The Noaidi from Sápmi

The fire crackles low, and the smoke seeks its way up through the opening. Outside, the wind howls over the fells, and distant footsteps crunch in the snow. The Noaidi rests his hand on the rim of the drum. "Listen," he says, "for the sign does not come as a shout. It comes as a direction you already sensed."

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The drum beats when the wind turns

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