E-Book, Englisch, 416 Seiten
Turtschaninoff Tangled Roots
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80533-014-1
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 416 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80533-014-1
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Maria Turtschaninoff is known for crafting lyrical, historically inspired stories filled with magic and fantasy. She has won numerous prizes, including the Society of Swedish Literature Prize, the Swedish YLE Literature Prize and Finlandia Junior Prize, as well as being nominated for the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award. Her YA trilogy, The Red Abbey Chronicles, has sold in 31 territories around the world. Tangled Roots is Maria's first adult novel.
Weitere Infos & Material
One autumn, rumours spread of a robber hiding in the woods. Someone was breaking into storehouses in the villages along the riverbank and stealing from the barrels of saltfish and rye. One farm found that they were missing a shovel, and the farm wife of another lost all the round breads she had hung from the rafters to dry before the family set out on the long journey to church in Kokkola. A pair of sewn mittens and a small pail disappeared from Nevabacka farm, and Skogsperä croft lost an axe and some salt.
People had grown accustomed to enemy attacks in these parts, and to the King’s soldiers showing up and forcing young men into service, but it had been several generations since they had had a robber to deal with. Now they no longer dared let the women walk alone between the villages, and preferred to travel in groups to church and market in town. One Saturday, men from almost every farm in the parish set out with spears, clubs and crossbows to see if they could hunt down the villain. They found traces of someone having felled trees in the forest very close to the Vittermåsa marsh but they lost the trail, despite having a hound with them, and came home with nothing to show for their efforts.
Every day, Jon Henricsson Nevabacka’s wife Karin Hansdotter entreated her husband to put locks on all the sheds and buildings of their homestead. Jon doubted the situation was dangerous enough to warrant such action—no one had been hurt, after all. His wife narrowed her eyes and warned that he would change his tune when their cow and calf went missing from the barn.
Old mother Estrid, who was feeding porridge to the youngest member of the family, sat and listened in silence. She was used to keeping quiet in her eldest son’s house. There were fewer quarrels and disputes with her daughter-in-law that way. At the Skogsperä croft, her youngest son Elim Henricsson Skogsperä and his wife welcomed her warmly with open arms. The same could not be said for Nevabacka. She preferred not to intrude on them too often. Her middle son Abraham Henricsson, who had always been happiest out in the woods and fields, had been conscripted to the King’s army the year before. No one had heard from him since. In her mind, Estrid had accompanied him as he marched south towards great unknown wars. What was he eating and wearing? Who was he talking to? What did the trees look like where he was?
At home in the tiny grandmother cottage where she lived on her son’s land, Estrid liked to tell Jon and Karin’s children all about how their great-grandfather had once met a forest nymph out by Vittermåsa, and how she herself had met their grandfather there, one autumn day when the marsh was water-logged and dangerous. She could not tell these stories if her daughter-in-law was in earshot. Karin would not stand for it.
Something was weighing on Estrid, and as soon as everyone had finished eating, she left her son’s warm house and walked across the yard to her own little cottage. She stood outside for a while and looked up at the starry sky. It was almost Martinmas. Winter was at the door. She thought about the items that had gone missing nearby: gloves, food, utensils.
Necessities to survive the winter.
She opened the door to her cabin and laid more wood on the fireplace before rummaging through her few belongings in the glow of the growing fire. Finally satisfied, she sat down on the bench by the hearth. There she sat for a long time, gazing into the dancing yellow flames. The next morning, Estrid got up very early. Before the sun rose, she packed a small bundle and set off down the path that started behind the barn and led into the forest. Estrid found it easily, for the moon, though not quite full, shone a cold light upon the forest, and the trees cast long shadows on the snow.
She came to Vittermåsa just as the sun came up, colouring the moss golden and pink and causing every frosted grass blade to glisten and sparkle. Mist rose from the ground and Estrid crossed herself. It looked very much as though the forest folk were out dancing this morning. She must be careful. She did not suppose that she was invulnerable to the wiles of creatures of the wilderness just because she had married one of them.
She had brought with her the only silver coin she had and held it tightly in her hand. She blew on it and sang over it, ancient words she had learned and her own words as well, mothers’ words, to protect and shelter. Then she threw the coin far, far into the marsh, and heard it drop into a pool of water with a tinkling silvery sound.
The mist surged, like a curtsy or a bow. The old woman was filled with calm. She had done all she could.
She felt the steel in her apron pocket and made the sign of the cross again, just in case. Then she sat down to wait.
She was good at waiting. Something always happened sooner or later, if only she waited long enough.
The sun crept up into the pale blue sky of late autumn. The old woman was cold but did not move. She looked out over the marsh and thought about that day long ago when she had stumbled upon this place and chosen her future. She had thanked the marsh for the gift of her Henric. And their children. Many times. It was sinful to thank the land. So the church priest said. One must not say prayers or make sacrifices to the forest-dwellers. Everyone was supposed to pretend that they did not exist.
Yet they knew otherwise. They knew they were close by. Estrid had always made sure to stay on good terms with them. When she sheared the sheep, she always hung a tuft of wool on the fence for the forest folk to card, as thanks for keeping the sheep safe from wolves. When she baked bread, she always put a piece of bread out for the forest folk on the smooth flagstone at the edge of their land, as thanks for keeping the reindeer and moose out of the rye. When she churned butter and made cheese, she left some out for the forest folk, next to the stone step outside the barn, as thanks for keeping the cattle safe from bears and wolves when they grazed in the forest.
When her Jon had married and his wife Karin had come to learn Estrid’s ways, she was outraged and forbade her from making such offerings now that she, Karin, was the farm wife of Nevabacka.
Nevertheless, Estrid continued to do as she pleased. She stayed out of sight and performed her rites in secrecy.
Finally, Estrid saw what she had been waiting for. In the distance, a wisp of smoke curled skyward from the marsh. It was a sure sign that something was hiding there—something other than wild animals, wood nymphs or elves.
The old woman stood up and smoothed her skirt. Then she took a deep breath and called out, much like she used to call for her cows out in the woods, every year that they were in her care. The first had been Yellow Cheek, Red Goose, and now Sea Tern and her little calf. Estrid had her own special way of cooing, and her voice was still strong and carried far and wide. The cows were in the barn for the winter. It was not to them she called.
She began to walk around the marsh, trying to get as close to the smoke as possible while paying heed to the soggy, treacherous terrain. She saw cranberries lying scattered on the ground, a sure sign that a brown bear had been there. She was not afraid of the bear, which would be fat and sated after the summer and soon make its winter nest. She cooed once more. And there, across the marsh, a tall, thin figure emerged and came carefully walking towards her on two marsh skis.
She met him on a small stony mound. He was bearded, and his hair was long and tangled, but his eyes shone just like they used to when he was a little boy.
He was not in some far-flung place fighting in the great wars. He was here. Close. Home.
He had an axe slung over his shoulder, which he let down and leaned against a rock.
“Here thou art,” the old woman said, and the words came out much more harshly than intended. “Why has thine old mother never received a visit? And that belongs to thy brother.” She nodded at the axe. “He lost that and salt last summer.”
“Aye.” His reply came out as a growl, not unfriendly, but gruff. This man seemed unpractised in using his voice. As if it had been a very long time since he last spoke to another human. “He can spare it.” Abraham looked his mother in the eye. “Tell him it is payment for the knife of mine he broke when we were small.”
“If thou hast something to say to thy brethren, canst thou say so thyself. I think it is better if no one knows thou art here.”
“Aye, Mother.” He cleared his throat and scratched his beard. Glanced at the bundle she had placed by his feet. The old woman ignored it.
“Thou hast deserted the army.”
“War was not for me,” he replied. “Disease. Death. Here is better.” He gazed out across the sedge grass and mountain pines, where the sun was chasing away the last of the mist. But steam still rose from the mossy stones at the forest edge slowly becoming sun-warmed after the night’s frost.
“Hast thou been here long?”
“I came with the cuckoo,” he...
