In Eternal Love
For most of the year, a land usually alive with sound lay under a vast and solemn silence, stretching like a thick white blanket across the valleys, the mountains, and the fir branches running along the ridge. The unusually long autumn — rich in colours and winds — had been replaced so abruptly by winter that even old Perkola felt as though the cold had devised some cunning plan of its own, determined to sweep every last hue from the mountain crest. Though many years had passed since the shepherd had first been welcomed by the mountain, this winter descended upon them far more fiercely than any he had known before.
Perhaps it had come so early, with such biting winds, so that the people of the land might sleep longer, sink into a deeper slumber, and greet spring renewed — fresh, youthful, and brimming with life as the buds unfurled. Or perhaps winter merely wished to show its strength to the world, to prove that even its brief reign was worth as much as the gentler seasons that dominated the year.
The old man took no offense at this sudden arrival, nor at the need to pull his sheepskin cloak tighter around his shoulders. He knew well that within the cold lay the possibility of contemplation — those rare moments when, if one dares to descend into the deepest chambers of the self and enter into conversation there, one might find a friend waiting.
Yet in the foretaste of this harsh winter, the memory of a child still lingered — Tirmi, whose presence recalled the variety and colour of autumn, tinting the snow-covered landscape despite all its whiteness. This memory warmed Perkola’s solitude more than he expected as the long cold approached, though the urge to set out on the road had already begun dressing itself within him, pulling on its heavy coat.
Throughout the autumn, not a single day passed without something of significance — something that, beyond adventure and acquaintance, brought change into both the boy’s and the old shepherd’s life. As Perkola looked back on the days they had spent together — an entire full moon’s turning — he found in every moment the small seed of transformation, a seed that had since grown into a sapling within him. He would never have imagined such a thing.
He had believed that, after so many years, he had seen and experienced enough to understand life more or less. Yet he had not expected that an eager human child like Tirmi could stir any change at all in his weathered soul. The pride that hides in the shadow of wisdom had shown itself more than once during their time together, and this realization drove Perkola into deep reflection.
He had to admit that, despite proclaiming to Norden with such fervor that human relationships exist to teach one another — and that no conversation, touch, glance, or sound is without meaning for ourselves or others, each carrying something that allows the world to shine more fully — it is an entirely different thing to experience this truth as a flesh-and-blood human being. Especially when the revelation comes through a friendship with a child.
The days and nights spent with Tirmi drew Perkola’s attention to many new things. Old wounds he had believed healed tore open again, allowing long-buried or even fossilized grievances and unspoken feelings to surface once more. With clearer awareness and a stronger heart, they tried again to remind the old shepherd of life’s constant change, of growth, and — perhaps most of all — of the elemental force youth carries within itself. A force capable of shifting the world from its axis if it deems it right, doing so instinctively, with heart and soul, without the slightest hidden intention.
The sheep’s autumn rutting, Bikka’s newfound friendship, the steady attention required by another human being whose path toward adulthood had not yet clouded his understanding of life and the true purpose of creation — all this changed the old man profoundly, down to the roots.
Though he had sought his connection with God in the mountains, he was forced to realise that, in the solitude of recent years, he had been chasing only the relationship he imagined for himself. Tirmi reopened his eyes to the truth that life is far more than contemplation or our own ideas about the world — and that someone has already imagined it far better than we ever could.
This beautifully crafted world must be rediscovered again and again, for it is always changing. And if we do not change with it and through it, we become trapped in the memory of a world that long ago left the halls of creation.
Perkola also had to acknowledge what he learned through the boy’s constant questions: that our relationship with the Creator is ever-changing, ever-building, ever-growing. Our vision expands piece by piece as we allow ourselves to be guided by the possibilities laid before us.
If we cling to an idea that refuses change — rejecting new forces, freshness, renewal — and that idea hardens into an unshakable belief, it becomes terribly difficult to break free. It becomes like stagnant blood in the veins, unable to keep pace with the world, easily making us ill.
Adaptation to constant change, the joy of movement — these are what carry us closer to ourselves, and through that, closer to the Creator.
Though the arrival of the cold did not lessen Perkola’s work, he still felt that this winter held something new in store. A subtle stirring moved through his whole body. It was as if his blood flowed faster in his veins, filled with vigor and quiet eagerness. He only realised this much later, when he felt the urge to gather his things and set out once more.
As autumn withdrew and the first signs of frost appeared, Perkola drove the sheep to a far gentler, more distant slope of the mountain, where patches of grassland still remained and where a great barn stood ready to shelter them through winter nights and rainy days. Not to mention the hay and straw harvested during autumn — excellent supplements to the sparse grass for the flock. Several herders wintered in this region, often living side by side, yet even so, the solitude-hungry shepherd always had the chance for quiet contemplation, for these people treated each other’s need for solitude as an unwritten law.
This strong need for solitude had not become apparent to Perkola until recently — only when Tirmi came to visit. And even then, only because during those days he had little opportunity to be alone with his thoughts and feelings. Before the boy arrived, it had never occurred to him how essential solitude was to him, and how rarely it turned into loneliness. That happened only when his mind began painting false images of who he was, pulling him out of the peace he had forged with his own being. At such times he often felt he needed someone to tell him who he truly was.
Loneliness can be deceptive. A sly creature, proving its existence through its own non-existence, while being unreal itself. Merely the trap of a soul estranged from itself and from the Creator, as though holding the lost spirit in a dimness of the senses.
Fortunately, such moments were rare for the old man. Even in his darkest thoughts he seldom felt truly alone, though there were times when loneliness attached itself to him uninvited. He spoke with few people and spent little time in the company of others, so he had ample opportunity to explore the far-branching depths of the soul. All this changed when he met Jupo, his old companion. Their conversations and Jupo’s attentive presence helped him climb out of the rut he had felt incapable of escaping on his own.
Since then, much water had rushed down from the mountains, many winters had chased away autumn and yielded to the first rays of spring, yet one thing had not changed: solitude. Through it, the questions he carried about life and his own nature slowly shed their accusatory tones, their habit of blaming others, and rested solely on the desire to understand.
His mouth rarely opened to speak, and when it would have, the heavens always arranged for someone to wander by — someone with whom he could share his thoughts, and who in turn could share experiences from a part of the world the old shepherd had long left behind. And if no one appeared, that was no trouble either; he spoke to the sheep, or to Bikka, or simply held silent conversations with other worlds through the flickering light of the fire.
The most beautiful moments were those when he could speak without words, through his heart. Then a deep stillness settled over the land, though the silence was truly within him, and only a single sound vibrated through his being — a strange trembling that moved through his chest and into his whole body. His mouth stretched into a wide smile, his eyes began to shine, and he felt himself resonating with the entire world. He saw himself within creation. He believed that in such moments he was speaking with God through gratitude, while sensing as if someone embraced him from behind, a warmth spreading through his whole being.
Now too, as he watched the sheep searching for fresh blades of grass, that broad smile settled on his face, and he felt the whole world belonged to him, and he belonged wholly to the world.
The sky had turned colourless, everything shifting into shades of grey, yet something in the air made him feel the vastness of existence without the slightest trace of judgment. He observed, he delighted, like a newborn.
In recent weeks he had often relived the time spent with Tirmi, followed by the returning silence that served as balm to his soul. Not that he had not enjoyed the boy’s company — he had — but he missed solitude. More precisely, he missed being able to attend to the landscape in the way he could only when alone. Beside the boy he realised he was not yet able to do this, for he struggled to divide his attention. Especially when that someone was a child whose hunger for knowledge was so great that he saw an entire army of questions in everything, and expected Perkola to answer them.
In many ways, Tirmi reminded him of Jupo. Though his old friend had calmed somewhat compared to his younger self, the eternal child still lived in him — one before whom nothing should be hidden, for he longed to know all the secrets of the universe. Perhaps that was why he became a wanderer of the world. He had seen much, experienced much, and because of these experiences he wanted to know even more. As if, over the years, his hunger had only grown, appearing at times insatiable to the untrained eye.
It was Jupo who had once told him of a distant place where temples were built without walls. Only a roof resting upon columns stood there, a place to which people withdrew in order to delve into themselves. Those who entered spoke no word to one another, for they knew well that one goes to a temple to converse with the Creator. If one longed for company, that could be found in the village; but if one had quarrel with the world — with oneself, or even with God for some reason — then one set out, fought one’s way up the mountain, and at the end of the struggle such a wondrous sight opened before one’s eyes that gratitude rose unbidden. And with that, one already felt closer to the heavenly force, while anger and fear slipped away in the wind that whispered between the columns, leaving no trace of the darker feelings behind.
Whatever burden one carried up the mountain in a storm of frustration, nothing remained to be done but to marvel at the landscape stretching into the infinite, striving only not to miss a single moment of creation’s splendour for the sake of blinking. In this way many troubles resolved themselves, and the heart had room for nothing but boundless gratitude.
Jupo spoke often of this place, for he believed that this was the kind of relationship between Creator and human that lay closest to what he himself felt deep within. For him, however, the road was his temple. He knew it could be otherwise, yet his restless soul found no peace in being bound to one patch of earth, and though he tried to change this, for some reason he had never succeeded.
The thoughts and voices resounding within Perkola slowly began to clear, to quieten, when in the greying afternoon Bikka’s black muzzle appeared. It seemed the dog had finished his patrol. He came to report to his master, and as soon as he reached Perkola, he circled the old man, sat beside him, fixed his gaze on the flock, and drew himself up with pride. The shepherd understood the dog’s thought and, in answer, scratched the base of his loyal companion’s ear.
‘All right, my friend,’ he said at last in his gravelly voice, ‘I see you’ve done your work well today.’ He reached into his pocket, took out an apple, split it in two, gave one half to Bikka, and bit heartily into the other.
On the blurred edge of the horizon more sheep appeared, followed by loud barking, but no matter how Perkola narrowed his eyes to study the unfamiliar flock, they kept their distance and did not come closer. Bikka watched intently as well, ears pricked, body taut, yet he knew there was no cause for alarm, for the other dog clearly understood his task and ensured that the two flocks would not mingle by accident.
There were quite a few shepherds in the region, for many brought their flocks here to hand over the animals that had spent the year outdoors and settle accounts with their owners. They counted the sheep, noted which illnesses had taken their toll, how many the wolves had carried off, and how many lambs had been born during the year. At such times it also became clear what had come of the autumn rut — how many ewes were pregnant, and from their udders one could even tell how far along they were.
Among the saplings growing in Perkola’s soul that autumn, one in particular had taken strong root under Tirmi’s influence. The boy had asked so many questions about the past, about Jupo, and about Floriana, his grandmother whom he had never known, that the old shepherd’s thoughts kept returning to those times and would not easily release his mind. Memories came and went, but Galiana’s image demanded a place in each of them. And though Galiana was the one he had spoken of to almost no one, he had told the boy the brief outline of their shared life, and since then the memory had not let him go, signalling ever more vividly that it did not wish to sink into oblivion.
Bikka sensed well that something unsettling stirred within his master, something that would soon affect their shared life. From time to time the dog pressed himself against the old man, as if to comfort him.
‘Ah, lad,’ he muttered to the dog, as Bikka once again pushed his nose into the side of his sheepskin coat. ‘What is it you’re feeling now?’ He scratched the dog’s ear with his calloused hand, and Bikka, taking this as permission, climbed into the shepherd’s lap with his front paws and let out a long sigh.
‘You feel it too, don’t you?’ Perkola looked at him. ‘I know you do, and I know you sense that our paths may part for a while. I know it well, but don’t forget — our friendship will remain for ever,’ he murmured. ‘There is something that calls me to the road. A promise made long ago that will not let me rest.’
’You know,’ he continued, while the dog lay completely relaxed in his lap, silently watching the land with him, ‘you would have liked Galiana very much. Despite her fragile body, which battled so many ailments in her short life, her heart was pure and her faith unshakable. She had great courage to come among us humans, to guide us, to lead us — but I was not strong enough to keep her here. I could not protect her, though I tried, God is my witness, I truly tried. In a way she was a little like you,’ he said, glancing at the dog. Bikka licked the old man’s nose, then turned his gaze back to the distant sounds.
’She felt everything and everyone. She sensed people’s pain, their joy, their depths and their heights, and all of it worked within her just the same. Perhaps that is why her body was so frail, because she could not distance herself from these feelings, which often knocked her off her feet. And yet she lived only half in this world, and half somewhere else. She belonged to two worlds at once, and I know both needed her greatly, but she was not prepared for ours. She had the courage, yes, but her ethereal nature often became entangled in matter, which then easily swallowed her, and she struggled to free herself from it. I suppose I never truly understood why she came here among us humans, but my heart felt she needed help, and all I could offer was my protection and my heart.’
Bikka whimpered softly, as if summing up Perkola’s sorrow and sharing in it completely.
‘Well, yes,’ the old man continued. ‘Human speech came hard to her too, and in her own way she tried to express everything she felt and everything she knew of the worlds. She often said she could find no words to convey what was truly happening in the different chambers of creation, nor why it was so necessary for us to pay attention to one another.’
Perkola let out a deep sigh as his gaze searched the distant mountainside. Perhaps he was looking for someone. Perhaps he hoped that the one whose memory had stepped from the past into the present would find him.
‘She once told me something I shall never forget. And though memories are never precise — for we store them through feelings, which then reshape the truth of events — this one I remember with perfect clarity, because even now it feels as though I am listening to her in this very moment. I recall my heart being wide open, as if capable of receiving all of creation without judgement, exactly as it was — perhaps that is why it remained so clear. She spoke of a being from another world, one who served humanity, yet because it always took on a different form, people did not recognise it. Those to whom it appeared grew afraid, for it never spoke, only breathed heavily, and looked deep into a person’s eyes — almost into their very kidneys. It inspired fear simply by being what it was, and so those who encountered it fled. Only a few dared face the creature, and even they rarely got further than the thought of struggle — few had the courage for the fight itself. The being, called Valur, did nothing even then; it merely breathed in silence, its gaze continuing to pierce the human before it.’
‘And what became of the struggles?’ a voice asked from behind. Bikka lifted his head, slipped from the warmth of the sheepskin, and stood alert, studying the newcomer.
Perkola turned to see a young lad approaching, trying to appear nimble despite the heavy coat he wore. At the old man’s gesture he quickly settled beside him on a stone, brushing the snow from it with care, while allowing the dog to sniff him thoroughly.
‘Truth be told, that part is no longer the story,’ Perkola replied once the boy had settled.
‘Isn’t that the point of it?’
‘Not in this tale.’
‘Then what is, if I may ask?’
‘The connection between the creature and the human.’
‘Why would a man want to connect with such a thing?’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Perkola asked in return, then looked into the distance and continued. ‘Besides, the connection already existed, whether he wished it or not. What else could a man do? He looks to see what the other wants.’
‘But it’s sly as a cat.’
‘Why would it be?’
‘It just stares with those great, daft eyes, snorts like a beast, and half the time you can’t even see it, yet it’s always lurking about. What’s that if not slyness?’
Perkola turned back to the lad, measuring him with a sharp gaze before asking:
‘And where did they send you from?’
‘You know well where I came from, but why’s that important now?’
‘It isn’t, you’re right,’ Perkola said, slapping his knee. ‘With work you’ll have to adapt not only your coat but what’s under your cap as well. Here you’ll truly have the chance to connect with all manner of beings — sly or not, whether you wish it or not. In the end you may meet this creature yourself. Just wait and see.’
’I’ll wait it out, I’m not afraid of anything.’
‘Of nothing you would have reason to be afraid — but you’ll see that once you get there. Until then it’s only bravado speaking.’
The lad stretched out his hand towards Bikka, who, though he could not see it, sensed the movement. He sniffed the young fingers reaching for him, then stepped closer, and the boy immediately began scratching the dog’s back, which the animal seemed to enjoy immensely.
‘At least Bikka doesn’t shy away from you — that’s a good start. Best if the two of you become friends quickly, because I’ll be leaving soon.’
The dog lifted his head at once, as if he understood his master’s words, and cast a searching look at the lad.
‘We’ll get along just fine, won’t we, old boy?’ he said, raising his head towards Bikka. The dog barked once in reply. ‘And where is it you’re going, sir?’
‘I must seek out my family, for I made someone a promise, and it is time to keep it. But before that, I’ll visit a place I haven’t seen in a very long time.’
‘I didn’t even know you had a family. You’ve never spoken of them.’
‘Oh, I have. The Creator entrusted them to me — through Him they became my family, and now I feel I’m needed down below. You two will manage well enough up here, I’m certain of it,’ Perkola said, feeling a heavy pressure in his chest that only strengthened his resolve to set out again and leave the mountain’s shelter behind.
‘You still have much to learn, but then, who doesn’t.’
‘That won’t be a problem. Never has been. Trust me, sir, you’re leaving things in good hands.’
‘I don’t doubt it. I’ve seen what you can do, what you’re capable of, so I have no worries. Bikka knows his work too — he might even manage without you.’
‘Don’t say that!’ the lad burst out. ‘You’ll have me feeling useless! Or should I just hand the coat to the dog, press the staff between his paws, and bid the mountains farewell? If you keep saying such things, I’ll head off to where they actually need me.’
‘You’re right, don’t take it to heart! I meant to praise my old companion, not belittle you. I’m no master of words, and clearly, if I don’t speak plainly, you can’t know what intention hides behind them. That’s one of the great difficulties of human relations.’
‘It’s no difficulty — you just have to handle words well, pay attention, as if speaking to yourself.’
‘Or the listener must understand that in a loving environment one shouldn’t assume the speaker means harm. If we paid attention to where words come from, perhaps such misunderstandings could be avoided.’
The lad listened and nodded gently, and meanwhile felt a pang of regret that the old man was leaving. He enjoyed talking with him — more than with anyone else in the world. In Perkola he had found a kind of understanding he had never experienced in his city life. Only his mother, perhaps, whose compassion had always washed through his soul no matter what sorrow he carried, and who never judged him for anything.
When he decided to withdraw from the world for a time, it was precisely the one-sidedness of human relationships that had driven him away. No matter how he sought understanding or connection in his companions, he had come to realise that such things had vanished even from his closest friends. It was as if every meeting split into two paths — running side by side, yet never touching. For a while he believed that distance might help, for his heart urged him to hope so, but time only strengthened the thought that those two paths either met in infinity or were nothing but an illusion to the eye.
Thus he felt increasingly lonely in these encounters, until he decided there was no point sharing anything of himself, for there was no one who truly understood, or who would pay attention long enough to set aside their own world for his. His relationships had become one-sided: he listened and understood others’ lives and feelings, while his own remained unshared.
Then one thought followed another, and before he knew it, he found himself in the mountains with Perkola. He did not understand how it had happened — while his mind was occupied with its swirling thoughts, his heart had taken back control of his body and carried him from the city to the countryside, where he no longer had to fear empty human connections. His mind cleared only after his lungs filled with the unusually fresh air, and his body tingled with life.
He grew fond of mountain life. He could immerse himself in the bond between earth and human, discovering insights that had never reached even the outer edges of his imagination before.
Fate brought him together with Perkola while he was tracking animal prints on the neighbouring mountainside. Each day he invented some task for himself beyond his work, so he might better know the land and understand its silence, which crept ever more deeply into his mind. In the nearby village he worked as an apprentice to a baker, sometimes carrying sacks, sometimes feeding the sourdough. The baker also gave him lodging for the duration of his stay. Since they began work well before sunrise each day, he still had plenty of daylight left once his tasks were done, and he never hesitated to take to the mountain paths.
He had just found a new track — one he could not quite match to any creature he knew — when a swelling symphony of bleating reached his ears. Moments later the flock appeared, watched over by a diligent black dog who ran tirelessly around them. From the very first moment the whole sight captivated him: the way the sheep moved together, obeying the ever-restless mudi, and how clearly it showed that they were not driven by fear, not fleeing the dog, but rather feeling safe in its presence.
The seemingly countless sheep so enthralled him that he forgot entirely about the track awaiting identification. Instead, he stepped over it and began moving towards the flock.
He had taken only a few steps when, at the edge of his vision, the shepherd appeared. Even with his cap pulled low, it was clear from afar that he was well past the midpoint of his life. The sheepskin coat made it impossible to tell whether he was thin or broad, but his gait spoke of strength. The lad felt the meeting to be fated. For some reason he felt an urgency to meet the man in person, so he abandoned following the flock’s movement and walked towards the shepherd.
Their first exchange was awkward, but he had not expected the old man’s tongue to loosen quickly — he was a stranger in these parts, after all. Even Bikka watched him suspiciously at first, but soon ventured closer, sniffed him thoroughly, and once he had determined that the newcomer posed no threat to either master or flock, he licked the boy’s hand. That was the moment something shifted in Perkola as well — as though a gate within him creaked open, reluctantly but unmistakably, to let the new in.
After that first meeting, their conversations became frequent. Day by day he spent all his free time with the old shepherd, who did not mind his company in the least. Beyond the matters of the world, he soon learned the basic elements of shepherding, the most important of which was the relationship with the dog — a bond built on mutual trust. With Bikka this was not difficult to establish, for the dog had accepted his presence from the beginning, and their connection quickly grew into friendship. Its cornerstones would take years to become unshakeable, but the foundations were laid swiftly, and Perkola clearly encouraged this.
Though the lad did not yet suspect that the old man already had intentions in mind, he found it curious — and deeply heart-warming — that Perkola increasingly handed him the staff, letting him guide the flock, strengthening his bond with the dog. The rest, he knew, would be forged by the hardships they would face together.
Since learning of Perkola’s plans, he had already given notice at the bakery and relinquished his lodging, so he could set out with his mentor as soon as possible. What he had felt at their very first meeting had remained strongly in his heart ever since. And though they would be apart for a time, Perkola’s presence would remain with him through Bikka and the mountain.
The old man had filled a space in his soul that he had only gradually recognised after their meeting. The lad had never known his grandparents, and so had no memories of conversations with elders — of that worldview the younger generation barely knew anymore. Yet the wisdom and moral clarity held within it could have helped human relationships immensely, relationships his peers still struggled with, even if they were unaware of it.
‘Thank you for taking me in and teaching me,’ the boy said, turning to Perkola with such gratitude in his eyes that the old man immediately looked away, lest the tiny tear gathering in the hollow of his wrinkles be noticed. He did not feel shame — rather, he was surprised that the lad could move him so deeply. The youth reminded him of Norden, who was already man enough to start a family, yet still child enough to seek answers from him and look to him for refuge when the world felt unsupportive.
‘By dawn tomorrow you’ll be on your own, but I see you’ll manage well enough.’
Bikka let out a long sigh. The old man knew his loyal companion would struggle with his absence, but he did not intend to leave him with the lad for an age — only for a short detour, though an important one.
‘Winter may bring surprises up here, but you’ll manage.’
‘Winter is winter everywhere,’ the lad remarked, then immediately corrected himself, sensing from Perkola’s movement that the old man had something in mind that would never occur to him. ‘Of course, it must be different here than back home.’
‘We shall see,’ the old man said, and with his silence made it clear the subject was closed.
He set out at dawn, long before the animals awoke. Farewells were not in his nature, and he did not intend his journey to be overly long — though the thought of a greater road lingered in his mind, it was not that which moved his feet to depart.
He moved slowly, as though the weight of his sheepskin coat and the deep snow in places were conspiring to keep him on the mountain. Yet even they could not withstand Perkola’s resolve. It had been a long time since he had felt a calling within him, and this one proved extraordinarily strong. His heart thudded with great force, his chest trembling with each beat, and his whole body echoed the rhythm, as if it wished to set the pace for the road ahead — a road that felt more urgent than anything else.
The old shepherd himself did not understand what forces were guiding him. In recent years he had grown unaccustomed to anything disturbing the inner harmony of calm and silence. The tingling excitement in his gut sent his thoughts leaping from one place to another — a new and unfamiliar state, one he had not felt so intensely since before he had moved to the mountain. His body had long ceased to be ready for such a quickened rhythm, yet he felt so vividly alive that he could almost sense the coursing blood rushing through his veins, reaching every corner of the vessel he had long considered old.
Galiana’s face appeared more and more often before his mind’s eye, filling his heart not only with joy but prompting him, now and then, to speak aloud to the vision as he walked. Yet the ever-smiling face was now mostly shadowed by worry, and this concern soon seeped into Perkola as well. He had barely left the snowy landscape behind, and already all the peace he had cherished for years had vanished.
So little is needed to shake a person from a state that perhaps was not sustained by the soul at all, but merely by the spirit of a place. Now he felt misled, though there was no one he could blame. With every step he grew more certain that much of the tranquillity he had believed he possessed in the mountains had been self-deception. And whenever Norden had visited, he had played the same role for him as well. But how could he have known? In the quiet trickle of mountain life, there was little that could disturb the peace he thought he had created within himself, and that part of the world had few tools with which to hold a true mirror to the shepherd.
He had to leave many miles behind before he could begin to understand himself and the swirling thoughts and feelings within him — feelings that often contradicted one another entirely, as though each sought to convince the other of its own truth. This inner battle exhausted him more than the forced march his legs demanded.
As he approached more inhabited lands, increasingly agitated thoughts and emotions took hold of him. From this he could draw only one conclusion: every place has its own spirit and energy, capable of overpowering a person even when one tries to resist. He began to understand why Norden had loved visiting him — to tame the inner storms he could not control at home, storms that wore him down not only in spirit but in body as well.
Of course, every landscape had its own nature. At times the old shepherd felt lighter, and at others he felt great weights pressing on his shoulders — weights so heavy they affected even his posture, burdened as he was by emotional and mental loads, despite meeting hardly a soul. His own company proved difficult enough, especially since it had never occurred to him that he might experience such things.
At the same time, memories of past failures surfaced more and more strongly, gaining far greater weight now than they ever had before. With each step it became harder to face the things that might be waiting for him — shadows of the past ready to spring upon the unwary traveller. For one cannot simply exist in the past. The past presses upon the unprepared with weight and force, capable of rendering the present invisible or wiping it away entirely, while exerting immense influence on the future.
When he felt he could no longer bear the past pressing down on him, he stopped to rest in the villages along the way, taking food and water, which he consumed beneath a tree, beside a spring, or simply by the roadside. These brief pauses helped him restore order within and focus on his purpose amid the swirling thoughts. And when night fell, he always found a sheltered nook or hollow tree where, worn out, he could easily drift into sleep.
As he moved towards his destination, the weather changed as well. The farther he travelled from the mountains, the more he felt autumn’s presence in the land. There was no sign of snow or frost.
He had been on the road for quite some time when he finally reached familiar ground — places whose dust stirred warmth in his chest. Galiana came to mind more and more often, her memory present in nearly every corner of the landscape. Not only because they had spent so much time together here, but because the energy of the land itself lived within her. Even then he had never been able to distinguish clearly between the feelings the woman and the land stirred in him. It was as though his beloved had been in true communion with the local forces of nature — forces that could gently yet firmly captivate any visitor, though few knew this part of the world. Perhaps that was why the place’s resonance felt so strikingly pure.
Perkola had never before considered how human emotions might affect the natural world. Yet on this journey he had encountered so many feelings — most of them foreign to him — that when he saw the landscape of the past rise before him, he could not help but conclude that human emotions hold immense power. The realisation startled him so much that he had to stop for a moment, for he stumbled and needed to find something steady to hold on to, lest he collapse in the middle of the road.
He closed his eyes and drew deep breaths of the familiar air, holding it for a moment before letting it out slowly. His chest sank, and before taking in another breath he allowed his body to yearn for the fresh air. Among his thoughts, the instinct for life pushed itself forward, shifting at once the balance between mind and heart. Yet even beyond that, he held himself in the body’s longing a little longer, and then — careful not to gulp the air too greedily and break the spell of the moment — he let it in slowly. He had to work against the vacuum forming within his chest, but the effect he sought arrived. His mind felt empty once more, the riotous thoughts vanished, and his heart seemed almost to sing as it pumped fresh blood to the farthest reaches of his body. Ready for action again, he set off towards his now not-so-distant destination.
The footpath soon brought him to his first stop — a place that served as the final resting ground for many, a sea of mounds, stones and carved posts rising in uneven clusters. Yet to Perkola it was full of life.
Galiana’s grave stood at the foot of an old walnut tree, marked only by a single stone carved with a feather and the inscription: ‘In Eternal Love’.
Over the years the tree had grown vast, its branches stretching wide over the graves, beneath which tufts of grass still clung on — worn, yet stubbornly green even at the end of autumn, for at this altitude there was no sign of the winter already raging in the mountains. This part of the cemetery was sparsely inhabited; only the weathered crosses and faded inscriptions bore witness to the ancestors buried here, perhaps founders of the nearby village. Galiana had asked to be laid to rest among them, out of respect for the elders, so that after her passing she might remain connected to the memories that belonged to them. She had always held the old ones in great reverence — those who passed down the story of the place by word of mouth, preserving the spirit with which the land was blessed.
Perkola too had felt, when he first wandered into the region, that unusual forces were at work here. Though he himself came from far away, he had been filled at once with the feeling of coming home — a feeling only strengthened when he met Galiana. Somehow the two together bound his heart to this place forever, even if he had spent his later years in the mountains.
At the sight of the inscription, old feelings surged through him with renewed force. Galiana’s whole being was present in that single phrase. Memories returned — of their last words, and of their first. In that one sentence, carved in stone, lay the story of their shared life and the essence of Galiana’s soul.
He knelt beside the stone, brushed away the dry fallen leaves, and slowly ran his fingers along the inscription. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath of the cool air, held it for a while, then released it slowly and evenly. His chest sank, and his soul exhaled with it.
In that single breath gathered everything that had settled upon his memories over the years — the things he had partly wished to flee, and partly wished to continue, as the promise of the life they had lived together. He sat back on his heels, removed his hat, set it beside his satchel, and began cleaning the stone — covered over time with moss and ivy — with such care as though his life depended on it. He wanted the stone to shine again in its old clarity, the inscription and the feather to stand out, carrying within them the message of past, present and future, even in their seemingly motionless state.
Where are you now? The question rose within him, but he did not dare speak it aloud. Perhaps he feared someone might hear; perhaps he feared he would feel foolish for speaking to a stone. But in truth he longed for an answer — an honest, unmistakable answer he knew he could not receive. And that was the real reason he remained silent.
Much had come to mind during his journey — thoughts that had given him strength to walk, yet beyond the inner stirring that had driven him from his hermit’s life, he had no clear picture of his future. His thoughts darted between the mountain, Jupo, Galiana, Norden and his family, leaving him scarcely able to be present in the moment.
He reached into his satchel and drew out an old book — its pages half slipping from the binding, some edges worn to tatters — and opened it along the silk thread tied to the spine. On the yellowed page was a faded portrait of Galiana. He no longer remembered when he had drawn it, but the movements of his hand, the way he traced the lines while watching her — those he relived every time he looked at the picture. He had captured a moment that would have lived within him even without the drawing, a moment that reflected her essence with quiet beauty.
He stroked the drawing, already blurred from so many touches, then — prompted by a gentle pull within — looked up at the walnut tree. Its thinning branches etched themselves against the sky like paths of life, and there he seemed to glimpse something that gave meaning to the tangled direction of his feelings. For a few moments he lost himself in the curves of the branches, in the meeting of shadow and light. A tear welled in his eye, fell onto the page — landing on Galiana’s drawn eye — and ran down the paper.
The old man looked at the picture, his heart beating faster. His thoughts still shifted places with dizzying speed, yet one of them met an emotion — and that meeting illuminated his mind. In that instant, a smile rose in his heart and on his face.
He pressed a kiss to the drawing, closed the book, tucked it deep into his satchel, then kissed his fingers and laid them upon the inscription on the stone. Pulling his hat firmly onto his head, he stood, brushed the dust from his knees, slung the satchel over his shoulder, and set off on his path — a path he now felt more clearly than ever, and whose calling he finally understood.
He pressed a kiss to the drawing, closed the book, tucked it deep into his satchel, then kissed his fingers and laid them upon the inscription on the stone. Pulling his hat firmly onto his head, he stood, brushed the dust from his knees, slung the satchel over his shoulder, and set off on his path — a path he now felt more clearly than ever, and whose calling he finally understood.
