City of IF

[D-Lotus]

Warning: This story only contains some very slight graphic violence. As little as it is, reader discretion advised.

This is a Storygame: You read, you suggest, and then you vote.

Story so Far: Burnwick is travelling in a caravan with three other passengers. Out of the blue, they start telling stories. First one about two men in a pilgrimage, then another about pre-revolutionary France, and now Finland in 1809.

A Strange Last Name


“Sankala, friends, is a Finnish name. It has deep roots and has been embedded in Finnish culture since the beginning of times. It is one of those names that has simply always resided in memory, and when its origin is questioned, no trace can be found of it anywhere, except in the faint recesses of remembrance and oral stories passed on from generation to generation. No mention of it will ever be found in any written record, yet it is there, invisible and strong, a name handed down like a prized possession. It is one of those names that must never be defiled, a name that must remain immaculate as time wears on. A name that refuses to bend to time or change. A proud, inflexible name. The bearers of this name are always confided with the responsibility of purity and honesty beyond doubt.

Not so with the young man slowly making his way through the white blanket of winter. The path had disappeared from human sight, and the young man was forced to rely on his wit and sense of orientation to make his way among the long crisp weeds sticking out through the snow. His heavy winter coat covered his body, and his musket slung on his shoulder like something molest. He shrunk from it as he walked, leaving deep footprints in the snow with his boots. The young man’s last name was Sankala. But he was not worthy of it. Not anymore. Before he had gone to the war he was part of the Sankala family, but now they refused him passage anywhere near their lands. An outcast, the black sheep of the family, and all because of The Finnish War.

And yet it had been beautiful while it lasted. Men in horses crashing against each other, swords flashing in the air, brought down to cut in sudden graceful motions, sending red poetry flowing in uniform beauty onto the white snow. And the red ink makes a beautiful picture on the snow. But then more and more, blood flows, scared horses scream, terrified men shout, and the rumble of muskets as they spray death echoes it all.

The young man made his way to the line of trees cropping up in the distance that signaled the way. The tall fern trees gathered around him and covered him as his drawn up grey coat made its way among the green protectors.

But he hated it all, from the start. He was fighting for a country that was not his own, and wasn’t even fighting. Shooting is not fighting. It’s not glorious; it has no chivalry in it. Fighting is an art that shooting with a weapon ruins, as if a painting depicting life and depicting death at the same time is blotted and smudged with gun powder.

He hated it all from the start. The long marching to escape or confront an unseen and unproven attacker. The disease, the blistered feet, the biting cold, the unhealthy rations, everything. He hated it all from the start, when he was taught to love his musket; his only weapon apart from his courage and spirit. He never did quite learn. As soon as the gun was pushed into his unwilling hands, he resented the weapon. It grinned back at him. Did it enjoy killing? Was that it’s only truth, its passion?

The young man kept trudging through the snow, measuring his steps to keep his mind away from the cold. He stared at the cloudless and windless day. The sky was clear, when a cloud, lost from the rest of its herd, drifted casually through the blue expanse, uncaring and unbothered. It smiled at the young man, and drifted away again.

Then came the day of the battle. Something in the air warned of its impending arrival. And indeed it did come. It was brilliant. The Swedish army smashed through Russian lines at Jutas. Sankala was there, taking pleasure in every moment of victory. The Russians retreated in silence as the Swedes hailed their leader. Sankala was not like every other man, but he did not thirst for blood either. He was an artist in love with life and in love with death. That battle would one day become famous.

The next day, the Russians defeated the remainder of the Swedish army. Sankala didn’t like that morning. He hated it from the start. There was something in the air that spoke to him about the outcome. And it was not beautiful, as the last battle. Charges were made, but all were stopped short by volleys of bullets, and men sunk or fell to the ground, clutching their hearts. They dropped, enwrapped within silence, like toys. To the young man watching from behind the defense line, on the ridge by the river, it seemed strange and morose, that men should be lost like misplaced items. And his musket grinned at him again as he shot against the assaulting Russians. A puff of smoke and…voila! A Russian man dropped without a chance of defending himself. Sankala hated guns. They delivered death with too much probability and rapidity. They are accurate, they are fast, and they are immoral and defy both life and death. Yet what did that make him, the executioner? A defiance of the natural order himself?

The battle wore on, and men seemed to die as if it were of no consequence. But then! It seemed impossible, but it became true. The Russians had been persistently attacking the weak left side of the Swedes, as the right flank was tactically covered by the river the Swedish army had placed itself next to. It was not winter then. To plunge in it and attempt to charge would have meant the defeat of the Russians; the Swedes would won the battle, and maybe the war. In truth, it was not a Swedish army. It contained Finns, Swedes, and anything the king had been able to pull together. Communication was difficult, but sufficient.

The Russians had attacked twice before, and a counter-attack from the Swedes, who were never ordered to charge, met steady death and heavy losses by the artillery. Persistent in their tactics, or unoriginal in their generals, the Russians charged into the left flank again. Sankala watched as his own gun brought down a blonde man running, barely twenty, maybe hoping he would not die. The river streamed down towards the Russians, as the current followed the rules of nature. It was a river stained in blood. Useless blood of innocent men, fighting a useless war that changed little anywhere. And as the Russians were struck with gunfire, the Swedish commander realized a tactical error of the opponent. Quickly he gathered men to him and rushed to the center of the attacker lines. Sankala sprung up and followed him, and then leapt over the dead bodies of the men in front of him until sweet victory and gallantry vibrated through his own body. The Russians retreated to the forest line, and now victory favored the Swedes. But it was not to be.

A crooked sign, encrouched by trees, held out in the snow, watching the young man go by. A young man, not a soldier. A young man, yet conscious he was not a soldier. Only a young man in a soldier’s garb. Probably stolen, would murmur some. The sign marked the distance to the next town. It was not far. The young man trudged on ahead, lost in memory, staring back at his own footprints in the snow. They comforted him, helped him take the next step.

Soon the Russians had brought reinforcements. It turns out superiority in numbers does count at times. How sad that numbers are the variables of war. What a contradiction. Men should fight with courage, but not with the courage of their numbers. But men fight because men can’t learn to love their brothers, so why should they love the true essence of valor? If men kill their brothers in war, is war necessary? Only for those who are greedy and hungry for power or revenge. Then even they realize life is around them and they need not grow hungry and war stops making sense to them. But there are always more greedy and hungry men, because greed and hunger are human characteristics. What stops us from destroying each other completely? Is love and satisfaction as powerful as greed and selfishness?

At times like those, when all that seems right is wronged, and a brilliant victory is fooled, Sankala grows philosophical. War makes men think, that much is true. The Swedes retreated that day, and the war was lost. The next year, Finland was a Russian Duchy.

A shimmer of houses appeared in the distance. Soon Sankala reached the small hill that overlooked the town. He was somewhere in Western Finland, not far from the coast. Stepping carefully, he made his way down the hill. The town was small, only a point of rest towards another destination. Maybe only three hundred inhabitants or so. It was early morning. The sun was emerging from behind the rooftops into the clear sky. Sankala wandered into the main street, searching. Finally he spotted the church, four walls supporting a roof. It was a simple building, but warm inside. The small door slammed behind him, and the Lutheran clergyman looked at him but turned back to his work again, lighting the candles. The decoration was simple. There was an altar and a large wooden cross directly behind it. There were four windows and seven rows of pews. Sankala walked through the aisle, installed himself in one of the empty pews, uttered in silence a quick prayer, and promptly fell asleep, wrapped in his coat.

An hour later, silent whispers woke him up. He watched drowsily as the clergyman blessed a young woman accompanied by her maid. She curtsied and turned around. Then she walked down the aisle and kneeled in front of a pew near him. Sankala kept watching her as she prayed. She wore an elaborate dress of white fleece, and her dark hair was wrapped in a bun at the back of her head. It was apparent she was not of northern descent. Her delicate features and big round brown eyes were not common in Finland. Her nose was small and her lips were supple. She had rosy cheeks and thin eyebrows. Her eyes closed in concentration as she prayed. Her servant stood by her side, servicial, and about the same age of her mistress. Sankala observed as they finished praying and got up. As they reached the door, Sankala, gripped by a sudden impulse, jumped ahead of them and held the door open. The ladies thanked him and stepped out into the cold. Sankala followed them with his eyes; they had put on their shawls and were heading down the street.

He ran behind them until he caught up. He saluted with his cap, and they returned the gesture with a smile. They walked in silence for a minute or two, and then Sankala asked what the nationality of the lady was.

“I’m British.” She said in broken Finnish. He nodded knowingly, and then gave out his hand and name.
“Marian Smith.” She likewise gave both to him, and signaled to her servant, who smiled prettily.
“A pleasure to meet you. I myself am a native of the land.”
“Have you been in the war?”
“Yes, I have been in the war.” The subject was dropped. Sankala inquired about her visit, the lady responded she liked it quite well.
“We were on our way to the capital; my father had business to conduct there, and had decided to bring the family along. But he has fallen ill, and now he is resting in one of the houses of the town, which has taken us in, until a doctor is found.”
They reached the door to the house, a two story sixteenth century building, and parted ways. Sankala wandered back and fell asleep in the church again.

When he woke up for the second time, it was high noon. The clergyman was at his side, bidding him to leave. Sankala gathered his few possessions and emerged into the street again. He yawned and stretched. A few people walking back to their homes looked at him curiously. He walked leisurely to the town square, although his stomach growled intensively. Along one of the streets there was a bakery. Sankala entered. He asked for a jar of marmalade. As the attendant went into the back room to fetch the marmalade, Sankala swiftly grabbed a loaf of bread from behind the counter and hid it in his coat. The attendant returned with the jar, but Sankala told her that was not the kind he needed
and briskly left. A few minutes later, he had finished the loaf of bread, and he was pondering as he walked through the town.

The woman had enthralled him, was he in love? Suddenly his heart was gripped with fear and marvel. But how would it ever work? She was obviously rich, and he was obviously poor. In love, those two canceled themselves out, but in reality, they did not. The margin of difference was too great. He didn’t even have a real last name. He had been rejected by his family. He had been caught stealing and his family had banished him. They didn’t understand he stole for necessity; the war had left him without anything. If they did understand why he stole, they would have asked him why he hadn’t asked for help. He would have answered that he felt more shame in asking help than in stealing. Unknowingly his family had made him that way. He had refused to shed the last name Sankala, because he still hoped to return someday. He was still faithful to his name.

He spotted an old farmer chopping wood in front of his house. He seemed miserable in the snow covered street. Soon, a deal was made. Food and a resting place in exchange for Sankala’s help. That night he dreamed of the young British girl.

The next day, he waited in the church at around the same hour. Over the course of the week, it all happened quite naturally. One day, the maid was not there, and their path strayed. A long kiss and a passionate embrace finally arrived quite naturally as well. She was barely eighteen; a little girl, but she had unknowingly cast a spell on him. When he had first come, he expected to stay in the town only for a day. It had dragged on for a week, and the farmer was running out of jobs to give him. One day, he was invited to the house of his new found love and lover. Apparently the doctor had come and gone. Marian’s father seemed healthy enough. That afternoon, the father had questioned him extensively about the war. Sankala hated to talk about it, but did so anyway. The two men finally shook hands and Sankala left, not before kissing the girl goodbye, in a flagrant display of honesty which might or might have not impressed her father.

It was ecstasy, it was joy. A week ago he was homeless, unloved, and a worthless bum. Now, it was going to be all different. But he would have to give up Finland. And he knew he would never be able to return to his family. True, they had rejected him, but he still loved them and yearned to be a part of them. If he came back as a proud British business man, he would be scorned. It was one day, when he was chopping more wood for the fireplace in front of the farmers’ house, that he noticed the butcher pointing him out to a man leading a horse by the reins. He wondered if it had anything to do with Marian’s departure that day. Her father had invited him to come with them, but he had still to finish his final chore for the farmer before he could depart. It was arranged he would be ready by nine and they would travel at night. The man, who appeared to be a messenger, came to him. Sankala leaned on his axe and waited for the stranger to speak. Instead, the stranger handed him a letter. Sankala opened it wearily.

Mr. Sankala,

As a war veteran, and a Finn by birth, and also due to the inconvenience of your current situation which we have been informed of, we think it is appropriate to invite you to form part of our 3rd division cavalry squad as sergeant, following orders only under a captain. No doubt you have heard of our current situation and the scarcity of soldiers available. We insist that you join us to assure that Finland, the new Duchy of Russia, is a safe and orderly place to reside in. The messenger who has delivered this letter will inform you more about our offer and what your orders are in the event of your acceptance of said offer.

Commander of the Cavalry Divisions of The Grand Duchy of Russia

Sankala looked up into the sky. A cloud was drifting in it, dark and heavy with rain. This meant redemption. This meant he would once again be able to proudly bear the name Sankala. But what about Marian? Well, was she the only woman in Finland? Was she?

Alright people, here is the decision. Based on Sankala's character, what do you think he will do, stay with the British girl, or will his family proudness call to him? Its not a very multi dimentional decision, but there can be more than two options if you are ingenious enough to think of them. The end result, that our other young fellow, John, in the caravan, will be born, has already been resolved ;) , but what about the rest? I am open to comments, suggestion, critizim, anything!

[Shady Stoat]

Given John Sankala's pride in his last name, I don't think that the Finnish soldier could have ended his life as a disgraced Sankala. He must have redeemed himself somehow.

At the moment, I think that involves rejoining the war and regaining his family's respect. BUT, I don't think he'd give up on Marian either. Maybe he'd go to her and her father, explain that this was something he had to do, and request that she wait for him.

After a long parting, they could be reunited in England, at the end of the war.

(Just a note: if you put a comment in 'A French Madam' saying that this chapter is up, more people will find it sooner) :D

[Ingrothechundyer]

Nice chapter. I don't have anything to add though :)

[D-Lotus]

Quote: At the moment, I think that involves rejoining the war and regaining his family's respect.

Let me clarify. The historical setting is at the end of The Finnish War (1808-1809). Finland becomes a Russian duchy. Russia isn't looking for soldiers to fight, its just looking for patrols, etc. The war did no good to Sankala, it caused his downfall, but being the sergeant of a cavalry brigade is honorable because it has no guns involved in it, and he could make his way up to a captain, a post that would restore his family honor.

Quote: BUT, I don't think he'd give up on Marian either. Maybe he'd go to her and her father, explain that this was something he had to do, and request that she wait for him.

After a long parting, they could be reunited in England, at the end of the war.

Sorry, but two things deterr this.
1. His family wants NOTHING of the British. If he maries a briton, they'll never speak to him again, captain or not. This is because his family has a long tradition of pure blood, Finn marrying Finn.
2. She, or he, would probably forget the other or get married for convinience in the period of time it would get him to restore his name. It often happens, lovers mostly don't wait for each other or are forced to marry with someone else.

Quote: (Just a note: if you put a comment in 'A French Madam' saying that this chapter is up, more people will find it sooner) :D

I think it wouldn't really matter, people mostly check the latest reply of the forum. Besides, Key put this forum up a the top of the list, but thanks for the concern.

Unfortunately, this seems like a two sided answer, but be inventive, and I'll let a couple more options slip in. I thought of one myself already. ;)

[martpart]

cool chapter! keep up the gud work!

[D-Lotus]

Thanks. Even if its only to say that, I appreciate it. C'mon people, suggest, cogitate! :D

[D-Lotus]

I don't get it, what have I done wrong? 3 people in a week, that's pretty lame...even for me. Is there something wrong with my story, or is it just that people aren't circulating in the site as much (to tell the truth I'm not either). ;)

[Suneila]

It's not your story D (personally, I think this is one of your best ones). Sorry I didn't comment. I read it in a hurry last time. It was very good.

Quote: 2. She, or he, would probably forget the other or get married for convinience in the period of time it would get him to restore his name. It often happens, lovers mostly don't wait for each other or are forced to marry with someone else.

This is a romance story, isn't it? Doesn't true love always wait?

Maybe the soldier will try to win back his honour and his family's respect, but then realize that it means nothing without his true love. He can run to Britain, fall on his knees in the middle of a muddy London street, sopping wet from the rain, and cry out to the love of his life: "I can't live without you!" He'll beg for her mercy and her love, claiming that without her as his wife, he'll die. But wait! Her father has forced her to marry another! A cruel heartless man who beats her for fun. The husband mocks this poor, wet Finnish soldier, saying that he's a worthless bum, and even if she wasn't married, she'd never consider him. In anger, the soldier grabs the man and throws him in front of a moving carriage. He marries the girl, and they live happily ever after, and have a son (the guy in the coach). *sniffle*

Ahem. Now that I've written your next chapter for you... :D

~sunny

[Shady Stoat]

The difficulty I have is that the Finnish soldier has to retain the pride about his family name... AND he has to end up with the british girl. Otherwise John Sankala wouldn't be the person he was (or possibly not even a person at all, in one case).

I think Sunny's idea is great - although the bit about murdering someone at the end could do with some work ;)

[Suneila]

I agree. I was a little caught up in the story at that point. The husband could instigate a fight with the soldier, then while they're fighting in the street, he accidentally gets run over by a carriage. Murder isn't very honourable.

~sunny

[D-Lotus]

This IS a love story in a way...but remember (no offense here) that women are very practical. She would never forget the Finnish soldier, but she would marry another man...women are very practical.

Good suggestion, Sunelia. I'll put it in the poll, but I'l also offer an idea of my own to see what you think.

What if he asks the british girl to leave her family and identity to go live with him? That way, the family would never learn who she really was, and the soldier could make up some small lies to acount for her accent.

Think along these lines and you'll find something more. Remember its a storygame!

[Shady Stoat]

D-Lotus wrote:
What if he asks the british girl to leave her family and identity to go live with him? That way, the family would never learn who she really was, and the soldier could make up some small lies to acount for her accent.

It might work, if Sankala is eloquent enough. I think Sunny's suggestion is stronger though, for two reasons.

1) It's based on honesty. He decides what he wants and goes for it. All right, he doesn't get the 'happily ever after', but life is full of choices and sometimes we don't get to pick the best of both worlds.

2) When he asks the girl to give up her identity and her social standing in England, he's basically telling her that she isn't good enough for him as she is. What woman is going to take well to a suggestion like that? As you say, women are very practical and she might decide that a lifetime of living a lie is not worth it for a man she has only known for a week, especially if he seems ashamed of who she is.

It's possible that he goes to her and tells her that he'll give up everything for her, but it will tear him to pieces. Then, seeing the depth of his love for her, she agrees to give everything up for him instead. I could see that working, if it's approached in the right way. :D

[Suneila]

To add:
3) Because of the pride he feels in his family name and heritage, it is probably unlikely that he would ask her to give up her name and family for him.

Shady's thought that she might be willing to give it up for him on her own (without his asking) is plausible.

~sunny

[D-Lotus]

Well, at the moment you can't decide if he will repent and go back to beg for her love, all you can decide is either one of the two options, or any other option you can think up. By the way, where is everybody else? I guess I'll give more time so that people have a chance to catch up before posting the poll.

[dragon_fire372]

I was also thinking something along the lines of Suneila's suggestion. True, the offer of sergeant could be a tempting one, especially if it helps him regain his honor. But if he is truly in love with this girl, can there be any contest? If the name of Sankala portrays purity and honesty, then it would make sense for him to go with Marian, because how else could he be honest to his heart? (I know, sounds mushy, but oh well.) After all, you can still be proud of your family's heritage and pass it along to your children, even if your family isn't proud of you.

Besides, maybe he can regain his honor some other way after he goes with Marian, like he rescues her from bandits, or saves a child from a burning building, or helps a kitten caught up in a tree, I dunno.

Great story by the way. :)

[D-Lotus]

Thanks for the compliments. Oh well, I guess I'll wait a couple more days to see if anyone wants to catch up and then I'll post a poll.

[ethereal_fauna]

I am reading the story, but haven't had any good suggestions for the poll. Don't be discouraged by lack of response at the moment. So many have busy lives and little time for fun, or perhaps aren't feeling as creative as they possibly could.

[D-Lotus]

Thanks Fauna, I appreciate it. OK then, I feel motivated (lets see how much it lasts) so poll goes up tomorrow!

[Ravenwing]

Sakala's whole romance with the British girl, although romantic and all, does not seem to have enough going for it. I think he has more familial pride in him then love for the girl. I think he should take the position offered. Like someone else suggested, romance can come later. Besides we don't know what the girl will do should he choose to take the position.

Before I forget again, D, this sounds pretty good. Reminds of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Fond memories of that book from sophmore year, of course, one thing I hated about it was having to memorize the first 20 lines of the prologue and recite them from memory in Middle English.

[Ingrothechundyer]

Voted to forget the girl and take the posistion in hopes of earning his honor.

[D-Lotus]

A threeway vote? I guess I'll have to give two more days, and then I'll vote if nothing happens.

[Ravenwing]

Looks like the tie has been broken...Start writing D. :cool:

[D-Lotus]

Ok, poll is closed. I will write as soon as I have time...which doesn't seem very often lately, sorry. Anyway, I will finish the story of the finnish guy, and then move on to our reluctant Burnwick...who will tell the story of his life. ;)

[Hyperion]

I thought this was the next chapter of When Stories Travel Together, but it's just some Finnish guy... :O

[Ravenwing]

Hyperion, you gotta keep up with D's speed at writing, really. :cool: Why else do you think he has two finished storygames in the Hall? ;)

[D-Lotus]

Ok, I'm going to try to get some writing in, but I might not..I have final exams next week and I have to study (I have 2 hours of soccer practice every day too). So please be patient. I have gathered some excellent ideas, though. Anyway, the poll was closed with asking the girl to forget her identity.

[D-Lotus]

Finals are over. Now I can finally write instead of studying.