My Name Is Magic

Author’s Note

I was fifteen when I fell in love with Finnish heavy metal. Thanks mainly to Nightwish, but also to Children of Bodom, Ensiferum, Sonata Arctica, and Moonsorrow, I very quickly became obsessed with all things Finnish. So obsessed, in fact, that when I discovered my university had an exchange program with the University of Jyväskylä, I changed my major so I’d be eligible for the program.

I went on exchange and as soon as I stepped onto Finnish soil, I knew I was home. It might sound a bit OTT, but as someone who had always struggled to fit in, had never quite felt like they belonged, I arrived in Finland and everything just felt right: the nature, the people, the culture, the music—everything! Suffice it to say, I have loved Finland for a very long time and while I can only ever lay claim to the smallest smidgen of Nordic ancestry courtesy of my Viking ancestors settling in England, I am extremely proud to now be a Finnish citizen and to call this wonderful, if at times strange and seemingly inhospitable, country home.

It is from a place of love and respect for Finnish culture and mythology that I began writing this book. Finland’s ancient pagan history has been eroded and even actively suppressed by oppressive forces throughout the centuries. As a result it’s difficult to find references to Finnish mythology beyond the national and well-known epic, Kalevala, especially in English. Much of what was compiled by Elias Lonnröt for the version of the Kalevala known today was borrowed from local folklore shared in the oral tradition, stitched together, altered, corrected, and sometimes embroidered with Lonnröt’s own interpretations as well as a liberal dash of Christian influence. I have done my best to include older, more authentic, pre-Christian mythology in my story.

While my hunt for Finnish paganism led me to various corners of the Finnish and English Internet, to websites, blogs, personal Instagram accounts, and beyond, I did make extensive use of Risto Pulkkinen’s Suomalainen kansanusko: samaaneista saunatonttuihin, a book I know is an imperfect resource but one of few regarding traditional Finnish mythology. In My Name Is Magic, I have tried to stay true to the essence of the mythology and be fair to the many creatures living in the Finnish forest that peacefully coexisted with the earliest Finns before later being labeled as devils by Christian interlopers. But, this remains a work of fiction, and so I have certainly taken some liberties with the mythology—like adding runes from Norse folklore as well as my own—and it should therefore be seen as a story inspired by rather than based on any particular aspect of this rich, if lesser-known, mythology.

There’s magic in the world. All different kinds, seeping into the veins of people across the planet. Sometimes it soaks an entire family tree, flowing up from the roots and extending out through every branch.

Sometimes it prefers those with a sprinkling of fairy blood or a smattering of troll genes, and sometimes it ends up in a person with entirely human DNA. From Longyearbyen to Cape Town, Los Angeles to Suva—there’s no escaping it.

And then there’s me—a tiny leaf at the end of a twig shooting off a long branch of the giant, sprawling, epic Turunen family tree, making me a descendant of some of the most powerful tietäjät in Finland. Potent lineage, right? Bet you think that means I’m guaranteed to be a total badass, right?

Wrong.

Fact is, I don’t have magic at all. Not a drop, not a sliver, not one single quark of the stuff and, to be honest, I’m a little bit bitter about it—especially considering my name.

Taika. It literally means magic. So, thanks, Mom and Dad for naming me the one thing I’m not.

1

It’s not fair the week starts with the worst subject in the world: Practical Thaumaturgy. Theoretical Thaumaturgy, now that would’ve been just fine, but anything involving actually doing magic only makes me want to puke.

Trudging through the soggy fallen leaves, I drag my feet to first period. So far my morning is going great. I slept through my alarm and had to eat cold porridge, then I forgot my mittens and when I rushed back for them, I slipped on the porch steps and tore my favorite jeans—skinning my knee in the process. Now, as if all of that wasn’t bad enough, the clouds have started spitting sleet into my face.

A typical Monday really.

Worst of all, I still don’t have any good ideas for newspaper articles. There’s a measly six hours until our next Journalism Club meetup and I’m fresh out of inspiration.

Familiars in School: Why Magical Animals Are a Distraction in the Classroom

Snoozefest.

Conjured Candy Not a Healthy Lunch Choice

Most kids wouldn’t agree.

Is PE Really Necessary at a School for Magic Wielders?

Hm. How do I convince the other ninth graders to ditch sports in favor of an extra library period? Who wants to run around a field when you could be reading?

The late bell is ringing and I pause, wobbling between choices. It’s not like I want to be one of those kids who skip class, but I’m so tired of being the one who sucks at pretty much everything. This class is pointless for me anyway. It’s an argument I’ve had before, but when your mom’s school principal it means having to attend all your lessons even if you have gross ineptitudes, as my sixth-grade conjuring teacher put on my report card. He doesn’t work at the school anymore.

So, inept it is today, which is only questionably better than tardy. I skid-run up the path toward the entrance of Myrskyjärvi International School—for the Magically Gifted. I try to ignore the last part of the school’s name the same way most people ignore me.

I’m about to slip through the doors and instead end up body-slamming Emmi Lehtinen , who’s on her way out.

Ah, there you are. We’re having class outside today, Emmi says. Her robes, better suited to the thirteenth century, swirl as she turns. Other teachers wear jeans and sweaters beneath sensible jackets. Not Emmi.

Does Emmi Lehtinen LARP 24/7, or Is She the Victim of a Chronomancer’s Evil Prank?

Would the editor of the Myrsky Messenger let me write that? Probably not.

Sorry I’m late. I ignore the snickers from the rest of the class.

You arrived precisely when you needed to. Here, you can help. Emmi winks as she hands me a black velvet bag. No wonder they call me teacher’s pet but… I can’t really complain. Emmi is one of the few teachers who actually acknowledges my existence and lets me do stuff in her class. I take the bag and head out into the miserable drizzle of Finnish autumn.

While the others amble behind, most of them complaining about having class in the wet, I catch Natalie’s eye and give her a tiny wave.

Hi. She gives me a smile that dimples her left cheek. She seems about to say more when Sini, Aysha, and Ekaterina sweep past.

Urgh, why are you even here? Sini says. It’s the same question I ask myself pretty much every day. I glance at Natalie, hoping my once-BFF will stick up for me like she used to, but Aysha loops her arm through Natalie’s, giving me some serious stink eye.

Natalie mouths sorry, letting herself get swept away by the others, already chatting about a weekend shopping trip to Stockholm. Natalie hates shopping. Maybe Aysha would figure that out if she ever let Natalie get a word in edgewise.

Off they go, the formidable foursome, leaving me feeling as hollow as the rotten oak clinging to the edge of the path and casting gaunt shadows across the school’s entrance. It’s barely standing, just a shell of gnarled bark with nothing on the inside but bird poop and an abandoned squirrel’s nest. Yip, that’s me.

Useless, pathetic, waste of space, the little voice at the back of my mind starts to whisper. I hate that voice, but no matter how tightly I squeeze my fists and will the voice to shut up, its words play on repeat. That voice wasn’t nearly so loud back when Natalie was my friend, back when she was still new to the school, fresh and shy from her home in Johannesburg.

All that changed last year, and I mean, I get it. Natalie wants friends like her, friends who share her magical abilities, not some useless, pathetic, waste of space like me. I can’t blame her, but it doesn’t make the knot of thorns in my chest any less prickly when I think about it.

Studying the muddy path, I keep my head down and hood up as Emmi leads us into the forest around the back of the school, away from the lake.

Ridiculous weather. Ridiculous trees and ridiculous leaves clinging to my boots. I stomp my feet but only succeed in splashing mud onto my ankles. I hate everything about this day. I don’t understand why my parents force me to go to this horrible school where no one wants me.

Right, class. Today we’re going to practice sourcing and storing natural energy, Emmi begins and everyone groans. Divide into your houses.

The others grumble even as they gather in their elemental groups. I study my hands, imagining what it must feel like to control electricity the way Ekaterina does. Well, technically it’s lightning thanks to her great-great-great-times-infinity-grandfather being Perun, the Slavic god of storms. All I can do is watch as Ekaterina and Natalie join the other fire mages in House Fajro.

Natalie straightens her shoulders in her red jacket with white faux fur on the hood. She tugs her matching beanie down over her hair. My cheeks heat as I remember how she used to let me help her tie it in puffs and how she used to braid mine back before I cut it all off.

Right, Fajro, let’s do this. Natalie assumes leadership given she’s the most gifted fire wielder in the whole school. And we’re not talking some ordinary pyrokinesist here, but a genuine fire mage thanks to Muspellian genes from her Norwegian mom. Natalie controls elemental fire as easily as others breathe.

She catches me staring and I look away, face as hot as the flames Natalie conjures from her fingertips.

Out of the way. Sini shoulder checks me to join the water kids in House Akvo. Sini’s family originates from a Karelian lake goddess, or monster—depending on which version of the story you believe—although I don’t see how it can possibly be the former.

With a flick of long dark hair, Aysha sashays over to the rest of House Aero. Her magic is a more mystical sort and not technically even elemental. She controls energy by humming. Since humming requires breathing, she got lumped in with the rest of the air users.

Of course, I’m all alone. Thanks to the school’s Everyone in their element motto, I’ve been dumped in House Tero with the rest of the earth elementalists. Mostly it’s so I can wear a house shirt when required, but having a green T-shirt doesn’t mean I belong.

Budding mages! Emmi claps her hands. Today each of you will receive a simple amulet. She gestures to the bag I forgot I was holding. Your task is to imbue your amulet with pure elemental energy.

Why? Juan asks from the back.

Because your magic is only as strong as the amount of energy you can manipulate. When you’re young and healthy, that might seem like a lot, but as you age or if you’re injured or need to perform a big spell, you may need more energy than you can muster yourself.

That’s when you can draw on external sources, right? Aysha asks.

Some external sources. Emmi nods. Like amulets, talismans, or natural springs of magic, if you can find them.

Easy enough here, Sini adds.

We’re lucky in Finland, Emmi says.

That’s why we’re here, Juan chirps again.

And when you’re not in Finland, blessed with access to the last vestiges of raw, elemental energy, then what? Emmi’s tone turns serious. Don’t assume you’ll always have power. Don’t assume there will always be magic, because at the rate we’re consuming— She bites her lip, silencing the tirade—a word my brother Toivo often uses to describe Emmi’s lectures on the conservation of natural energy.

Emmi takes a breath, seems to force a smile, and asks, Tell me class, where else in the world can we still find viable wells of natural energy? She scans the students. Yes, Natalie?

Mostly remote areas like the Outer Hebrides, parts of southern Chile, areas in Nunavut, Svalbard, the forests of Brunei, Kamchatka in Russia, and— Natalie blinks, then shakes her head.

Taika? Emmi says.

Great, now everyone is looking at me. Why do teachers always pick on me when no one else raises their hand? If only I could pretend not to know, but I do know so of course I have to answer because my brain apparently loves how the others glare at me.

Namibia. The answer tumbles from my mouth. The Virunga Mountains in the Congo, and a few oases in the Sahara. And actually, the reserve in Kamchatka was just declared depleted. I saw it on the news last week. It made my parents brood in unhappy silence all evening.

You’re absolutely correct. Emmi looks pleased.

Natalie gives me a crooked smile from across the glade and you know what, that makes all the other daggers thrown my way entirely worth it.

Right, grade nines, your task today is to find a source of natural energy in this forest and imbue your amulet. Taika, please.

Grudgingly, I dish out the amulets: some wooden, some metal or stone, all of simple design.

I didn’t know mages got personal assistants. Ekaterina sneers, her teeth held hostage by silver wire and red elastic, as she plucks a metal amulet from the bag.

Hey, maybe one day someone might actually hire you to hold their grimoire while they do magic, Sini says.

"A know-it-all, can’t-do-anything." Aysha chooses a wooden amulet. I’m about to attempt a snarky comeback when Natalie beats me to it.

Could you not? She steps between Aysha and Sini, jabbing them with her sharp elbows.

I didn’t know about Kamchatka, she says to me, dipping her hand into the bag. It’s a little scary we’re losing so much magic. She holds my gaze and I want to respond, I do, but for some unknown reason all the blood has rushed out of my brain and all I can do is stare at her. How have I never noticed the flecks of gold in her deep, brown eyes?

As if they could care? Ekaterina butts in. They’re just Taika the Talentless.

Katya, don’t call them that, Natalie says.

Ekaterina shrugs skinny shoulders in her studded leather jacket and trails after Sini.

Ignore them. Natalie hovers a hand above my arm that never lands. You know it’s not true.

Isn’t it? I can’t look at her. If I do, I might cry, and the class doesn’t need any more reasons to think I’m pathetic.

With a sigh, Natalie follows her new and magical friends into the woods, leaving me alone with tears burning at the back of my nose and a churning in my belly that has nothing to do with the cold porridge I ate for breakfast.

The earth group steps up to get their amulets. If they make any comments, I don’t hear them. I can’t, not over the voice at the back of my mind now sing-songing Taika the Talentless on repeat.

I’ll never fit in at this school. I don’t know why I keep trying. It doesn’t matter that I know the Intermediate Spell-Weaving textbook by heart, that I know all the house runes and how to combine them into sigils better than most of the tenth graders studying Runelore, or that I can recite almost all of the spells Emmi teaches in Advanced Thaumaturgy to twelfth graders. What does knowing any of that matter when I’ll never be able to do anything?

And, no matter how many textbooks I study, no matter the many hours I spend poring over the tomes in the library, I’ll never find the answer to the only question that matters.

Why the hell don’t I have magic?

Feel free to move about, Emmi says. Just don’t go beyond the parking lot or MacCrone’s cottage.

The groups spread out, fingers sparking magic as they search the forest for energy.

If you know how to look, magical energy can be found almost everywhere in Finland. Even in urban areas, pockets of the stuff exist and might even be coaxed from cracks in concrete, if you’re strong enough. Out here in the countryside it’s much easier.

The forest around Myrskyjärvi is old, like ancient, and still resonates with power. Apparently. Not that I can feel even the faintest thrum of magic the way the others can.

The school was originally an old manor house, built some 250 years ago for the legendary Gustafsson family. Hard-core mages—very famous back in the day—who detected and then called dibs on the thick artery of power running right beneath our feet. When Old Man Gustafsson kicked the bucket, he left his estate to the National Board of Mages (his descendants are still ticked off about that), specifically to be used for educational purposes, and so here we are. Now kids come from all over the world to Myrskyjärvi to develop and hone their craft, or so goes the sales pitch.

An oak towers over me and I gaze up into its branches, hoping to catch a glimpse of…something. All I get is an eyeful of the crows Mom spelled to watch over me. That’s right, I’ve got a murder of babysitters even though I turned fifteen last month. Musti has a smudge of white, Rekku has the ragged tail, and Kamu is basically a football with feathers.

Warily, I pull off my mitten and place my bare hand on the tree.

Rough bark, damp wood, cold air. Not sure why I expected anything else.

Emmi settles on the log beside me. A large tabby with four white socks drops from the branches and curls into Emmi’s lap. Kalma, Emmi’s familiar, regards me with yellow, unblinking eyes.

Are you all right? Emmi’s kind face is pinched with concern as she strokes the vibrating feline.

How am I supposed to answer that? Would she even want the truth?

I know these classes are hard for you, Emmi continues, gently, like she’s handling me. I know the other students give you a tough time about all this. Would you prefer a—

A fist of energy erupts from the oak, blasting into my shoulder in a shower of bark. Kalma yowls and shoots off into the woods. The crows shriek and flap in the branches. I brush leaves out of my hair and check for damage. There’s a bubbly sear on the tree and a scorch mark across my jacket. Mom is not going to be pleased.

Was it Sini or Ekaterina? I search the woods, scanning the faces for a smirk. A second fist of energy rises out of the tree, but before it can reach me, it ignites into flame then shrivels into ash.

Are you all right? Natalie asks, tiwaz, a House Fajro rune, sparking in the air above her right hand.

My heart kicks double time as I try to nod and catch my breath. Natalie releases the rune and slips her hands back into her pockets as if what she did was no big deal. I still can’t breathe and it has nothing to do with being assaulted by magic.

Who did that? Emmi’s face turns an ominous purple.

Seventeen nervous, expectant faces peer out of the forest in tense silence.

All of you, come here this minute. Emmi turns every word into a sentence and we all obey.

This is unacceptable, Emmi begins. If that was anything more than an accident, the culprit will face serious consequences. And do I need to remind you how precious elemental energy is?

A few students roll their eyes as our teacher launches into yet another tirade on the importance of conserving magic and not wasting it on what she calls frivolities. I’m not convinced attempting to beat up a classmate with magic should count as mere silliness, though.

Greater Disciplinary Action Required for the Misuse of Magic

I start composing the article in my mind as I scowl at Ekaterina. It must’ve been her!

Who has successfully imbued their amulet? Emmi asks. No one raises their hand. I see. You can’t find enough magic to charm a necklace, but you’ll waste it on nasty spells. Her voice is steely and calm and terrifying. We all look down.

Everybody, put your hand on a tree.

We do.

Do you feel that? Emmi’s own hand rests close to mine on the injured oak.

Most of the others nod, a few frown or even grimace.

A faint thrum, a gentle crackle, very little even at this time of year, Emmi continues.

Rough bark, damp wood, cold air, and an itchy tingle in my palm. Great. Seems I’m developing an allergy to lichen.

I wish I could feel you, I think at the trees. I wish I had magic. Not that wishing will achieve anything.