The Song of the Blood-Red Flower Part 21

He is up again, swimming athwart the stream. A few powerful strokes, and he reaches the dead water close insh.o.r.e.

Cursing aloud, he sits down and pours the water from his boots. One of the men posted at Akeanlinna brings him his pole--but his hat is gone.

He hurries up along the bank.

"Enough--give over now!" cry those on the bridge.

"Go and tell your mother!" he answers furiously.

"Maybe he'd like to have that chart now, after all," says one, with a sly glance.

He pulls off his red coat. "Seeing I've lost my hat, I can do without a jacket." A blue shirt shows up on the raft; he picks out a fresh log, thrusts it angrily under the boom, and comes floating down towards the bridge.

"Now you can stare till you think you'll know me again."

Not a sound from those on the bridge.

The log shoots down, the man stands erect, and pa.s.ses proudly under the gaze of all. He plies his pole to the right, and the log swerves a little to the opposite side--the first obstacle is safely pa.s.sed, though it almost cost him his footing again.

"Aha! He's on his guard this time! Maybe he'll do it, after all!"

"Well, he said you'd know him again!" Redjacket's party are recovering confidence.

The log hurries on, the man balancing carefully with his pole.

Nearing the second rock now--the figure crouches down and steps a little back. A sudden shock, a crash--his pole has broken, and the blue shirt disappears in the rapids.

"Look! Right down there! He'll never get ash.o.r.e this time." The onlookers crowd together, straining to see.

The blue shirt comes into view for a moment.

"He'll never do it--'tis right out in midstream."

"Hi--look out there on the bank!"

"He'll be smashed to pieces on the Malli Rock."

"No, no! he's too far out."

The blue shirt is carried past the threatening rock, but making straight for the big raft below. A clenched hand is raised to bid the men there stand aside--he will manage alone. But they take no heed.

One thrusts a pole between the swimmer's legs as he nears the raft, another grasps him by the neck, and they haul him up--a heavy pull, with the water striving all the time to suck him under. Inch by inch the blue shirt rises above the edge.

He limps ash.o.r.e, supported by a man on either side. One knee is bleeding.

"'Tis more than man can do!" he cries in a broken voice, shaking his fist toward the bridge.

There is a low murmur of voices on the bridge, an anxious whispering.

Olof picks up his pole. Close behind him a young girl plucks at the sleeve of an elderly man, and seems to be urging him, entreating....

Moisio turns to Olof. "Once more I ask of you--let it be enough. You have seen how your companion fared. Do not try it again."

"I must," answered Olof in a voice cold and hard as steel, with a ring of confidence that impressed those who heard.

He goes off to the raft, picks out a log and tries its buoyancy with care. A long pine stem, with the bark off, and floating deep in the water.

"Ah--he's choosing a horse of another sort!"

"Tis another sort of rider, too, by his looks."

Olof was nearing the bridge now--calmly, without a word, watching the course of the river all the time. Reaching the bridge, he raised his eyes for a moment, and met the glance of a girl looking down. A faint smile, and the slightest inclination of the head, no more.

"Good luck to you!" cried several of the onlookers; a certain sympathy was evident among the crowd.

Now he glides under the bridge, on towards the perilous stage of the journey--all watch with eager eyes.

The strange craft cleaves the waves, sending up spray on either hand--but the heavy log, floating deep, hardly moves; the steersman keeps his footing steadily as on firm ground.

"That's the way! Ah, he knows the sort of craft to choose for the work!"

The log hurries on, the lithe figure bends a little, balancing with the pole.

"Turn off--turn off! He's making straight for the rock!"

He stands poised, with muscles tense, his pole in readiness, his eyes fixed on the whirl about the sunken rock, his knees slightly bent.

A shock--and he springs deftly in air as the heavy log is thrust backward under him--taking his footing again as firmly as before.

"Bravo, bravo! Finely done!"

On again. A few quick, powerful strokes with the pole--and the rock that had been his rival's undoing is safely pa.s.sed.

"He'll do it! He's the man!" The onlookers were all excitement now.

The speed increases, the lithe figure swaying to either side. A thrust from the left--he springs light-footed to meet it.

Once more his body is bent, his pole held firmly, knees crouching deep--those on the bridge crane their necks to watch.

The next shock comes with a crash that is plainly heard by those upstream; again he springs as the log thrusts back, and comes down neatly as before. A few paces forward to get his balance, then back a step or two like a tight-rope walker.

"That's the way, lad!"

"He knows how to dance!"

"Look out for Malli Rock!"

"Ay, if he can clear that!"