Fargoer Read Free

sweaty from the work, the girls were happy nonetheless, as the smoke drove away the mosquitoes and the fire dispelled the feeling of uneasiness that came with the dark. They placed the fish on the tips of their spears and cooked them in the fire. The air was filled with anticipation as the late summer night fell upon them.
    “My fish is bigger than yours,” Vierra blurted from behind her campfire. She hadn’t forgotten the sting of defeat from the climb.
    “Pike tastes like mud compared to perch,” Aure replied. “Mother will take my present first.”
    “Surely she will not. You always burn your fish black. Nobody can eat them.”
    It was hard to say from where she arrived to the fire. Neither Aure nor Vierra saw her approach. Like the girls, she only wore a leather belt, and her sparse hair was tied back with a string. But that was the end of the resemblance. Her extreme old age was evident, as her parched skin was dark and filled with wrinkles. Countless infants had nursed her breasts flat and left them hanging down her skinny sides. As dark as her limbs were, her face was even darker and protruded with a crooked jaw that had only a few teeth left. Despite her wretched appearance, her gaze was sharp as a blade, and a sense of power and wisdom surrounded her. She smelled strongly of resin and the forest, just like the boat that had carried the girls to the island.
    At first she said nothing, and shoved her worn hands towards the girls. They looked at each other and then gave their cooked fish to the hag, watching silently as she ate them in the glow of the fire. She made no distinction between pike or perch, but ate the catch with tails, heads, and bones, swallowing them in big chunks. After this meal, she rubbed her hands together, obviously pleased, and spoke.
    “Aure, Vierra,” she started with a voice as deep as it was solemn. “As girls you came here, and as women you wish to leave. But first you must hear of the birth of your people, and then we will see your worth.” She started to sing, her worn voice filled with energy and raw power that belied her age and appearance.
    The song began calmly, telling of the birth of the world. The Mother sang a story of a seagull that looked for a nesting place on the shoreless sea, and finally found a rock that pushed through the surface. The song strengthened as it portrayed the rising rage of the sea and the wave that destroyed the seagull’s nest, throwing the eggs into the merciless ocean. It gained a sense of wonder as the seagull sang a crafting song, a song of great magic. From the pieces of the eggs, the wise bird made the world and the sky to cover it. The song gave birth to all plants, animals, and men. For every creature, the seagull made a mate, save for humankind, for they were seeds of sorrow and the source of all evil. Finally, the sea took up the task and created a woman for the man. But this woman, the First Woman, would not bow at the man’s feet, but became instead the ruler of the land, the guardian of her people.
    The girls listened to the song, mesmerized. They had heard it before, but the Mother’s voice was different and it carried them through these stormy events. It made the girls forget their excitement and fear for a moment, and they let the tale take them somewhere else, to another place and time in the distant past. Finally, the song died down, allowing the girls to wake up and return to reality.
    After singing, the old woman stood up from beside the fire and continued.
    “Remember this song and sing it to your children by fire, like your mothers have surely sung to you. Now we shall see what kind of women you really are.”
    She approached them, first Aure and then Vierra, and examined them roughly from head to toe, grunting occasionally with approval.
    “You will both make good mothers, but only one can be the chieftain. Aure, you are the chieftain’s daughter. Vierra is the chieftain’s niece, and not unworthy to the task. However,