On a small island in the north, where the winter days are short and the summer sun never sets, life must adapt to the changing seasons. A vision of two women with the same face sets a reclusive shaman on a journey from his dark forest cabin to the barren, windswept shores of a lighthouse.
In Kaiku our relationship with nature is explored through sounds and seasons. Set over the course of a year in the isolation of a small island Kaiku is the result of a long-running fascination with traditional narrative, folklore and the natural environment.
This is the first part of a four part series. The first part is WINTER.
With sisu we embrace the darkness. We let it run through us, not overcome us. We breathe it in and we breathe it out because with an ancient certainty we know that spring will always come, just when darkness starts to become unbearable, and bring us light.
The land far away north that experienced warmth for only a very brief moment had learned how to survive. It knew that there was no point in hastiness, which made one make mistakes more easily. This land knew its pace. It followed an ancient rhythm which had been ingrained in it over generations. Its people were hardened by the winds which haunted the treetops and played on the frozen lakes with a biting tongue. This land was not dead and it was not forgotten, it might have grown small and crooked like an angry little bush but it knew a strength which far bigger trees had never possessed. On the edge of this land lay an island which faced the perils of the sea with patience. She was not a big island - there was just enough room in her grounds to get lost, to wander aimlessly and be alone. Her character and landscape were different from one shore to another. Her curves consisted of thick forests, silent, deep lakes, swamps and mountains. On this island lived a Shaman.
Slowly the cold darkness changed to the promise of a morning. A creeping spectrum of colours appeared from the southeast revealing a landscape shaped and dominated by ice. It seemed as if time had suddenly been stopped. The movement of rivers and streams had been cut. Majestic ice pillars hung over frozen lakes like organs upside down. In the middle of it all a lake stood still, holding her ground, surrounded by a densely grown, frozen forest. The morning sun reflected brightly from the snow that had fallen onto the frozen lake during the night and gave the lake a bright glow. It looked like it was covered in white fire. The moisture in the air had crystallized and created snowflakes, water had taken a new form, but down under the lake water was flowing freely. A different world existed there, living according to its own slow rhythm. Its inhabitants all moved slowly, predators and prey alike saving their energy, calculating their every movement. It was almost like they had entered a long state of meditation. The murky water and the dim lighting created shadowy corners which acted as perfect hideaways. The brief appearance of light was their lifeline.
On the shore of the lake walked an old man. He was tall and slender with narrow eyes, high cheekbones and a pointy chin. He had a prominent nose with big nostrils and was wrapped in a black-grey cloak that dragged behind him in the snow. The Shaman lit his pipe and pushed his hood aside to expose his face to the sun. It was a welcome warmth. An air of calmness hung on top of the frozen forest. During the midwinter the sun never rose high and in a few hours it would fall behind the horizon again. The Shaman walked into the forest, a thin layer of ice covered the snow. It was dark, and the densely grown forest held on to its secrets with an insurmountable will. The darkness did not intimidate the Shaman - he lived according to the seasons, the pace of nature and the changes in light, accepting it all. With a never-ending curiosity he constantly observed and reflected upon what he saw. He did not seek to control nature or harness its powers to his own use, but to live in harmony with it. Although seemingly vast and silent he knew that everything around him was alive. The snow that covered everything and made everything look dead was in fact what enabled the forest to survive and in the spring all the snow would melt and be released as water.
In the middle of the forest the Shaman came to an opening. Here the trees had given space to smaller bushes, and in the middle of the opening lay a huge carcass half buried in the snow. The ribs were pure white. Decay had visited them earlier but now there was no sign of it. Nature had prepared the bones as well as any embalmer could have hoped to. Surrounded by the untouched, virginal snow the bare carcass had its own tone of white. It was an ivory that told of old age and the secrets inside a huge animal. It had been a creature running alive with blood in its veins. The bones had given the map, the structure to its body. They had seen the insides, the secret world untouched by daylight, and now they boldly stood bare in the forest, facing its coldness, the howling winds and hungry animals. It was a testament to a power that even death could not destroy. Frozen in time the skeleton stood high. The Shaman approached the carcass. Dusting the snow from its smooth surface, he ran his fingers over the bones, sliding them in-between the ribs. He climbed inside and sat down. He looked up. The ceiling was made of white arching bones and the walls were bone barred. The carcass had been in the forest for a long time. It was the crown-head of the forest. It started to snow. The first isolated flakes dropped down silently from the sky, every one of them unique. They fell to the ground, sinking into the white sea of snow. Joined by others they disappeared and became one. Together they served a greater purpose by covering the forest in a protective blanket.
The Shaman’s house was a small log cabin. It was built deep in the forest by an old, long forgotten hermit. The walls were darkened by the years, but the wood was still strong. Surrounded by densely grown forest on all sides the cabin rarely saw sun. A small sauna was built to the side of it and when wood was burning in the heart of the sauna, the cabin enjoyed the warmth of it too. It was dark inside. The Shaman lit a long-legged, branched candle, illuminating the room. It created big sharp shadows all around, but the corners of the cabin stayed in the darkness. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, like powder it drifted down around the Shaman as he moved around the cabin. He lit the stove and sat down. Everywhere around him lay strange objects. By nature he was a collector, in his mind he catalogued everything with great care. In his brain existed an accurate map of all his finds. He was fascinated by everything - roots shaped like knuckles and pieces of different colour granite lay everywhere. Strong coffee waited for him on the stove. The Shaman took a sip and its bitter taste made him smack his tongue. A white cat had decided to reside with the Shaman. She was not a pet and would not stay behind locked doors, but had developed a fondness for the warmth of the stove. As usual she could be found curled next to the stove basking in its heat.
As the evening grew colder the Shaman warmed his stiff bones in the warmth of the sauna. As he threw water to the kiuas, the heater, the spirit of the sauna löyly replied and hissing sounds escaped from the coals. From a pail the Shaman took the bath whisk made out of birch branches and gave his back a good beating. The branches massaged him pleasantly and stimulated his circulation. As the heat and the fresh smell of pine branches filled the sauna, his mind drifted to lands less travelled and times long forgotten.
The Shaman had once met a wise man. He was from far away land, where snow never visited. This man had come to the Shaman in a dream. Because the Shaman had liked him so much and wanted to continue his conversations with him, he had invited the wise man out of the world of dreams to the world he lived in. They had sat down, the two wise men, a big fire between them, long, sharp shadows behind them, centuries of wisdom among them gathered from their ancestors. They were two of a kind. They did not speak the same language, but their means of communication was not restricted to words.
The wise man had been a rainmaker. It was an important role in a land pestered with drought. He had seen a coming dry spell and taken the necessary precautions, he had prepared for a trip. He walked alone to the endless desert without food or shelter. In the middle of nothingness he sat down under the burning sun and studied the deep cracks on the hard ground. They continued over the whole vast desert. They hollowed out a pattern resembling a thunderbolt. They reached deep down in to the earth below him. He dug his fingers as deep as he could into the hard ground, searching for moisture. He looked to the sky, searching for signs of a change in the weather. He would not move or eat, he just studied. Days passed and weakened the wise man but his heart remained strong. His skin became tight and leathery under the gruelling sun. The coldness of the night ached in his bones, but still he stayed. In near exhaustion a sign from nature finally came. A light rain covered him, revitalizing him like a plant. Without hesitation he got up, and with stick-like legs he walked back to his people with a new hope in his heart.
Days turned into months, months to years without rain. The people had grown tired and angry. Slowly they had started to die. But their faith in their wise man remained. Five long years passed without rain. The wise man witnessed the people around him die until he was the last one standing. When he could not hear one cry of a child or an old man’s stick touching the ground he knew it had all come to an end. The key to their survival had been the predictability of seasons, the fact that a dry season would be followed by rain. They had waited out, but could not survive any longer without water. Their destruction was the unforeseen variation in the pattern. As he had done five years ago, he now walked to the endless desert without food or shelter, hoping this would be his last path. The cracks on his soles continued the pattern on the ground he stepped in. He lay down on the dusty ground and closed his eyes. He could not choose his time of death, but he waited eagerly. Behind his closed eyes he heard life continuing. It would all carry on after he was gone. From a distance a thunderstorm was approaching. It came in time to cover the body of the wise man. It softened the ground under him and created a muddy grave for his last resting place. It carried him with it to new grounds where his body would fertilize the earth helping new life grow.
The Shaman opened his eyes. Drops of sweat dripped out of his forehead and landed on the wood between his knees as he sat hunched on the top bench of the sauna. He poured water on himself to cool down and it dripped down from his hair, mixing with his sweat. The sauna was now very hot and steam covered the small window. The Shaman got up and opened the door. It was cold outside and his body was steaming, the heat escaped quickly into the air. Everywhere around him was dark. The only light came from the stars that glimmered above the treetops. The Shaman stood still, facing the surrounding forest with his nakedness.
The next morning unfolded with a luminous whiteness. Sun reflected on the snow that had fallen during the night. It was almost too bright to see. The Shaman had woken up to a curious dream. It had been one of those clear, crisp dreams that fascinated him and did not leave him alone. The images he had seen were too real and vivid. They had driven him out of his bed and into the forest. The Shaman approached a lake. It was a big flat plane surrounded by trees and rocks. His breath was steaming as he walked in the deep snow. His eyebrows and eyelashes had turned into small icicles and his big grey beard was covered in frost. During the summer the lake was filled with animals and people from the village, who all came to fish from its rich waters and filled the shores with noise. Now the lake presented a different face. A more serious, calm, almost sacred tone lingered over it. Everywhere was still; no one had made marks on the smooth surface of the snow. The Shaman walked out to the middle of the lake and turned back to face the rocks. By accidents, unattended events in nature and the imagination of a human, a rock-faced man appeared. The Shaman growled approvingly and nodded his head. In the cliffs in front of him was the profile of a man with heavy eyelids, a big prominent nose and small lips. It made a refreshing change to the landscape and was clearly visible for the ones who wanted to see. The Shaman walked away and as effortlessly as the face had appeared it disappeared. Only the rock remained hiding its secret. Underneath the rocks was a wall. The Shaman swept snow away from it and underneath red-painted figures appeared, they were the work of his hands. For years he had been coming here painting with red ochre clay, documenting what was happening around him. The rock was his canvas and life was his subject. The surface of the rock was cold, but the red colour glowed like it was alive. Sometimes he had painted a hope, a wish or a vision into the rock face. His hands touched a herd of elk, it had been a good year. The forest had been alive. He smiled as his hands passed a group of people rowing in a long boat, hunters. Separate from the rest was a female figure. The Shaman leaned closer to investigate her. He lit his pipe and pressed his cheek against the rock measuring the character from an angle with one eye open one closed. She was running, always in movement. He reached into his pouch and dipped his index finger into red paint. Next to the female figure he painted another woman, an echo.
Not far from the lake a village of the silent people woke up to the warming rays of the sun. They were the ones who endured the darkness. Inside them lived an unyielding will. Inside them they carried sisu. The women dusted frost from their doorsteps and stepped out onto the virginal snow leaving the first trails of footprints. The morning was theirs. They nodded their heads lightly to each other as they worked to remove the snow and dig their houses out of the deep drifts. There was a peace and order among them. They knew each other’s stories, families, and the branches of their family trees. They knew who was good wood, and who was not.
In the middle of the forest, in a small log cabin, Aino opened her eyes. Inside her, like in all living organisms, lived cells - the material she was built with. They all measured time. With an accurate circadian clock they knew the exact time to sleep, to wake up, to breed and to migrate. With the change in light and alterations in temperature they all acted accordingly. It was completely dark in the cabin. Aino sat up and her feet touched the cold, wooden floor. She quickly covered them with woollen socks. Aino got up and brewed strong coffee, warming her hands on the steam coming out of the pot. She lit a candle and sat down sipping from the cup. The windows were covered in frost and minuscule crystals veiled the glass, every single one unique. Nature was never dull enough to repeat its creations. The cabin had been buried in snow and it was very quiet inside. Tall trees hummed quietly outside in the light breeze, but the cabin was silent. Snow was a great insulator.
It had snowed heavily during the night and Aino had to push hard to get out. The cold air made her catch her breath and shook the last pieces of sleepiness away. She tightened the scarf around her neck and looked around, the landscape had changed. In one night the hard edges had disappeared, everything appeared soft. A thick layer of white had made everything heavy and slow. Aino looked up at the canopy of trees bathing in the morning sun. Around her tall, ancient trees, grandfathers and mothers, stared at her. They had been there before her and they would stay in the forest long after her. On the ground, under the trees heavy with snow, a whirl of tracks circled one another. Aino waded through the snow and made her way behind the cabin. Under tarpaulin lay a mound of dry wood. It had completely disappeared under the snow.
Inside Aino lit a small fire in the stove. As the wood caught fire the small cabin filled with a warm glow. Outside Aino climbed to the roof. With a long brush she pushed the snow down. She sat astride the roof ridge, pushing snow down on both sides. When she had cleared the roof she moved down to the ground to shovel. She shovelled the snow in to big piles and cleared a pathway around her house. As she worked Aino thought about the animals, all laying in their dens somewhere, buried deep under the thick layer of snow. She felt a togetherness with them. They were all on the same mission; surviving. Winter could be a lonesome time.
As Aino returned inside, the cabin was warm and inviting. She took off her gloves and rubbed her stiff fingers together above the stove. On the wall hung a framed photograph. It was the only decoration in the otherwise simple cabin. The frame was made of wood and painted black. Time had stained the picture yellow - in it three serious women stood side-by-side looking at the camera. The women were formally clothed, with dresses buttoned up to their necks. Sun had bleached the image and hidden their expressions, but the fire burning in the cabin enlivened their faces. Behind the women was forest. The three women stood close to each other and behind them, in an open patch between the trees, was a group of men. Their figures were blurred by movement and their shapes were faint. Aino did not recognize them, but she did recognize the forest. It had stayed virtually unchanged. Aino went to the back of the house. There she opened a cabinet and took out a small wooden chest. Inside was a black case. She dusted the case and opened its two latches. Buried in red velvet lay a white flute. She ran her fingers over the valves and they pressed down gently, making quiet sighs. Aino compiled the three pieces and aligned the parts. The flute felt smooth under her fingers. Near Aino's cabin, by the edge of the forest, a line of cliffs had formed. Their granite walls fell sharply down to the morass underneath, a steep and abandoned area. Rocks could unpredictably fall down from the cliffs and the ground was crossed with rotten tree trunks. Crows and wolverines hunted here. It was a great place to play. The cliff acted as an amplifier and when Aino played, the cliff multiplied her sound. It flattered her, making the sound she created appear grander, and last longer. As she played small rocks from the cliff fell to the ground creating new sounds to add to her orchestra. When Aino played here she felt like a small piece in a big, invisible network of sounds.
The day grew colder towards the evening. Frost started to clack. Aino stepped out to get firewood. As she walked to the forest the light of her lantern created a small circle and coloured the snow around her. Outside of the circle everything was dark. In the middle of the darkness a slender streak of smoke drifted across the air. Its form was almost unnoticeable, but it left a pleasant woody smell that wafted to the forest. Aino followed the smell of the burning wood and came to the sea shore. There she saw a sauna. Light shimmered through its small windows and birch was burning in the heater. From the sea blew a cold wind. Aino hunched her shoulders and looked out to the horizon. She could faintly see shapes in the distance. They appeared as constantly changing shadows, islands she was not sure really existed. Behind her she heard voices; from the forest travelled a row of women carrying towels and wash baskets with them.
Some were big, some small, some young and some old. Ten naked women filled the sauna. Some were old friends, some distant enemies, all with different stories and secrets inside them. Here it did not matter, all that was put behind them sitting in the dark, hot sauna. Here they were all one. Surrounded by their silence and the silence of the land, the women felt at home. They sat side-by-side, stripped of their status, naked, together, equal, clean. They entered the sauna every day to clean themselves, but also to connect with each other. It was a place where one could tell a secret to another, it was a confession room. It was a place which gave them a moment of calm in their lives, filled with endless duties. Aino looked at the faces of the women. Their life was full of hardship. Their uniform was made out of dirt attached to them from their daily tasks. They worked hard for what they had, and yet they found joy in their life. The smiles on their faces were not wiped away by their work. They lived together with nature. Their existence depended on a profound understanding of their environment. Water was thrown to kiuas, the heater. The spirit of the sauna hissed and the women crouched to escape the burning heat. It was very hot. Aino hunched down as water was poured over her back and head.
The evening filled with laughter as the women ran out of the sauna. Their bodies steamed and their bare feet sank in the snow as they ran to the pier. One by one they climbed down the steps into the icy water. Aino heard their screams as she walked to the forest. Fine powdery snow floated down all around her and quickly turned her wet hair to icicles.
The following morning brought light. Everything was white and small crystals glistened in the snow. The sun had warmed the ground and the densely packed snow was hard to walk in. The Shaman climbed up a steep hill, leaving deep tracks behind him. It was windy on top of the ridge. From here he could see the whole of the island, and beyond the shore the ice covered sea. The archipelago he saw below him consisted of hundreds of islands - all covered in a blanket of snow. The Shaman sat down and scanned the valley below. On the island lived a wolf pack. The Shaman had observed them for many years. He had witnessed their struggles and their triumphs. At present they were a strong, vigorous bunch consisting of eight wolves of different ages. Although not all related by blood, together they formed a united family. Soon they appeared from the edge of the forest. Traveling in a queue they stepped in the same tracks as they made their way in the deep snow. First arrived the light grey alpha pair, followed by the rest of the pack. They were an old couple that had been a lifetime together. The closeness of their bond was evident even to an outsider. The success and survival of the pack depended on their strength, knowledge and bond. The wolves scouted the plain; this was their territory. The young ones sniffed eagerly at everything in sight. Snow was new to them; this was their first winter.
Aino breathed heavily as she walked in the deep snow. Her eyes were fixed on the ridge in front of her, its top blended with the sky. Everything appeared as one, everything was white. The ridge reached above the forest. All around Aino could hear the song of birds. Bullfinches, sparrows, greenfinches and crested tits were all singing. These were the ones who stayed through the winter but the coldness, short daylight hours, snow and ice made survival a constant battle for the birds. Aino stopped to rest. She carved a seat in the snow and sat down. From her rucksack she took a rye bread, broke a piece and ate. Below her, down in the forest she could hear a jay screaming, its violent voice ringing loud in the still forest. Aino crumbled pieces of bread and threw them to the nearby birds. Carefully, but greedily, they approached the crumbs. From the top of the ridge Aino could see all of the forest, it continued as an endless wilderness and claimed most of the island. The whole forest was white. Aino could see the outlines, the shores of the island. The whole sea was covered in ice. Aino squinted her eyes but could not see open water. The wind interrupted her and hit her face with a force that at once was both caressing and violent. It craved her attention. Aino opened her mouth and the wind blew inside her as if into a deep cavern. The endlessness of the landscape compelled her to reply. Breaking the silence around her as if needing to know she existed, Aino filled her lungs with air. The cold air stung her sinuses as it travelled further inside. The sound began in her stomach. It travelled through her chest, passing her heart, the powerful pump made out of muscle, and came out of her mouth. A raw, unpolished creature escaped from inside her. Her true nature was let out. Aino felt it in her little parcels of organic chemicals. She felt it in her tissues. It shook her skeleton, the anchor of her muscles, and finally found a way out through her skin. Her love affair with nature was an ongoing dialogue and its profound complexity kept on challenging her body’s geography. The passion living inside a Nordic soul was not moved easily. It was like a deep well, a long stringed bucket was needed to reach its bottom and make a stir.
A thin, sharp layer of ice formed on top of the snow as the sun set. With the last rays of sun Aino walked down to the forest. The night was growing increasingly colder and she could feel it in her throat and nose as she breathed in. The wolves had started their choir. Silently Aino walked closer to the sound. On top of a small rock she saw the wolves. Their breath steamed and their heads were arched towards the sky. The pack howled at the night sky, claiming their territory, reassuring their individuality, and their bonds. Silently Aino watched them behind the trees. They played in the moonlight. Their breath steamed as they ran around a square between the trees. Even the cold winter night did not seem to affect them, their double layered fur protected them perfectly from the biting frost. The young, as well as the old, all played together. By biting, licking and wrestling they strengthened their bond. They were a strong family. Amongst their pack they showed incredible loyalty and closeness, but to outsiders they appeared indifferent. As Aino walked further a strong need to belong overcame her. In the middle of the dark forest she arched her head back facing the night sky and joined the wolves in their song.
Later that night it started to snow. Big heavy flakes drifted to the ground. Sturdy old legs and a trusty stick carved trails into the thick snow as the Shaman padded along. High above, a bright moon gave light to the world. It was the sun of the night. The lights in the sky, some brighter, some dimmer, were the corpses of the stars. The stars themselves were distant suns. Behind the trees, in the middle of the snow, the Shaman could see the pack of wolves running. Like ghosts they appeared from the darkness. Silently they stepped in the same tracks. This made moving in the thick snow more efficient. Their heads were lowered close to the ground and their small incisive eyes were locked on the forest ahead of them. The Shaman did not know what their quest was for, only the wolves themselves knew it. In minutes the wolves had passed by and disappeared deep into the forest. An eruption of colour filled the sky. The Northern Lights, or revontulet, Foxfire as the people of the north informally called them, played on the night sky. Vibrant greens, violets, yellows and blues all swished across the sky in amity. The complexity and excess of colour on the night sky reflected in the surrounding whiteness. Suddenly everything was filled with colour.
Throughout the night the snowfall became more violent. The wind blew hard and snow whipped the forest, but inside Aino's cabin it was warm. Darkness surrounded her like a big blanket as she curled up in her winter den.
The day was sunny and clear. The sun reflected from the ice and the wind blew small snowflakes into Aino's face. It was very bright. Aino covered her mouth and nose with a scarf and scanned the landscape around her. Vastness surrounded her; in front of her was the surface of the ice, on the horizon was the sun and far behind her the shoreline of the island. Scattered around her were islands and in the distance she could see a figure sitting on the ice fishing. On the kick sledge lay a pair of ice skates. Aino sat down and changed her shoes for the skates. The skates had once been white, but with time the leather had become covered in deep scratches. Aino kicked her feet for speed and the ice skates dug into the surface of the ice. Behind her she left a narrow white line. As Aino glided a sense of freedom filled her with ecstasy and a laugh escaped from her mouth. Nothing was holding her back. Aino danced on the ice, carefully jumping over the cracks. The surface of the ice was in some places smooth, but could quickly change to uneven. Narrow cracks crisscrossed the ice. It was in a constant state of change. The surface of the ice held many colours. In places it was dark blue, grey or white and sometimes appeared transparent. Dents in its surface created small prisms. Aino bent down and laid on the ice, it felt cool under her stomach. It was too thick to see what was below. Small bubbles had frozen into the surface ice. A strong breeze blew across the sea. Aino got up and spread her hands. The wind carried her across the ice. Her speed grew faster and the wind carried her far out to sea. It was almost like it was guiding her somewhere and suddenly the ice underneath her broke. The rupture was rapid and Aino was dragged underneath. Under the cold water she was hit with what felt like thousands of daggers. They pricked her all over the body. It was too dark and dense to see anything. The heavy ice skates dragged her down further. The cold water stiffened her quickly and made moving slow. The current started to carry her. Aino was floating in the sea like a small insect trapped in amber. Everything felt peaceful. The cold had captured her in its stillness and Aino felt as part of its fluid mass. The landscape of water ran quickly in front of her eyes and Aino closed them. She was completely still. A feeling of warmth crept inside her. A piece of seaweed wrapped itself around Aino's wrist and interrupted the stillness - it was the needed push to bring her back, a reference from the real word. Sisu, the little fighter that lived deep inside her lifted her head. Aino opened her eyes. Everything around her was dark. She lifted her head and saw the roof above her. Light percolated faintly through the thick ice. With great effort Aino reached for the ice. She beat the roof above with her fists. A scream escaped her mouth, forming a cloud around her. Aino span round and round in a net of bubbles. Water dampened her sound. It created invisible walls and captured the sound inside a box. Aino passed out. From inside the box with invisible walls, the sound started to seep out and spread across the sea.
The Shaman sat out on the sea ice fishing. Behind him was the island, around him openness. The sun shone brightly. A light breeze played on the surface of the ice lifting small snowflakes up. Next to him was a red bucket. In the bucket swam a school of perch. They turned restlessly in the small round space, with their dorsal fins aggressively open. Suddenly the Shaman heard a sound. It was a muted scream coming from underneath the ice. Quickly the Shaman kneeled down and put his ear next to the ice. The sound was repeated, this time with more violence. It was a cry for help. Rapidly the Shaman got up, scanning the ice. It was difficult to see under the thick, frosty surface. In a moment a dark patch flashed past the Shaman. Grabbing his ice drill the Shaman started to run.
On the other side of the island the wind was blowing harshly. The currents flowed stronger here and the sea ice never froze for long. In the cold water broken chunks of ice floated around like an unfinished jigsaw. With the ice arrived a girl - wrapped in kelp, she washed to the shore.