SISTER MAYA
Sadness pervaded his soul, and he spoke to the evening gloom that stole in through the window and hovered about his pale face like a watcher.
"I too should have had a sister—sister Maya," he said dreamily.
"You had one—and the best that one could wish for," said the evening gloom.
"I don't remember—I was too young to know…. But mother always spoke so nicely of her … the time I was ill, for instance."
"So your mother spoke of that. Yes, yes, she would…."
"It was when I was a child. I was very ill—on the point of death, she said. And mother and all the others were crying, and comforting themselves with the thought that little Olof would be an angel soon, and wear a crown. And sister Maya said then I should sit by her bedside with wings outspread, warding off evil dreams."
"Well if it had been so," said the evening gloom.
"But the girl, my sister, burst into tears, and cried that I should not be an angel, but a big man, bigger than father—ever so big and strong. And she threw her arms round my neck and said no one should ever come and take away Olof—no!"
"Ay," nodded the gloom, "so it was—yes."
"And my sister tried her own way to make me well again—fondling me and blinking her eyes and stroking me under the chin. And I began laughing, for all that I was ill. And she was all overjoyed at that, and more certain than ever that I was to get well again and grow a big strong man. And I laughed again, and life began laughing too—and after that, I gradually got well."
"Ay, 'twas so. And your sister, she looked after you and nursed you all by herself—no one else was allowed to touch you; yes, that was your sister Maya!"
"Then Maya was taken ill herself. And weak as she was, she would have me near her all the time, and made me sit by her bedside. And I only laughed at it all—I did not understand that my only sister was at death's door. Ay, sometimes I pinched her thin cheek, or pulled her hair, or flicked her ear in play…."
"So you have done since with many other girls—ay, and laughed at them."
"And then the others came and wanted to take me away, out of her sight, because I was so cruel."
"Ay, just so. If only someone had done the same thing afterwards, with the rest…."
"But Maya held my hand and would not let them. And even when she was dying I had to stay there, and with her last words she hoped that Olof would grow up and be a fine strong fellow, and a good man."
He relapsed into thought.
"And now … here you are, a fine strong fellow, and…." The voice seemed urging him to go on.
"Why did my sister die? Oh, if only she were alive now!"
"Who can say—perhaps it is better for her as it is."
"If she were alive now, she would be in her best years. And she could live with me, we two together, and never caring about anyone else. Keep house together—and she should be my friend and sister—and all else! I know just what she would look like. Tall and slender, with fair hair, light as the flax at home, and all curling down over her shoulders. And she would carry her head high—not vain and proud, but noble and stately. And her eyes all fire and mischief. Deep eyes, with a reflection of strange worlds, and none could face them with so much as a thought of deceit. Like mother's eyes—only with all, all the fire of youth—almost like Kylli…."
"So ho!" laughed the gloom. "So that's what your sister's to be like…. Well, go on!"
"And her nature, too, would be strange. Independent, choosing her own way—such a nature as old folks say is no good thing for a lad, far less for a girl. But for her…. And in winter-time she would come racing home on ski—rushing into the place and making the doors shake. Then she would jump on my lap, put her cold hands on my shoulders, and look mischievously: 'Why, what's this, brother? As gloomy as a monk again, I declare!' And I should feel happier then, but still a little earnest, and say, 'Maya, Maya, what a child you are! As thoughtless as a boy. And such a noise you make about the place.' 'Oh, but you're always in the dumps—sitting here moping like a grey owl. You ought to go out and race through the snow, till it whirls up about your ears … that's the thing to freshen you up….' And then she presses cold hands against my cheek, till I shiver, and looks teasingly. And then all my dull humour's gone, and I can't help laughing at her, and calling her a little impudent thing…."
Olof stopped, and smiled—as if to fix the picture of this bright young creature indelibly in his mind.
The voice of the gloom spoke again: "So she is to live just for your pleasure—like all the others?"
The smile died from the young man's face.
"Go on—your sister is sitting on your lap, looking mischievously into your eyes…?"
"No, no—not like that—no. She looks earnestly, with eyes that no deceit can face, and says, 'Olof, what's this they are saying about you…?'
"'Saying—about me…?'
"And she looks at me still. 'Hard things they say, brother—that you play with women's hearts…. Is it true?'
"And I cannot meet her eyes, and bow my head.
"'Olof—remember that I too am a woman.'
"And that cuts me to the heart. 'Sister, sister, if you knew it all; if you knew how I have suffered myself. I never meant to play with them—only to be with them—as I am with you.'
"'As you are with me?' She looks at me; wonderingly. 'But you know—you must know—that you cannot be as a brother to them.'
"'Yes, I can—sometimes.'
"'But never quite. And still less can they be sisters to you. Surely you know enough to understand that.'
"'No!'
"'But you should know. Oh, think! With some men, perhaps, they might be as sister and brother—but not with you. You, with your dark eyes—I have always feared them. They beckon and call … to evil and disaster.'
"'Sister—what must you think of me!' And I hide my head in her lap, as I used to do in mother's.
"'I am only sorry—bitterly sorry for you. And I can't help being fond of you, for I know your heart is good and pure—but you are weak; very, very weak.' And she strokes my forehead, as mother used to do.
"'Yes, I am weak, I know it. But I promise you….'
"'Don't promise!' she says almost sternly, and lifts a finger warningly. 'How many times have you promised, with tears in your eyes, and done the same again? Don't promise—but try to be stronger.'
"'I will try, sister—dear, dear sister.' And I take her hands and kiss them gratefully again and again…."
"Ho! so that's the way you talk together, is it?" said the gloom. "Well, I'm not sure it might not be a good thing if your sister were alive. Then, perhaps, if she talked like that to you occasionally, you might be a different man altogether."
The young man sat for a while in thought.
"Then suddenly she jumps up and lights the lamp—it is getting dark. And she comes and puts her hands on my shoulders and says, 'Let me help you checking those accounts—you know I can.'
"And she sits down at the table, and I watch her little hand gliding over the paper. And I set to work at the books, and so we work for a long time.
"Then suddenly she looks up, and begins talking again. 'Why, what a great man you're getting, Olof—keeping the books in an office of your own—and with a secretary into the bargain. There's never a lumberman risen so far at your age, and never a foreman that looks so fine, with office and clerk and all'
"And I laugh at that. 'And never one with such a sister to help—that
I'm sure.'
"Then she turns serious again, and looks at me strangely. I can't make out what she means.
"'Tell me,' she says at last, 'how long are you going to go on with this wandering life? It's three years now.'
"'Is it so long as that?' I ask in surprise. 'Twill be longer yet, I doubt.'
"'If I were you, I would make an end of it at once. Let us both go home and take over the farm there—mother and father have worked so hard there all their lives—it's time they were allowed to rest.'
"I look at her without speaking, and she understands. 'Father? Never fear—he's forgotten his anger long ago. And mother and he are both waiting for you to come home—for brother Heikki is too young to take over the place….'
"'Do you really think so?'
"'Think? I know! And there's any amount of work all waiting for you. New ground to be sown, and a new barn to build, and we ought to have three times the stock we have now. And there's all Isosuo marsh—you've that to drain and cultivate. When are you going to begin?'
"'Drain the marsh? How could you think of that?'
"'Why shouldn't I? I'm your sister. It will be a big piece of work—father himself never ventured to try it—but you're a bigger man than your father—a big, strong man….'
"'Sister! Now I simply must give you a kiss. There's no one like you in all the world.
"And we go home the very next week. And all turns out just as you said—more live stock, new ground sown, clover where there was but marsh before, and Koskela is grown to a splendid place, known far and wide. And we are so happy—with you to keep house and me to work the land. And the years go by and we grow old, but our children….
"… Oh, misery! What am I dreaming of…?" "That was the best of your dreams so far," said the gloom, with a full glance of its coal-black eyes. "May it soon come true! But light your lamp now—it is dark as night in here now."