On this 8th Day, New Year's Eve, we get a post-canon look at another tradition, courtesy of
tehta!
The whole thing was stupid.
Lalli had never understood why the New Year fell on a random winter evening. Ending the old year on the night of the solstice, the moment when the days would start getting longer and safer, would at least have made some sense, but no, it had to end on this pointless day, a few days later. And why was the change in the number of the year, something that made no difference outside of stupid official documents, celebrated, anyway? Stupid.
And then – stupidest of all – why should this celebration include some dumb attempt to predict what the next year would bring? What was the point of thinking about the future so much? If the future turned out anything like the past, it was sure to bring something terrible, sooner or later.
Stupid past, stupid future. Right now, Lalli much preferred the present. The inn’s common room was warm and dry, and, tonight at least, empty of strangers: the staff were off celebrating with family, and even the other guests had gone away somewhere. So, the whole evening would be spent with people he didn’t hate. They would eat the non-disgusting food – and cake! – that some of the others were now fetching. And then everyone would act happy, which Lalli wouldn’t hate seeing, either.
Well, almost everyone would act happy: Onni would surely find everything even stupider than Lalli did. He might even cry. He was already facing away from the room, peering out of one of the frosted windows.
But there was nothing Lalli could do about that.
He had tried! He’d spent a whole dream trying to talk Emil out of his stupid idea. But while Emil had agreed with his first point – yes, life was full of bad surprises – he had followed this up by declaring that the badness of life was all the more reason to try to remain hopeful about the future. Which was clearly illogical nonsense, even by Emil’s weird standards. But then, it was entirely possible that Emil had not been thinking clearly, too excited about the idea of using fire to tell the future. Which was… fine, if it made him happy.
He certainly looked both happy and excited now, kneeling there in front of the fireplace, fiddling with his pots and candles. Lalli sighed.
Emil probably heard him; anyway, he looked up.
“Have you remembered anything more?” he asked. “About the shadow meanings? I still know only about five.”
Lalli shrugged.
“Oh, too ba– But wait!” Emil sat back on his heels. “Maybe you could ask Onni for help? He must know all about this wax-reading thing. Since he is a mage, and– I know you are one too, but…”
“It is not a magic thing,” Lalli told him. “It’s just a stupid game. For children.”
Predictably, this failed to deter Emil. “Onni!” he exclaimed, then, once Onni had turned – slowly – he indicated the messy items in front of him, and switched to Finnish. “You can help?”
Onni shrugged.
Still, Emil persisted. “You did this… game? When children?”
The warm air suddenly grew heavy. Onii must have felt it too: his shoulders tensed. “I did. I had to.” His voice was very quiet. “Tuuri liked it.”
There was a gasp, and a clang. Emil had dropped something.
In the silence that followed, Onni turned back towards the window.
***
“Okay, now dump it all onto the table! But gently, without breaking anything! No, not that table, the fancy one!”
While Reynir attempted to follow Sigrun’s orders – visibly struggling to identify which of the almost-identical common-room tables qualified as “the fancy one” – Mikkel set down his own bag by the door and walked towards Emil, who seemed to be beckoning at him frantically from one of the room’s dark corners.
Well, this should be amusing. Mikkel raised an anticipatory eyebrow before saying, “Don’t tell me you’ve burned yourself already?”
“What? No.” Nevertheless, Emil’s eyes shone with pained distress. “Mikkel, I have fu— I have seriously messed up. I just found out… Onni just told me, oh, why didn’t I realize, this whole wax melting tradition is reminding them of… of Tuuri. Because she enjoyed it. And–”
“Emil. Take a deep breath.” As Emil obeyed, Mikkel did likewise. He had been wrong. This was not amusing at all. “And think about this. We are in Finland. It’s the festive season. A time usually spent with family. Do you think your game is the only thing that reminds our Finnish friends of Tuuri?”
“No, but–”
“And what do you think they should do about this? Avoid anything that could trigger a memory?” Mikkel still remembered that first post-Kastrup Yule. The decorations, the lights, the bustle, all so familiar– but so different, changed by the absence of a familiar voice. “That is no way to live. It’s much better to carry on normally, and hope, in time, to find new things to remember.”
“So… you think I should go ahead?”
“Absolutely! I have high expectations for your fortune-telling activity. I am sure it will be most memorable.”
“What are you–” Emil’s eyes, narrowed in suspicion, suddenly widened. “No, Reynir, put that down! It’s hot, and– Mikkel, please, explain things to him. I tried, in Swedish AND Finnish, but I have clearly failed.”
This familiar request, for a simple translation, was a relief. “Careful, that’s hot wax,” Mikkel told Reynir in Icelandic, taking the pot away from him.
“I can see that, but why is Emil melting it? Is he trying to make your soup?”
“Emil could never hope to recreate my family recipe. No, the wax is needed for a local New Year’s tradition,” said Mikkel, half-regretting his own sincerity. Unfortunately, he still felt a bit too shaken to make up some entertaining lies. ”Emil found out about it while practicing his Finnish on everyone in sight, and is insisting that we participate. So, we’re going to take turns pouring the wax into cold water, then using the resulting mess to cast shadows on a wall using… right, that candle over there. The shapes of the shadows are supposed to tell us what the next year will bring.”
“Fortune-telling! What fun!” Reynir clasped his hands. “We do a lot of that in Iceland, you know, especially among us mages. Not that I– I mean, they did teach me a bit about predicting the weather, of course. And crop diseases. But this sounds so much better! Only, how does it work?” And then, before Mikkel could come up with a clever reply, he added, “Never mind, I will ask Onni. He looks like he needs cheering up!”
Onni did not look particularly cheered by Reynir’s sudden greeting, or his barrage of questions. Still, he looked well and truly distracted from his brooding, so Mikkel left the two of them to it, and joined Sigrun at the allegedly-fancy table.
“What do you think?” She was eyeing the spread critically, hands on her hips
Mikkel took in the collection of messy platters. “I am surprised, and impressed, by how many different types of sausage you managed to find.”
“Right? Those fat ones are from the kitchen here, totally boring, and that platter is a sample from the village shop – also boring, of course, but not totally so – but then there are the ones you bought from that boat, and the dry one I won from that knife-throwing guy, and I got the Finns to barter with some of the hunters… So, do we have some options, at least.” She sighed. “A shame we couldn't get hold of a roast, as well. Or at least a few meatballs. But look, I did make sure to grab some vegetables, just for you. Even if they are technically too depressing for a feast.”
A single plate of humble boiled potatoes stood out among the tangle of sausage.
“I am both touched and honoured,” Mikkel told her.
“Great!” She linked her arm with his. “Sadly, you can’t get proper mead here, but the local booze will do the job nicely. And there’s cake for later, too. So that’s not too bad, is it?”
“It’s an impressive amount. It might even be enough to sustain the six of us on a long walk to Saimaa.”
“And that’s exactly what we should do! If only…” Sigrun slumped a little against Mikkel’s shoulder. “If only we didn’t have to worry about the helpless babies. Not that I mind them so much, really, it’s just that I…”
“It’s just that you pine for the fjords?”
“I pine for the feasts! You know, this is the second New Year’s feast I won’t be home for. With the two Yules, and Midsummer, and all the assorted birthdays and things, that’s… a lot of missed feasts.”
“I see.” Mikkel considered this. “You know, I have missed plenty of celebrations myself, over the years. While away working somewhere. And I have rarely minded, because… Well, as we’ve both agreed, too much of the same thing gets boring fast. And those family gatherings are all alike, aren’t they?”
“Maybe on your cow farm! In Dalsnes. they’re all different. I told you about the Yuletide troll hunt, remember?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, the New Year’s hunt is quite different. Much smaller, because it’s not the main event.”
“So what’s the New Year’s event? Let me guess… Troll-throwing?”
“Nah, that’s more of a springtime thing. At New Year’s, we recite heroic tales of our exploits over the previous hunting season. It’s a contest, very competitive. The best retellings combine poetic skill, accuracy, and creativity.”
“Accuracy… and creativity?” That did sound like a fun challenge. “Maybe we could give it a go here, tonight.”
“I have thought about it. A lot. But…” Sigrun shook her head. “It would be a pretty pathetic contest, wouldn’t it? None of the mages can tell a story. It’s not even just a language thing: Lalli can kind of talk now, but when I asked him to describe their magical adventures all he said was ‘disgusting’.”
“Perhaps you could show them how it’s done?”
“That won’t work, either. I am a the most best storyteller, true, but even I need something to tell. Accuracy, remember? As it is, my song would have to be mostly boat-sitting, mage-sitting, and running away. And there wouldn’t even be a proper enemy!” Letting go of Mikkel’s elbow, Sigrun threw her hands up. “I had high hopes for both Surma and those bears, but, ugh, what a disappointment. I don’t even know what happened there, in the end.”
“Right, neither do I, really. I assume–”
“No, hang on a moment.” Sigrun’s voice had lost its gloom. “There is at least one story that might be worth telling. The time Emil blew up that metal tube troll, remember? And Emil can talk, he loves it! So all I need to do is help him with the composition, and– Emil!”
“Yes?” As she turned towards him, Emil leapt to his feet. “Should we start?”
Sigrun strode up to him. “Why not? No time like the pre– Oh.” Her eyes fell on the big pot by his feet. “You’re asking about starting your weird Finnish nonsense.”
Emil stared at her for a moment, gathering his courage to say, “It is not nonsense! It is an ancient Finnish tradition!”
“It is nonsense,” said Lalli behind him, quietly.
Sigrun folded her arms. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of nonsense,” she declared. “Especially at a feast. Go on, then.”
“Okay…” Emil looked around, ensuring he had everyone’s attention. “So, who should go first? You, Sigrun, I suppose?”
“Nah. It sounds complicated; I need to watch it first. See how it works.”
“Onni?”
Onni’s response was to mutter something in Finnish, and walk away, towards a window.
As Emil’s face fell, Mikkel nudged Reynir. “You’re excited about the fortune-telling, right? Well, why don’t you go first?”
“Oh, thank you!” Reynir beamed with enough excitement for at least three people; quite appropriate, really, given the attitude of his two fellow mages. He all but skipped towards the fireplace where, with Emil’s concerned, mute assistance, he was able to dump a glob of wax into the cold-water pot, and even retrieve it, without any major health hazards.
He shook a few remaining water drops off the glob before raising it in front of a candle.
“Look at that!” Mikkel announced. “It looks just like a sheep.”
Reynir sighed. “Oh, Mikkel, it does not.” It was true. No matter how he turned his piece of wax, its shadow was not round enough to be any sort of farmyard animal. “But I really can’t see–”
“Wait!” Emil exclaimed. “Hold it right there! It’s a flower!”
“Sure!” Sigrun was nodding. “A crap flower. Only four petals, and crooked ones at that. I’d never pick that. Five petals is the minimum for a usable flower.”
“Maybe so, but, the thing is,” continued Emil excitedly, “the thing is, I actually know what this means! A flower – well, a bouquet, but that’s almost the same, really – means true love!”
Mikkel hurried to translate. “Lucky you,” he told Reynir. “You’re fated to find true love this year!”
“Really?” Reynir seemed more confused than pleased. “I mean, that’s great, but, no, I don’t think so.”
“I am sorry, Emil,” Mikkel told him somberly, “Reynir doesn’t seem to appreciate his fortune.”
“But it’s such a good one!” Emil grimaced, then shrugged. “Oh well, I guess I will go next, then. Wish me luck!”
He went through the process with excited impatience – but the moment he lifted the wax from the water-pot, his face fell.
“It’s… a single line,” he said quietly. “I know this one too. It means misfortune.”
“Oi,” said Sigrun. “You’re cheating. You need to use the candle!”
Emil obeyed, but he had been right: his wax had formed a single long cylinder, a shape not known for its numerous shadow-casting possibilities.
“I guess it could be some sort of weapon.” Sigrun was squinting. “Like, a sharpened stick.”
“It’s a train!” said Reynir in unhelpful Icelandic. “Like the fast ones in Sweden.”
Well, that was hardly encouraging, given what Mikkel had heard about Emil’s last fast train journey. “I think it’s a tentpole,” he suggested. “It means there’s a lot more camping in your future.”
“Umbrella,” said Lalli. “Not open.”
Emil looked around at all his friends. “Thanks, everyone,” he said mournfully. “But don’t you see? All those things are still unlucky straight lines.”
From his gloomy perch by the window, Onni asked something. When Lalli replied, he rolled his eyes and spoke a few emphatic words, which, judging by their effect on Emil, seemed to have been magic, replacing his frown with a broad grin.
“It’s okay!” Emil announced. “Onni says straight lines are good luck. It's the wavy ones that are bad! So we’re still going strong, with good fortunes for all. Lalli, do you want to be next?”
Lalli shrugged, but reached for the pot of wax eagerly enough, going through the process quickly – until he produced his first shadow. Then, he froze in shock.
“You lucky son of a–” said Sigrun. “I mean, what a beautiful boat! It’s got a rudder and a mast and everything.”
She was not wrong. Lalli stared at the perfect sailboat, his face taking on a greenish tinge.
Emil grimaced. “Maybe it’s… an umbrella upside down?”
“Stupid,” was Lalli's only reply. He let the wax fall to the ground before joining his cousin at the window. When Emil rose, as if to follow, Mikkel stepped forward.
“Okay, my turn,” he said. “How does this work, again?”
As Emil talked him through the process, Mikkel tried to pour out a substantial amount of wax, hoping for an interesting result. And succeeded, in a way: every shadow cast by his huge lump was a mess.
“A forest?” suggested Sigrun. “No, a bunch of mushrooms? Or maybe just a giant? Although that seems like cheating. If you think about it, any shape could be a giant!”
“It’s birds,” said Reynir.
“Seagulls?” asked Emil, a bit worriedly.
“Nah,” replied Sigrun. “Look at their beaks. They’re at least half eagle.”
“So what, they’re half eagle, half seagull?” asked Emil. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”
Sigrun shrugged. “It might be a thing in some part of Finland we haven’t seen. The important question is, what does it mean?”
“Birds are good luck,” said Lalli. “All birds, I think.”
“Hear that, big guy?” Sigrun punched Mikkel’s shoulder playfully. “Now, move over, it’s my turn!”
With the wax almost out, her lump turned out much smaller than Mikkel’s – but equally mysterious.
“Well, it’s definitely not a boat,” she said with obvious disappointment, turning it this way and that.
“It could be… a house?” said Emil.
“A birdhouse?” suggested Mikkel.
Sigrun gave him a sideways look. “For half-eagles?”
“Wait!” Reynir reached over to tilt the shape slightly. “Look!”
“Huh,” said Sigrun. “It’s a chair. A… chair. Furniture. What does a chair mean, Lalli?”
Lalli shrugged. “Ask Onni?” he suggested.
“Don’t bother. What can a chair possibly mean but boredom?” Sigrun glared at the shape in her hand. “Well, I refuse to accept that. And, wait, if I just–” Her hands came together as she worked the lump, then lifted it into the air. “Behold, a war axe! I have always wanted one.”
There was no denying it. The shadow cast by her handiwork was undeniably an axe, a little crude, but deadly-looking.
“Sigrun…” Emil’s mouth turned down in a frown. “That’s cheating.”
Sigrun scoffed. “I don’t know how you do it in Sweden, but in Norway we believe in making our own fate.” She raised her new axe higher. “I can make yours, too. That stupid long stick of yours would make a great sword.”
“Yeah?” Slowly, Emil grinned. “Okay, then.”
Mikkel could think of nothing to add to Sigrun’s words as the new sword was forged, and then tested, when Sigrun and Emil staged a mock shadow-fight on the wall. A fight that ended in both their dramatic deaths.
“Now, Lalli,” announced Sigrun from the floor, once her death-pangs were over. “I’ve thought of something for your boat, too. How about a mountain, a tall one, like we have in Norway? You can scout it.”
“A mountain?” Lalli frowned. “Okay.”
Sigrun sat up, collecting Lalli’s discarded wax along the way. “Mikkel? You?”
“Sure, I’ll take a Norwegian mountain, if that’s on offer.”
“You can have a whole mountain range. You deserve it. Reynir?”
Reynir shook his head, his ‘crap flower’ clutched to his chest, before sidling away.
“Suit yourself,” said Sigrun as she bent over her new project.
***
Reynir gazed down at the shape in his hands.
Yes, it was definitely a palm tree, just like in that picture he’d seen! Of course, that did not mean he would see one any time soon – fortunetelling did not work that way – but he knew, with the absolute certainty his dreams sometimes brought him, that it meant something similar. Something new, and exciting, and exotic. He could not help smiling.
The others’ fortunes seemed to support this conclusion. Well, assuming they stayed together, but he was pretty sure they would, now. Mikkel’s birds, well, hadn’t there been birds just like them in the palm tree picture? He would be seeing new places, for sure. And then there had been Lalli’s boat, and Emil’s train, which spoke of far-off journeys. Sigrun’s throne… that was less clear in his mind, but the impression it had given him was one of… responsibility. Which made sense, for her. He felt the same impression even now, as he looked over at her, sitting on the floor and shaping all the others’ preferred futures.
Admittedly, he didn’t quite understand the weird triangular shapes she’d produced for Lalli and Mikkel, but they seemed to appreciate them, so that was great! And she hadn’t forgotten about Onni, either! Reynir had hated to see him left out, but no, she was making him something too, out of scraps.
He couldn’t quite see what, but he hoped – or maybe even felt? – that it was something that spoke of new beginnings.
*******
Author’s disclaimer: I am not Finnish, so my understanding of the Finnish tradition of
uudenvuodentina is gleaned from the internet, and far from perfect. For one, it is mostly done with metals (like the tin mentioned in the name, or lead), but I have decided that those would be harder to get post-apocalypse. But when I did something similar (with some Germans) we used wax, so I know this does work.
For the “meanings”, I relied in part on the unverified list at
https://absitomen.com/lexicon/Molybdomancy#Method. You can see what everyone’s signs supposedly mean there! Although I expect Reynir is more reliable, anyway.
Mod's comments: holy cats I laughed my head off at some of this, particularly the banter, and I've had the privilege of reading it twice already! And tehta's gift - just as quickly there was a stab of angst mixed in. Unbelieveable, thank you for this.
