The Forest Finns Keep Heading West


Jan 13, 2020
Thought this might be fun...

Some proud Swedish farmers and an unruly group of Forest Finns with some stolen horses have boarded the ship with its mostly Dutch-speaking crew. They all almost kill each other as they cross the Atlantic as one of the elder Finns attempts to practice his healing troll arts, confident to cure one of the few farm girls of her never ending bowel illnesses with his shameless rituals.

Salvingly, the deep throated call falls from above signifying not just waves, but tops of trees! Strong, unbending trees can be spotted by the younger blue eyes, and cheers break out and then turn to joyful song. To be back beneath the soothing shade of the green woods, away from this glaring sun and the nagging ocean.

As they draw near to land they notice that the trees are of an exotic type not like the firs and birches they are used to. There is a small river with tall grass on each side. Good for farming, no doubt; but how good? They decide to arm the Finns and send them ashore to scout the inlands.

As they ride across the Savannah grass they notice smoke curling up towards the white clouds. A large herd of deer lift their noble heads and flee away to their right as they ride towards the source of the smoke.

It is a village of beautiful savages, who introduce themselves Chinimimbi a part of the dignified Shuar tribe. Well versed in the arts of farming. The forest Finns feel right at home, wondering if they should stay and learn from them, but then they realize the Swedes back on the ship already know how to grow plants in to most horrendous of locations, and probably will be taking care of those needs well enough. The native men finger with interest at the muskets, and shout gleefully as one of the Finns shoot towards a bird. After some slightly humiliating interactions where some of the irresistible Shuar women scold the deprived Finns for their shameless staring they move on southeast, into the woods...

Meanwhile the ship sails east along the coast and finds another Shuar village next to a field of cottony white plants. They disembark by the village and find a people with many interesting methods to catch fish. Maybe the forest Finns could learn something from these people the expert farmers conclude with impressed, thoughtful glances. The Shuar men pet the remaining workhorses, seeming to reach an instant bond.

A young Shuar boy leads the group of settler southwest of the village and points to the sea again. They must be on some kind of peninsula. He digs in leather pouch and pulls out something brilliantly white, round and shiny. A pearl, as big as a rooster's eye. The native boy points to the sea again, and smiles with eyes and teeth as white as the pearl. The Farmers breathe more quickly and glance at each other. The eldest clears his throat, "I believe we have found a good spot for our new home..."

A basecamp is quickly set up directly west of the Shuar village of Chinganza. The blue and yellow cross banner is attached to the top of the meeting tent and the farmers pray and sing a solemn hymn about providence and protection. :religion:

Some of the the younger farmers go down to the beach to cool down and perhaps catch some fish for dinner. They come back, beaming and glowing - they have harvested their first few pearls. "This is more satisfying than reaping the most bountiful crop of barley!" one exclaims. They had stumbled across some Shuar braves as they joyfully jog back to the camp, who stood so still and quietly stared at the young Swedes with some chillingly unfriendly countenances.

Shuar Stare.jpg
A feeling of caution mixes into the extatic mood of the latent colony as the boys mentioned the cold interaction. Maybe they were not in heaven yet after all. They name their first settlement Nya Christina, in honor of their queen, the pearl of their motherland... sort of. :king:

Enthusiastically the few riches are brought onto the ship, along with a large pile of deer skins purchased from the northern Shuar village. And with cheerful farewells the little Caravel is sent back to old Gothenburg. :traderoute:
After a while the Forest Finns come riding in from the north beaming with contentment. "Whaatt a waanderfful littlllle woodsh!" rang the exclamation as they rode into the settlement. You might think they should have made a remark about the perfect location of the basecamp too, but the tree-loving Finns knew where their real home was. They had brushed against evergreen branches resembling those of the Nordic lands, except often much larger and softer. They had spotted many curious animals, as well as fascinating small brush and mushrooms. "Seend us backk there to huuntt for food! There weren't a lott but enoough for a little food, and a shignificcant amount of furry critters thatt looked like graay squirrellss!"

woods (2).jpg

But the cautious farmers would not give in to the Finns' demands. Rather they thought it would be safer to send them east to the Shuar village with all those different fishing weirs and canoes. After all, they did not have the tools and time to make a spot suitable for farming. Maybe they might learn something about the contents and seasons of the sea here in this distant land; and hopefully they would then all be sure to have enough to eat and store up. Reluctantly, yet with great curiosity, the Finns left the horses and guns at the camp and joined the villagers in Chinganaza.

Meanwhile back in old Gothenburg Finnish relatives had been convinced to join the fledgling colony. The proceeds gained from the sale of fur and pearls was enough to equip them with tools and buy some stacks of cloth to hopefully sell in Africa at 3 gold per unit profit. Should the new pioneer be sent to the lovely little woods to improve the extraction of lumber? Perhaps build a trapper's hut? Or should he slash and burn and set up a farm for the expert farmers to work on? The nervous Swedish farmers really longed for the wooden chapels of home - a sanctuary to obtain the confidence and peace necessary to go on and grow in this new world of uncertainties.
In the Canary islands the Dutch captain of the little caravel manages to get his good deal on the cloth and thought it wise to take along a group of strong Africans perhaps better suited for the subtropical climate in the region of the new world colony than the already sun-scalded, constantly complaining Finnish pioneers.


fter a storm-free and leviathan-devoid journey across the Atlantic they arrive with much joy at the reunion of the Finnish relatives - sharing stories full of laughter, and salted Baltic herring, from the old homelands. The pioneers are introduced to the Swedish farmers through the questionable interpretation of the forest Finns - now freshly rebaptized as expert Fishermen back from their time in the eastern Shuar village - they ask about the new colony, the surroundings and their impressions of the new world. When the Fisherfinns translate the name of the new colony, the pioneers make a comment that cause the entire group of Finns to howl in uproarious laughter. The Swedish farmers blush and scowl, feeling they were the brunt of a rude joke. "It was not our intention to dishonor her majesty in anyway," the eldest farmer interjected sternly; "and we intend to rename this Fort Kristina as soon as we have put up a proper stockade.... Which is one of the things you can help us accomplish." The pioneers calmed their frivolity, listened to the translation and nodded their heads in approval. The next day they joyfully got to work in the little woods building cabins for the Africans to stay in and work from. Both the pioneers and Africans were happy to work together in the shade of the tall trees away from the stinging sun and sickening waves.

The Caravel once again left for Europe this time with a sizeable load of pearls and some of the 'what's this fluffy white stuff mother' purchased at the eastern native village. The feeling of increasing shared prosperity and the growth of the colony created an atmosphere of almost dreamy giddiness. Yet, late at night sometimes the farmers would wake from the drums, shrieks and howls of the Shuar rituals. Something about the savage sounds made them feel the current state of safety would not last for long. They would whisper prayers of 'deliver us from evil' and 'Thine is the colony' and then try to fall back asleep.
One morning one of the Finnish pioneers comes running to the settlement pale as foggy pearl in his block-shaped face. A few farmers gather around to ascertain the reason for the upsettedness but after failing to guess the message behind his hectic gesticulation, a fisherfinn is quickly fetched by one of the farmer boys to translate.
"A coupple of the Aafricans have been baadly hurtt in the woodsh. He says that someone has tuned the iron. Tuning the axes... againstt us."

The farmers look emotionlessly at the frightened Finns, not sure what the proper way to react would be. They do not want behave like superstitious old hags; but they also do not want to act unwisely in dealing with the many unfamiliar things they know they are up against. They motion to the interpreter to question the slowly re-reddening pioneer if he has any further proof. The young man nods with certainty, quickly turns away, and leads the growing crowd of people out into the woods.


eanwhile in Europe, the sale of pearls deliver an amazing mass of wealth. Drawn by the gleam of these treasures - as well as rumors of cedars so tall they polish the floorboards of heaven - waits a company of skilled Dalecarlian lumberjacks. The most prominent of these woodsmen, a man with hands as large as a mare's head and with a birthmark strangely resembling a oak leaf beneath his right eye, carries a good size sapling with him aboard the ship.
"I hope it drinks saltwater," a Dutch sailor remarks with a confused lift of his brow, in his unknown language. The woodsman smiles calmly at the sailor in a way that should leave him assured that he was not observing the activities of an idiot.
Also, the lumberjacks are furnished the provisions necessary to hopefully establish a second settlement if a good location is discovered; as well as some sailcloth to sell in Africa.
The bright, lovely, safe woods had somehow turned dark, ominous and frightening. Though the Swedish farmers were not going to admit to notice any difference; at least not do anything but blame the clouds, which for once had showed up to alleviate the constantly sunburned colonists on a day that they finally got to spend some time in the shade, and now actually needed the sun to filter through some lime green light. The forest Finns on the the other hand knew very well that the sudden clouds were a symptom not a cause - the woods now contained invisible powers that needed to be dealt with very carefully.

axes (2)_LI.jpg

First they reached the crowd surrounding the wounded Africans, one of them fatally it seemed, since he was not given much attention, and there was much blood; but another was being nursed by a female pioneer as he was howling and squirming with blood dripping down his forearm. The Fisherfinn acquainted with troll arts quickly went to work to stem the flow of blood. The Swedish farmers were not going to hinder him, and turned again to the young pioneer who had led them out into the forest. Again, pale as the bone in the arm showing from the dying African woodcutter, he pointed to the trunk of a tree. Something was carved into the tree, something like a poorly drawn image of a Shuar woman. The fisherfinn's gasped and muttered. The farmers scratched their heads and said nothing.
They all looked at each other with helpless stares beneath the eerie shadows of the dark leaves..
"We must hurry to finish the chapel," the Swedish farmers concluded. "This place is growing too wild for us - we need help from above."
When they finally turned their attention back to the wounded Africans, they not only found the one, but both of the poor men awake and recovering through the miraculous help of the Finnish clever-man.
"All the Glory be to God!" the farmers proclaimed with renewed confidence and relief, then scurried their way back to the settlement to finish their project.


When the Sunday came to dedicate the chapel the entire colony crammed into the small building, except the pioneer Finns who for some reason thought sending down the Africans on their behalf would suffice. The farmers frowned at the idea, but were happy to see the previously wounded African men smiling and looking healthier than ever.

The eldest Farmer took his place at the simple pulpit and preached a dull yet original sermon that seemed relevant to the situation they found themselves in, with the word of the day being "no weapon formed against thee shall prosper." Something about the freedom and lightness of the whole thing made everyone feel greatly relieved and encouraged. Then they sang Luther's hymn of how God was to them a mighty fortress, which woke up the Fisherfinns who without inhibition asked if they could repeat the last verse in Finnish, during which the Africans chimed in with voices and tones that shook the chapel and radiated their aching longing for autonomy and freedom. Which in turn left the Swedish farmers in awe, wondering if they had ever been truly free themselves until that moment in that place.

Just as they finished the meeting, the Swedish lumberjacks arrived with the equipment for the new settlement and weapons for its protection. The joy of that day could not have been greater.
The Swedish Farmers felt nearly overwhelmed with relief at the arrival of the lumberjacks. Their Darlecarlian common sense and confidence swiftly put a great deal of fears and concerns to rest, as they calmly redirected some misguided decisions. The Farmers soon handed over the the care of the deforestation as well as the building up of the colony to the Lumberjacks, lead by the man with the oakleaf birthmark. They quickly taught the Africans how to dive for pearls, then boarded the caravel along with the Pioneer Finns.

They were heading west again, looking for better land to farm; and for the Finns, less threatening forests - to love!


On the way they spotted a terrifying hunchback whale. It was November, and the cold wind was biting at the westmost legs. Something about the color of the enormous creature made the farmers feel like their souls had been sliced in halves. They avoided the big ocean-cow and her white-eyed stare as if she was some kind of giant fish.

They came into a peaceful lagoon and saw the soft smoke of another Shuar village. Children shouted at them from the shore. Hyperactive children, with brown or missing teeth. The Farmers decided to pay the village a visit...
Kapitel II

(Because we can’t just leave our poor stiff Swedes and jolly Finns stranded, nor marooned, far off at an unknown shore)

The Forest Finns took to oars while the Swedish Farmers took to steering, staring, and squinting at the bright noontide sun. As they fought their way across some crashing waves the lukewarm sea water splashed soothingly over their frying faces. They landed at the village of the rot-toothed children and were met by a young Shuar woman who evidently had not taken part in the same decadent fare as her younger siblings. Her brilliantly white teeth forced the weak eyed Swedes to avert their gaze to the slightly less bright necklace of pearls she was wearing; and since that was the only article she wore whatsoever the shamefaced Lutherans thought it safest to just keep staring at the piece of jewelry, with its intricate cotton embroidery, dangling doe tails and thin strands of spun sugar. The proud girl must have thought they were paying a compliment to her artisan abilities for she removed her necklace and offered it to the poor farmers as a gift. Having to change tactics they received the present and chanced a quick glance into the deep, dark eyes of the giver. The Swedish Farmers became transfixed, must have started hallucinating and began mumbling words of paradise, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone; and they did not come to their senses until the bone of a Finnish elbow struck them in the ribs. They bid the girl farewell and promised they would return with some nice painted glass articles, which she must have understood, for she seemed overjoyed at the prospect.

As they rowed back the Swedish Farmers sat with a sense of silent awe and promised to themselves they were going to do everything in their power to protect and maintain the sweetness and innocence of this Eden village; meanwhile the Forest Finns pulled at the oars never letting up on the cheesy grins which spanned across their wide faces
They rounded the village and turned northward. An old Dutch sailor with eyes as big as rum barrels shouted and pointed with shaking hands at the large fields of wild sugarcane. It certainly looked like a great location for a 2nd settlement, especially with a little river and a lot of hemp growing in like wildfire two leagues east; but the Swedish Farmers did not wish to disturb the villagers, so they once again took a turn and continued sailing eastward. Passing eerie looking hills, covered with carvings and strange structures clearly used by the natives for their savage rituals. Dark smoke from a small fire was slithering around the hills like a hungry python. They shuddered and moved on as quickly as the sails would let them.

Suddenly they came across a scene they were sure they had seen before. It was the location of their first landing those many months before. Their suspicions were confirmed - the vast new world they had discovered was nothing but a small island. The Dutch captain scratched the final strokes of the rough map he had been outlining.
“It looks the shape of a small, yet fat rodent with short extremities.” a Pioneer Finn pointed out when shown the chart.
They all agreed as they glanced at the map again, so they decided to name the place Mullwade Island.
Mullwade Island.JPG

Meanwhile back in Fort Christina the neighboring braves were growing hostile. A band of them came down raiding at night burning down the new constructions. The frightening event hit the colonists like the first rain of autumn. In the evenings the drums and chants seemed only to grow in intensity. The Dalecarlian Lumberjacks felt forced to abandon their work to guard the settlement fulltime, restoring a small slice of calm to the community.
The days were hot, the nights were hot, and all the colonists were drenched on the outside and dry on the inside. The few sources of clean fresh water available on the eastern parts of the island had shrunk down to their final trickles. Being perhaps in a slightly superstitious state as well as filled with a somewhat despondent - what use is all this wealth when there is nothing, not as much as a drop of water, to spend it on - attitude the settlers decided to pool a large part of the riches they had acquired in their yet plentiful pearl lagoon and send it to the Church back in Sweden to distribute to the poor and needy at home. Thus hoping The Good Lord would recognize this as a transaction worthy of a generous shower from His heavenly storehouse of more drinkable pearls, the colonists blessed their offering and waited with all eyes turned upon the depressingly blue horizon.

But instead of much needed rain, providence decided to wash ashore a shipwrecked German Evangelist, at an even more thirsty state than any of them had yet succumbed to. One of the Africans had been fortunate to find him hidden among some driftwood when he was searching for a stick to use as a quick fix tool while pearl hunting and carried him up to the buildings. The Lumberjack with the oakleaf birthmark had just finished a contraption to distill the seawater at a decent speed and gave its first batch to the half-dead man. He slowly revived and was soon off to the northeastern Shuar village to spread the good news.

Except the natives had no interest in even hearing anything he had to say. They must have believed that the present drought was brought upon because of their past interactions with the pale devils, for everyone old and young just fled the Evangelist when he came around proclaiming. The German decided to return to Fort Christina and took to preaching in the church.
"Beautiful and full of riches as this place is, this is not yet Heaven," he reminded the colonist through the help of an interpreter with questionable skills in the German language.
"That's right," a Fisher Finn, sick of lukewarm water, whispered, "No Heaven without God's good ice-water to jump into after you have sweltered a while in the hot smokehouse."

The Evangelists sermons had a refocusing effect resulting in less fear of death and earthly discomfort, as well as a wholehearted rededication to the will of God and the will of the Queen (who had referred to Herself as King but now apparently didn't wish to rule at all anymore and had seemingly also abandoned the Kingdom for warmer lands, but that did not hamper their newly found subservient zeal in any way).

The tall Lumberjack with the oakleaf birthmark sat fully awake at his guard post continuously scanning the spacious cottonfields for any movement that did not resemble that of a rabbit. The cool breeze from the south coast kept combing through his beard while the full moon gently poked him in the slightly squinted eyes. With his musket laid across his lap he kept his hands feeling and moving about making the finishing touches on the rustic nyckelharpa instrument which he had been building. Along with the German Evangelist a chest floated ashore holding among other things a high-quality cello with three sets of extra strings. The unfortunate owner of the chest should have packed an extra cello it seemed, because the cooking temperatures of these subtropical lands had caused the body and neck of the instrument to swell and snap. The Dalecarlian Lumberjack could not bear seeing the precious pieces of good wood, horsehair and metal go completely to waste, so he decided to turn it into a little hobby redemption project to keep himself preoccupied and awake with during the long and boring night watches.

So there, a little more polishing, a little more tightening and loosening, a slight shifting upwards; and now, gently plucking at the strings with his fingernails while pressing down the lowest key. Along with the crashing of the distant waves, he softly plays on each note, moving upward in pitch until he reaches the highest key. There he sighs with satisfaction, can’t get any higher than that, it is finished. Suddenly a faint but sharp whistling sound cuts into the dark and trumps the last note, and the Lumberjack shouts out in the highest note the thick strings of his throat could produce - which wasn’t very high nor loud at all - with a poisoned dart now embedded in it. A Shuar brave springs up from his dark nowhere and takes the musket from the still gazing man’s lap, leaving the pale devil’s squeaky witchcraft tool silent in the Lumberjack’s fallen arms.

The nearly waterless ship named Gotland stayed anchored there - like the island from which it stole its name - as lost and confused as the recently inflated circulating vessel named earth in its total dependency upon its now suddenly large and important sun. There it sat in complete internal disagreement upon which course would be the right one to take. The Dutch sailors were more or less sure that they should return to the lovely village with the sugar and the hemp to get the dark rum and white sails flowing. The Pioneer Finns strongly wished to make a home in the more coniferous woods that spread around the north-central village with its abundance of easily acquirable venison and fur, which at least somewhat resembled the Northern lands of their youth. The Swedish Farmers did not trust either option, but also did not know what they ought to do. They thought perhaps abandoning the island altogether and looking for better lands to settle might be the best idea; but if that was the case they would need to restock on drinking water since the hot weather had almost drained the ship of its final barrel.

So a few of the Farmers and Pioneer Finns took it upon themselves to row ashore and search for fresh water. While they climbed up the overgrown hills near a green river, the Forest Finns did their utmost to sell the absolutely amazing beauty and suitability of the area to the Swedes and to themselves (since it wasn't all that wonderful really). They even successfully hunted and killed an adolescent doe with a spade as to prove something; but it only saddened everyone, including the hunters, since she had hardly any meat on her bones and pressed out the most desperate, human-sounding cries while she was being slaughtered.


Meanwhile - with the most miraculous of all coincidences - a pearl hunter had returned to Sweden from the African colony after he had been injured by a shark. He had now recovered and hearing of the pearly riches of Fort Christina was looking for an opportunity to go there and show off his diving prowess, or to by any means get away from the miserably cold, paltry waters of the north.
Tumbling full barrels down overgrown hills proved to be easier than pushing the empty barrels uphill. The Pioneer Finns turned it into a competition and shoved at full force galloping their thick frames over shrub and stone. The more slender Swedish Farmers shook their heads at the lack of grace and childishness of the scene, but on the other hand could not let themselves be beaten, so they took up the chase. They tried to make up for their lack in brawn by looking ahead and gently steering the barrels onto the least resistant course. They actually seemed to be overtaking the Finns when suddenly the race leaders came to a still tumbling halt.

The Swedish Farmers stopped as well when they caught up, for crossing the racetrack were a group of elderly Shuar men. They were all carrying bundles of what appeared to be doll heads, and a Pioneer Finn started making a humorous remark about dolls being for little girls, when they all noticed that the small heads were made in the image of Europeans with their pale skin and beards. The Natives passed right in front of them, and one of the old men held up the dolls while producing a catlike hiss and grimace. That is when they saw the oakleaf pattern on the cheek of one of the heads. Suddenly the surrounding cicadas and the orchestra of frogs down by the river grew deafening in their mating symphony. These were not dolls - they were the heads of the Swedish Lumberjacks shrunken to half their size.

Then the Swedish Farmers shrunk back into frightened children longing for the calming comfort of mother. “There may be such a thing as the Underearthly,” she had said. “I don’t know one way or another, and maybe they do take children captive and drag them down into their holes.” Then she had wiped the flour from her hands and had looked intently at her small, shivering son. The wet branch of the budding birch had glimmered outside the open door. “But I know that this dungeon of fear that keeps a boy from being able to go to the outhouse is worse than any life underground, and I do not believe in that in you, my brave son.” Then she grabbed the lantern, took the boy’s cold hand and gently led him across the barnyard.
The Shuar elders passed, shaking their Dalecarlian heads; and the Europeans slowly continued pushing their barrels, driven deeply into sober thought. There was nothing now to race for.

“Have the Natives killed everyone in Fort Christina, or perhaps just some unlucky Lumberjacks out working in the forest? Should they return to the settlement to protect what was left? With what?! The horses and the hammers?”

When they finally reached the ship The Swedish Farmers and Pioneer Finns had all searched their despondent hearts and agreed - their only hope lay in going back to investigate the hills with the strange Native structures and black smoke. It would be life or death, with the odds leaning heavily towards death; but every other course would mean certain death that much they felt very clear about.

So around the ship turned and once again the slime green mermaid figurehead faced westward. The sun was setting behind the ancient structures, casting long shadows towards them. They decided that it was the honor of the Pioneer Finns to go first, since they at least had their sharpened spades to fight with. But the Swedish Settlers would follow right behind, no matter the outcome. Then the Ship would once again return to Fort Christina to hopefully find it not completely ransacked by the Natives.


Carefully the Finns snuck around the fallen buildings. Peering down into the holes and crevices, looking for an elusive something to aid them in their helpless predicament. Pushing some boulders over with their mighty frames. But the only thing they found was a family of what appeared to be some mix between beaver and hare, without the long ears, and not the big teeth, nor much of a tail. They gave the thirsty animals some of their water and almost convinced each other that surely this was what they had been seeking, that which would save their lives and grant them supremacy on the island. They were just about to turn to leave, their new pets in faithful tow, when they heard a faint sound of someone calling. Though they could not make out the words, it was absolutely clear what the meaning was. It was the voice of a man at the end of his strength, desperately crying out for help. The sun was down, it was getting dark. The scrambling hunt to find the source of the cries had begun.
Lanterns were fetched and lit. Fireflies flitted about the search party doing their futile part in decreasing the terrifying ambiance of that dark place. Statues were bumped into and toppled, large toothless mouths carved out of distorted stone faces looked to be shouting silent curses at the loudly cursing Finns as they crashed to the dry ivy blankets below. The sea kept sending its warm, comforting winds, gently prodding the men to continue. The Pioneer Finns excavated with their spades, they scraped at stone walls with their spades, they levered rocks with their spades, and they even decapitated an enormous snake with a spade just for a little diversion. Finally they located the place underground that held the sound of the cries. They bent and slid aside a large stone lid and stared down into the dark hole. A putrid stench of rotting flesh and all forms of expelled body fluids pushed back the curious faces of the down-lookers for a second. Then they lowered their lanterns and strained to make out what they might have discovered. Down at the bottom of a large room were scattered a large company of what appeared to be a pitiful mixture of dead or dying Spanish soldiers. An exhausted, but relieved man called up to the Forest Finns, which must have appeared like angels to him, for there was some kind of gracious reverence about his voice; and the Finns responded in the most down to Earth tone imaginable to hold out, they would soon be removed from this disgusting pit.


The Gotland nervously made its way to Fort Christina, which to their enormous relief was still standing, with the blue and yellow banner flying from the roof of the village hall. The Fisher Finns were even more relieved to see the Dutch crew. They told them of the devastating mutilation of the Dalecarlian Lumberjacks, as well as some more nighty arson raids on the new constructions. They brought the enormous amount of pearls that the Africans had harvested, as well as some cotton, and bid them safe travels back to Europe.
“If we die and get these sunburned heads removed, at least we will have given our lives enriching the homeland,” the Finns concluded with satisfaction, then went back to the boats and kept on fishing.
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