Tangled Roots

by Maria Turtschaninoff

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

The epic 400-year story of a family and a farm, deep in the magical Finnish forest—perfect for fans of North Woods and Tove Jansson's The Summer Book

"Maria Turtschaninoff has no equal when it comes to diving deep into the spirit of an era"  — Le Monde des Livres

Prize-winning author Maria Turtschaninoff delivers a mesmeric tale of nature, history and hope. Filled with fantasy, magic and a deep love of human connection, Tangled Roots is an epic, passionate story of survival.

An old soldier retires and is given a plot of land deep in the Finnish forest, as pension for his years of faithful service to the crown. Here, he carves a secluded croft and calls it home, but try as he might to tame the land, its wild magic endures.

From this 17th-century beginning comes centuries of his descendants who will continue work the farm, through days of plenty and famine, love and war, their fates entangled with the rhythms of the ancient wilderness, where mysterious shapes flit between the trees and danger lurks in the treacherous fen...

Like dragonflies darting over the marsh, their lives glimmer briefly and then are gone: a young girl entranced by the forest folk, a faithless fiancé who meets his match beneath the age-old branches, a farmhand with a strange obsession....

What endures is the wild landscape and its secrets. This place holds the certainty that wherever we put down roots, the land will grow roots in us too.

Release date: June 30, 2026

Publisher: Pushkin Press

Print pages: 416

Sample

A soLDieR fRom the WesteRn hALf of the kingdom had been promised a plot of land in the east as a reward for faithful service to the crown. He travelled by ship over the sea to the young town of Kokkola, then followed a river until he came to a small village. There was no church, and in the whole village, which was spread over a wide area, there were only fifteen smoking chimneys. He was advised where to go by the locals he met, who spoke Swedish, his native tongue, but there were those who spoke Finnish as well.
At the furthest eastern edge of the parish, he found the land that was now his to farm. He knew he would have to build a cabin by himself, but this did not bother him in the slightest. The woodland he walked through was dense and dark; nothing like the deciduous forests of his home. Here there was timber enough for a fine cabin. The treetops whispered like the sea he had traversed on his way to fight in the war. He had done well for himself in the war and earned the trust and respect of officers and fellow soldiers. But he was not made for killing and plundering. He was made to hold a shovel, hoe and plough. He imagined the weight of the tools in his hands as he walked.
He spent the night in the forest and set off again before day- break. When he reached the hill where he was to build his croft, it was still early morning. The full moon hung low above the treetops, white against the pale spring sky. It had risen before the sun. He stood for a long time gazing at the hill. The forest was thick, and at the foot of the slope flowed a stream, swollen with rippling meltwater. He could picture where his house would stand and where he would create his first field. He could fetch his water from the stream until he dug a well. The forest would provide more than enough firewood. Here was everything a man could ever need. This was virgin soil, and he was primed to tame it, to sow his seed and make the land bear fruit. He would be as tireless as the May moon and rise before the sun to begin his labour. Many of the place names in these parts were a mixture of Finnish and Swedish, and sometimes more languages besides. This plot was called Nevabacka, for it was on the only hill—backa in Swedish—in a sunken area filled with bogs—neva in Finnish. And as was the custom, he would henceforth be named after his croft. Matts Mattsson Rask became Matts Mattsson Nevabacka. A robust and hard-working man was Matts Nevabacka. He felled large firs and built himself a cabin at the top of the hill with a magnificent hearth that kept the single room warm even on the coldest winter days. He burned out a field next to the cabin. He sowed his first seeds and, though it was not much, he knew that this was his chance to finally be his own man. To shape his own destiny and make his own decisions, no longer beholden to officers and kings. Never again would he follow orders, never again would he risk his life on someone else’s whim. He would use his life as he saw fit. Every swing of the axe, spear of the skewer and strike of the spade brought him profound satisfaction.
Yet the forest was not easy to tame; it resisted. The trees were resinous and difficult to fell. The stumps refused to be torn from the ground, no matter how he pried. And the earth was stones, stones and still more stones. He heaved them out of the soil and stacked them into cairns around his little field and fell asleep in the evenings dreaming of stones. He dug and skewered up roots that clung to the rocky soil as stubbornly as if they had minds of their own.
For a while he was content in his solitude and even preferred it to the enforced company of soldiers. But then a new desire was born in his breast: he dreamed of a son to assist him in his labours. Perhaps two sons, strong and capable. Surely with their help this forest would bend to his will. With sons by his side, the rocks would almost fly out of the muddy earth.
Yet he had neither sons nor a wife, and there were very few womenfolk out here in the wild woods. The nearest hamlet had but two chimneys and no women of marrying age at all. Matts had no time to visit markets or other places where he could imagine coming upon eligible maidens.
Then one day an idea struck him. North of his croft was a treeless marsh. He was loathe to go that way, for something was there watching him every time he drew near, he was sure of it. It was sacrilege to say so, but the surrounding woods were inhabited by more than birds and beasts alone. The villagers made sure to stay on good terms with the forest folk, or else stayed well away from them, according to the customs of the times. It happened that people brought them offerings, though always in secret, for it was against the teachings of the church. Yet sometimes there was simply nowhere else to turn for help in the face of famine or disease.
Being a stranger to these parts, Matts knew very little about the forest folk. He knew nothing of their names or ways. He always carried steel with him when he ventured into the forest and sang hymns loudly if necessary. He had a deep and resonant singing voice. The forest folk had no love for the Christian God; everyone knew that. It was not that he was afraid, but he knew to be cautious.
If only he could drain that marsh, he would have the finest, softest, most arable soil, completely free of stumps and roots. What a lot of work that would save him! He could already picture the land filled with abundant swaying rye. Prosperity—that was what the marsh would mean for him. During his time abroad, he had learned a little about draining lakes. He knew how it could be done, though he also knew how difficult it would be for one man to accomplish alone. Once he had made up his mind, he did not tarry, but set out for the marsh with his shovel and hoe. It was a hot summer’s day, and a dense swarm of mosquitoes and gnats hummed above the sedge tussocks. The sky was a sharp blue. No birds sang. A single red-crowned black woodpecker drummed out its rhythm against a hollow tree trunk at the edge of the marsh. As he put down his shovel and hoe, Matts caught sight of some small flowers with golden petals growing along the boundary of the wetland. He had never seen anything like them before. He thought they must be a good omen. Here, this was where he would dig the first dyke.
Matts set to work. He was aware of the vast difficulty of his impending task, but this did nothing to curb the power of his thrusting shovel or the zeal with which he swung his pick.
He worked hard and did not pause to swat away the flies and mosquitoes. When the sun was at its highest and hottest peak, he drank water and lay down to rest awhile in the shade of a fir tree.
He dreamed that someone came to him, some sort of being it was, with long dripping hair and eyes like golden petals. The being smelled of moss and marsh water, its hands were twisted and gnarled like a mountain pine, and its clothes were woven from cottongrass. In the dream, Matts crossed himself, for he understood perfectly well who had come to him. The being stood in front of the marsh with its hands raised in a defensive position. It pointed to the woods in a way that appeared wel- coming, inviting. Then it made deterrent, dissuasive gestures around the marsh.
Matts awoke, dazed and with a dry throat. It was not in his nature to be easily frightened. He had seen much that had hardened him, made him calloused, that had made his soul as tough as granite. He had witnessed his countrymen plundering to slake their lusts: women, food, gold. A dream would not trouble his mind.
He continued with his task. A few days later, again he dozed off by the marsh, with a stump as his pillow. Again the creature came to him. This time it was angry. Its golden eyes flashed. The ground beneath them was boggy and precarious. He understood perfectly well what the creature wanted. He was not to disturb the marsh.
Matts awoke as before and resumed his work. No one could intimidate or instruct him any more. He was his own man and would swing his pick exactly as he pleased! Yet he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched while he worked.
After a week or so of toil, he spent the night next at the marsh in order to continue digging early the next morning. He awoke at dawn when thin veils of mist were drifting across over the swaying sedges. A crane called somewhere nearby. Mistle thrushes and song thrushes chattered in the trees around. The black woodpecker was pecking, as always. A grey-headed wood- pecker let out its melancholy wail.
He picked up his shovel.
Then he saw someone walking towards him across the marsh. Or was it just the billowing mist? If it was a person, they were treading in the most sunken, waterlogged patches of land.
Matts crossed himself. Clutched the steel in his pocket.
The mist closed in, took on form—a soft, curving form. The figure was coming straight for him. It was a woman, with long hair as golden as those little flowers that had just surrendered to his shovel. It cascaded down her back, unbound and tangled. Her arms and legs were long and slender like sedge grass. She smiled at him and her eyes were moss-green. Though Matts had seen, and had, many beautiful women on his travels, none could compare to her. She said nothing and simply stood before him in all her nakedness and loveliness. Then she laid her hands on his shoulders, and he inhaled her rich, dark scent. She pushed Matts down onto the boggy ground, untied his trousers and straddled him. He had never experienced anything like it, not even with the strumpets of Prague.
Once they had both finished, she disappeared again across the marsh without a word. Matts was spent and weak, and he struggled to trudge back home to the croft. More digging was out of the question.