi-kieli, she began to speak, touching the ornaments on her harp strap as she named each person.
Spirits of wind and water, ice and... wood, I make this offering. I do not know if there even are spirits here in these lands. Surely not of ice! This is why I use wood for this instead of ice, for wood is plentiful here, and if anything has a spirit it must be wood, or boars. I have no skill at carving like Kimmo, and I am sorry for how poor is this offering. But I offer this on my own behalf, and in the name of the people of Bree, particularly those who are close to me. I offer this in the name of Marja, Hindberige, who is in need of the blessing of spirits for her healing. And one who bears many names, Eira most recently, who needs healing to turn her eyes to who she is, and can be, not who she was. And in the name of Godwin who died in tragic heroism, and who I hope walks with the spirits in the skies, within the shelter of Mánnu, who smiles upon us. Six hundred and six hundred leagues away I hope my family offers in their own name, under this same moon, and thinks fondly on me. Nôra, Raimo, and Juvven, I will find a way to send to you word that I yet live. I hope that you are well, and the season is fair, and the hillat are plump and sweet.
The season of summer begins, the season of plenty and of sweetness. I am no spirit-talker and do not know the words of wisdom. I do not know if my offering is even seen. Or if there are spirits here at all. I have no shrine, so I choose the places that seem most right. I have no ice. But I have tried to live as I should. Keep what is sacred secret. Behave as the ways would have me behave. Do good, and be fair, and kind, and offer help to those in need, and be not a burden to those around me. I feel like I have lost my way, or never found it, or never had one. Maybe I have always been lost. I certainly feel lost. Please, I am doing all I can.
She brushed tears from her eyes and then struck sparks until the carving began to burn. "Since wood will not melt as ice would, I offer fire as the closest thing I can think of, the parallel to the melting of ice. May summer be blessed and bountiful, and may the spirits be pleased by my intent, at least." While the smoke rose to the pre-dawn sky, she played on her harp a soft song in a low register, barely audible. When the carving was little more than embers and ashes and smoke on the wind, she spoke again: "If there are wood spirits, I do not know if this is a good place for them to be given an offering. Is there a Bree version of Vesi-paistä? Surely they would not want me to bring fire into the forest." And with that she turned to climb her way over rocks to the very peak of Bree-hill. Suojelija, her faithful sled dog, led the way, as they had climbed this hill many times before.
The dog looked reproachfully at her as they reached the very apex of Bree-hill, perhaps wondering why they were here when the first light of dawn was just showing in the west. "Well, this is the windiest place I know, though the winds are not strong today," she answered, and drew from the bag a pile of mixed feathers, black, white, blue, and yellow, large and small. She began again to speak in the Lumi-kieli, in what might have seemed like an intoned incantation, if she did not keep fumbling as she questioned herself and her words.
I give offering to the wind-spirits. These feathers are from many of your friends, the birds, all of whom still, today, are caught in your embrace. At Reodh Fuil my people do this today under the same moon. I hope the wind-spirits are glad for me to bring their blessing to this strange green land as well. If there are wind-spirits here.
There was not much breeze. When she felt her unruly curls tugged by one, she tossed the feathers high as she could, and watched as some of them fell, but some caught in the moving air, danced, and fluttered off towards the north. Tears forming in her eyes, she began to play a light and airy melody. When the song ended, she wiped her eyes clear and started back down the hill, asking Suojelija, "Do you even know what I am doing? Do the dogs make offerings to the spirits?" The dog made no reply.
Out the west gate, crossing the bridge at the Greenway Crossing, she thought about how much better this would be if she were not alone. There was one of her people here in town, though she did not know of what tribe, or indeed anything about him, as he had shared few words and no truths. Remembering this pained her every time she allowed her thoughts to drift to it. Juhannus would be the ideal time to not be alone in observing the sacrifices and the rites to the spirits, especially if Grimodor perhaps knew more than she did about them. But more, his unwelcome reminded her of why she would probably never go home again, never be amongst her family, for her own people could not bear her. This was not what she should be thinking as she moved to make the final offering; with some effort she pushed it aside as she came to the stone she had placed in the edge of the river the day before, half in water and half on land. She drew a large plump fish from her bag.
I do not know what is a good place for offerings to the water-spirits, but this small river is the only water I know that is the water of Bree, as near to being its Ice Bay as anything can be. And it even has its own karhu. I hope that the water-spirits will appreciate my intent. It is not very fatty, but it is the best of the fish I can get. It may have come from this very river. Water-spirits, I bring this offering. Please give the people of Bree plenty, and peace, and fair skies, and gentle rains. Please help me to endure the storms that come to my days, and give me that grace of soul I need to know the right choices, and to do good for the people around me. I hope that in time they come to think better of me, and care about me, but if they do not, it is still proper I should do good for them. Help me find my way.
With the fish settled upon the stone, she turned and watched the last bit of the moon disappear below the horizon, as the sunlight of dawn shone upon the gently rippling river. She took up her harp and played one more time, a song of arpeggios and slow trills, evoking the flow of a lazy, contented river. Then she turned to walk slowly back to town.
I have done what I know how to do. I am no artist, no spirit-talker, not wise, not strong, and I do not know how the spirits of Bree-mâ would have things, or even if there are spirits here. If you hear me, please forgive my failings and honor my attempts for their intent. At least for the sake of the Bree-väki.
When she returned to the town, a few people were going to market, but it was still the quiet of early morning. No one in Bree knew or cared that today was the first full moon of summer. It was not a day of celebration, nor ritual, nor any importance, to the people she passed. But at least a few smiled absently at her as she headed up the hill, brushing tears from her eyes.
