The Song of the Blood-Red Flower Part 22

Malli Rock stands ready to meet the attack; the rapids are tearing past on either side.

The log comes down, making full towards the smooth, sloping face of the rock.

Olof swerves a little to the right, and leaps off, coming down in a whirl of spray. The rock has done its part, and sent the end of the log high out of the water; Olof lands on it and goes on again, the log sc.r.a.ping the face of the rock as it pa.s.ses.

"Sticks like a leech, he does! He's done it now!"

A cheer from the crowd.

Straight down in midstream now. A little ahead the river bends--he is nearing the block at Akeanlinna.

"Now for the last lap!"

"Ay--and the worst of all!"

Two--three short paces back--the log brings up full against the block.

A leap and a crash, a run almost to the fore end of the log before he can check his pace. The log is flung out again into the current, and shivers as if paralysed by the blow. Then the water carries it down again.

The men at their posts stare helplessly--one of them gives a cry, and the onlookers shudder. "Heavens--he's missed it now!"

More shouting, and men running up and down the banks; others standing as if rooted to the spot.

Olof glances at the ma.s.s of timber by the rock. A swing of the pole, a sudden deft turn, and hurrying to the other end of the log, he begins poling hard across the stream.

"He's making for the other bank!"

"He'll never do it--and there's no one there to help!"

"Oh--look! He'll be carried over the edge!"

Hard fighting now. Olof is striving to reach the farther bank, the current is drawing the end of the log nearer and nearer the falls--already the water is seething over it.

Two furious strokes, a swift step, and another, and, lifting his pole, he flies through the air--toward the sh.o.r.e. The pole strikes something, as all on the bridge can hear--then he is lost to sight.

A rush of men downstream, crying and shouting....

Then, a moment later, a waving of hats from the men at Akeanlinna, and a cheer is pa.s.sed from group to group upstream. Some stop, others race on--he is saved--but how?

Then a tall figure appears standing on the sh.o.r.e, waving his hand triumphantly. A mighty cheer from all the onlookers and a waving of hats and kerchiefs. "There he is!"

Olof walks up with easy steps, but the blood is streaming down his face. The first to meet him is a girl, her face pale, her body trembling with emotion. She is standing by herself--the others are still far off.

Olof stops and hesitates--shall he go to meet her, or turn off? The girl casts down her eyes. He draws nearer--she looks up, and gives him one deep, warm glance, and looks down again--her cheeks flushed.

Olof's face lights up, and he lifts his hat as he pa.s.ses. Then the crowd surges round him with shouts of applause.

"Bravo! Well done! Here's the man that's beaten Kohiseva! Who's the best man now?"

Vantti steps forward and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Well done, lad! 'Tis plain to see you're not born to be drowned." And the st.u.r.dy fellow laughs till his great boots shake.

"You've made a name for yourself to-day," says Falk.

"'Olof' was a bit short, maybe...."

"Aha-a-a!"

"So now they'll call you Kohiseva--and a good name too!"

"'Tis as good as another," said Olof, with a laugh. "And longer, anyway."

"And now we'll go down to the mill and see about drinks all round.

Twice round, it ought to be--'twas worth it!"

When Olof came home that evening, a girl sat anxiously waiting at Moisio.

A bright rose was stuck between the palings of the fence beside the road. Olof sprang across the ditch--the girl drew her head back behind the curtain.

He fastened the rose in his coat. With a grateful glance he searched the garden, up towards the house, but no one was to be seen.

In the safe shelter of her room a girl sat bowed over the table with her face hidden in her arms, crying softly.

THE SONG OF THE BLOOD-RED FLOWER

"Why are you so sad this evening, Olof?" asked the girl.

"Sad?" he repeated, almost to himself, staring absently before him.

"Yes--I wish I knew."

"But how--when it is yourself--don't you know?"

"No--that's the strange thing about it. I don't know."

There was a pause.

"I won't ask you if you don't like it," she said, after a while. "But if I were sad, and had a friend, I should want to."

"And make your friend sad too--by telling things no friend could understand?"

"Perhaps a friend might try."

But Olof seemed not to have heard. He leaned back, and his glance wandered vaguely.