In Wonderland: A Combination Of Fact & Fiction

“I hoped to ease you into this, Caroline, but they arrived earlier than anticipated, and there will be others. That’s why I opened your mind, so we could understand each other. I would have waited and tried to explain the need for it otherwise.”

“Right, well, I’m going to move on from that. The thing that you killed in the forest, what was it?”

“It used to be a man,” Yrsa said, leaning over the kitchen island. She pushed the eggs in front of me. “We call them Ástarlauss.”

“Ástarlauss,” I mumble, the word cold and sharp as glass in my mind. “Loveless?”

“Yes. Good.”

I laughed at the absurdity of routine and surreal mixing together, but took a bowl from a cupboard and started to crack the eggs.

“When he was a man still, he was a Ulfheðinn. They wear the skin of wolves, becoming feral while remaining men. A warrior, favored by our Gods, cherished most by Odin, who blessed them to be both man and wolf. They are a sight to behold in war. No steel can pierce their skin. Their shields are bloodied by those they kill, but they remain unharmed. You can hear their howls from a great distance. They are wild, frenzied in battle, but agile and clever.

“Úlfhéðnar travel as a unit, behaving like men and beast in the same bodies. They don wolfskins for the first time in a ceremony. They treat them as coats of honor. Tírbrynja. A shift in consciousness occurs, revealing the duality of their nature: they think and speak as men, yet shriek and growl, standing upright or running on all fours. Úlfhéðnar fight in a trancelike fury, but they’re cunning, not mindless. They depend on each other and can be trusted. They are members of the Chieftain’s Guard, honored and respected, serving only the honorable and abandoning the wicked, when a Chieftain turns to cruelty against his people. It means they’ve fought for both sides, for all sides, throughout our history.”

Yrsa studied my work, pausing to ask, “What are you adding to the eggs?”

“Goat cheese and red pepper,” I replied, slicing the pepper and adding salt to the eggs. “Where do they come from, these warriors?” I asked her, chuckling at myself for feeling awkward over the use of the word.

It was strange to accept Yrsa’s story as truth, without having seen what she killed. But here we are, cooking eggs and talking about strange things. Maybe I was locked away in a psych ward somewhere, hallucinating. A quick flex of my hand reminded me that I was here.

“A young man would walk into the forest alone, and for a period of time, he would hunt and kill savagely, tearing at flesh and living like a wolf,” Yrsa continued, ignoring the gagging sound that I made.

“He would have to find an old Ulfheðinn, a seasoned warrior who had abandoned his group, and kill him. Their wolf-skin would become the young man’s. Each time this happened, the next warrior’s power increased. Generations of them in the coat of one, if one knew who to kill. Some of them were related to each other. It became an honor to be succeeded by a relative; to kill an ancestor. If the young man survived, he would walk out of the woods and be blessed by the Gods as Ulfheðinn, in a ceremony led by the vǫlur of the village, and any Úlfhéðnar present.”

“So, you believe in Gods. Odin, Freya, the whole thing?”

“That is the thing you’re questioning,” Yrsa scoffed. “Look at how many different Gods people worship now, each of you convinced of your own righteousness. Yes, I do. It does not matter which of us is right. We are alive, then we are not. Perhaps one of us will get some of it right.”

“Fair enough. So, what happened to the one you killed?”

“I do not know his name, but he was one of them. Used to be one of them. Until he lost his way to greed, and a slow corruption took root within him. He walked a perilous path, slowly shedding his virtue with each step, one betrayal at a time. Then he found him, and he became one of his monsters.”

“Is that code for ‘turns out he’s an asshole,’?” I quipped.

Yrsa tilted her head, thinking it over, then threw her head back and laughed.

“Yes, and I like that word. Asshole, like my sister’s husband.”

“What happened to him? The Ulf—I’m going to call him Jack for now.”

“I could not recognize him for who he was, or if I knew him. His body had warped, skin and muscle, bones and blood, all twisted and exsanguinated. It’s quite violent,” Yrsa grinned, and picked up a fork to examine it.

“I bet,” I answered, and plated the eggs for us.

“Blood and mucus, semen and piss and spit,” Yrsa punctuated with her fork, making stabbing gestures in the air. Her eyes glimmered with mischief, unbothered by the violence.

“His tears and bile and sweat. The fluid in his spine and his brain. Every liquid streams out of his body. It pours out of his eyes and nose, his mouth, every hole. He vomits or shits his organs,” Yrsa paused to stab at the eggs, excited when she succeeded the first time. My stomach gurgled unpleasantly while I watched her chew.

“He goes mad from the pain. His eyes darken as he discards his önd, his life force or spirit, to become something else. Then he is a monster.” Yrsa finally paused to eat another mouthful.

“This is good. You’re not eating. You should eat before it gets cold.”

I rubbed my stomach gently to reassure it, hungry but disgusted. “I think I’m going to need a minute.”

Yrsa laughed, “You are not a warrior. Yet.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass on the toughen up lecture for now, thanks, kid.”

Yrsa ignored my jab and ate the hunk of cheese that I added to her plate.

“Wait, who’s the other guy in this story?”

“There are some who are foolish enough to wear wolfskins, pretending to be Úlfhéðnar, but are only impostors. Eager for the accolades, but void of any honor. One of them, Ivar, was caught and punished by a King, a long time before I was born. He managed to escape after he was branded and whipped. My great-grandmother, Liv, was a child at the time. Her mother was a vǫlva too,” Yrsa leaned towards me, placing her hand on mine.

“All of the first-born daughters are vǫlva in our family, Caroline. From the root of the tree. From the first of our line. The first was a mother, and from her comes our magic. And the youngest sons are Úlfhéðnar. Except for one man.”

“Ivar,” I said, ignoring the first part. Yrsa frowned before nodding. She pushed my plate towards me and placed the fork in my hand, closing my fist like I was a child.

“His family was killed in a raid on their village. My great-grandmother’s father was a soldier from the opposing side. Some fight about a cause no one would recall in a few generations. Someone wronged someone who wronged someone else. He found Ivar hiding in his home, a witness to the end of his family. Ivar was barely older than two years. He brought Ivar home for his wife, Astrid, to raise him as their own son, with their children. Astrid had just lost a baby. Maybe it was an act of kindness. He was not a man with a generous heart, according to his children. Another mouth to feed, but free labor, perhaps,” Yrsa shook her head.

“Ivar had no memory of his life before then. He thought they were his blood. As the youngest brother, he believed he would be a Ulfheðinn. Liv’s mother had told her the truth, asking her not to tell Ivar, and Liv had kept that promise. The village elders knew the truth, but the children did not. Liv thought it was because her father wanted to keep him. I don’t know why. My great-grandmother was sweet but weak. If it were her husband’s demand, she would not have challenged him. But what did they think would happen when Ivar wanted to seek out his destiny?”

“The lies were a mistake,” I nodded.

“Clearly, and with unimaginable consequences, Caroline,” Yrsa said, tapping her fingers on the island.

“When Liv was thirteen, she got into an argument with Ivar. He was fifteen. They were practicing with seaxes, and she was outperforming him. He was larger, but she was faster and smarter.”

“Seaxes,” I asked, and took a bite of egg, finally. Tasty, but lukewarm.

“It’s a fighting knife, smaller than a sword, a bit like a dagger. She sprang onto his back and held the knife to his throat. He should have dropped his weapon and conceded then, which he did, but when she dropped hers, he flung her around, and they wrestled to the ground. Ivar pinned her to the ground and kissed her. She was disgusted and bit his lip, drawing blood. He tried to do more than that to her then,” Yrsa paused, clenching her fists for just a moment, and looked at mine, nails briefly pricking skin.

“She escaped before Ivar could force himself on her, horrified because she knew he thought they were siblings. He looked shocked by his own betrayal,” Yrsa’s gaze became hard, “but the sin was still his.”

I watched her nails scrape against the island, as if she could ruin the smooth white marble.

“Liv had already been practicing as a vǫlva and was using it for good, but she was enraged. She told Ivar that he would never be a Ulfheðinn, framing it as a curse. Liv pointed at him, directing her anger and power at him, and he believed it was just that. In her fury, her magic was released, the full force of it directed towards Ivar. He ran into the forest, screaming his promises for revenge over his shoulder, a last attempt to control. She struck at him again as he fled,” Yrsa smiled proudly.

She paused to stretch her arms up to the ceiling, grimacing as though she were waking up her muscles.

“Ivar was not seen for more than three years,” Yrsa continued, arching her back as she spoke.

“When Liv told her parents that Ivar had run away, her father blamed her entirely. Astrid stopped him from punishing her. Everyone searched for Ivar, but he remained hidden. They thought he had died, or perhaps had joined a trading ship. But Liv could sense him, like an unwanted cord tied to her that she could never cut. She spent those years looking over her shoulder, remembering his threats. Liv and Astrid searched for Ivar in secret, but he was gone.

“She strengthened her magic, sharpened them like swords, each word, and practiced her fighting skills, arming herself with every weapon she could find or forge. Liv tried every spell she could discover, creating others on her own. She became quite powerful. Where her mother was gentle and kind, using her magic only to heal, Liv’s skills crossed from light to dark, capable of slipping beneath the surface. She saw her mother as weak, believing Astrid was capable of so much more. Liv broadened her knowledge to prepare for Ivar’s return. She learned to control herself, waiting to release if she needed to explode.”

Yrsa joined me at the sink, watching as I washed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher. She picked up the bottle of dish soap and investigated the slippery liquid, delighted when bubbles formed on her hands. I blew on a bubble in my hand until it floated away. She laughed and immediately set to work to do the same, giggling as she popped them with her finger.

“Liv’s youngest brother by blood, Sigurd, was sixteen,” Yrsa continued, putting food back into the fridge, before she opened the freezer, investigating the ice machine, delighting in the cold.

“He became a Ulfheðinn, while Ivar was missing. Liv did not mourn the loss.” Yrsa paused, yipping then laughing at herself when she touched the ice cubes.

“How long ago was this?”

“I was born in 799 A.D. My mother was born in 783. Her mother was born in 757. Liv was born in 726. Astrid was born in 711. I came to you from the year 810, Caroline.”

The weight of time rested heavily on my mind.

“All of this is real,” I said, more to myself than to Yrsa, but she nodded. Yrsa abandoned the freezer to stare out the window at the clouds. I watched them with her, puffs of white cotton lingering in the sky.

Cumulus clouds. I named them, holding onto what I knew, trying to ground myself to the floor. I stared at the wooden planks and slid my bare toes across the smooth, round pegs that held them firmly in place.

“Liv was angry at her mother for asking her to keep Ivar’s origin a secret,” Yrsa continued, pulling my attention away from the sky and the floor.

“No one knew who his real family was. Liv’s father had not bothered to look into it. Liv did, though. Ivar’s father was a farmer; nothing of significance stood out. Ivar’s mother, though, was a sorceress of some small skill. His grandmother was stronger, but her grandmother was more formidable. And so on, as far back as Liv could trace Ivar’s maternal lineage. Their powers had weakened with each generation, whereas ours strengthened with each first daughter, regardless of whether they chose to use their full abilities. Liv’s mother could have, but she never did, shrinking from her full potential. That’s how Liv saw her mother.”

“What a sad way to think of your mom. Astrid must have known that was how Liv thought of her.”

“Yes, she knew, and never corrected Liv, never addressed it with her. Liv tried to encourage Astrid, but those few conversations never went anywhere. Astrid deflected until Liv gave up. Mothers and daughters can leave an ocean of words left unsaid.”

The truth of it sat with us in silence. Liv moved to sit on a blue couch, stroking the soft suede, admiring it. I sat across from her in a buttery yellow chair and rested against the cushioned arms.

“Liv could not find any existing daughters from this line in the area. There was one, but she had run away and crossed oceans to leave her old life behind, before Ivar’s parents had been killed. So instead of finding family in the area or finding Ivar, Liv kept focusing on broadening and strengthening her magic.

“Years later, he returned. He brought a woman with him, a witness, he said, to his killing of an old Úlfhéðninn. There he was, wearing his skin, determined to be honored for his victory. He had found a village on the other side of our land, far away, and inserted himself into their community. Starting over as a laborer on a farm. His family had been killed in battle; he was all that was left, but he was the youngest son. The irony is that there was truth in his lies. He worked the farm for three years, becoming a part of the village. Then he made his way into a forest, where he had heard about an old man who was a warrior. When Ivar finally found him, the man was dying in his bed, his daughter attending him.”

Yrsa folded and then unfolded her legs, unable to be comfortable on the couch. She stood and sat again.

“Ivar overpowered the daughter and killed the man easily, taking his coat and the woman with him. There was no fight,” she sneered, “No effort made, and no glory in his kill. No honor in his blood,” Yrsa’s shoulders tensed. She looked out of the windows, watching the sky again.

“Coward,” I mumbled.

“Yes. And it’s the cowards who can be the most dangerous. Let’s walk to the beach, Caroline. I want to stick my feet in the ocean.”

We settled into our own thoughts as we walked to the beach, digging our toes into the sand, curling them into the cool, damp earth. Yrsa sighed and turned her face up to the sun, rubbing her arms while she tried to soak up the warmth.

“He was a coward and a liar,” Yrsa continued at length, “Except that he still did not know the truth of who he was. When he returned with the woman by his side, traumatized and silent, the village was surprised to see him. Astrid and her husband were shocked to see him wearing the Tírbrynja with such false pride. It saddened Astrid and embarrassed her husband. But it angered Liv. She sought revenge and pretended to welcome Ivar back to the family, embracing him as her brother and congratulating him on his victory. She gathered the village for the ceremony, challenging her parents with looks exchanged. They said nothing.” Yrsa shook her shoulders in restless waves of frustration.

“Liv never learned why they did not try to stop it from happening, but it seemed that the silence was Astrid’s decision. Liv’s father seemed to disagree, but for once, he was not the head of his household. Astrid held firm, and he followed.” Yrsa’s mouth pouted, and she dug her feet further into the sand.

I watched a few empty shells wash onto the beach and bent to investigate their empty insides.

“It remains a mystery to our family,” Yrsa said, and shrugged her shoulders before she flung a stick into the ocean.

“The ceremony went as you would expect,” Yrsa continued, collecting sticks and occasionally rocks, throwing them far into the waves. “When it became clear he was not recognized by the Gods as a Úlfhéðninn, the villagers turned their backs on him. Elders, vǫlur, Úlfhéðnar, until only his family stood looking at him. His father, with much prompting from Astrid, told Ivar about his childhood.”

“He believed him, they hugged it out, everyone went on about their lives, and you’re just here on holiday. The End?”

“We don’t have holidays,” Yrsa replied, unimpressed.

“Invasions aren’t for funsies?”

Yrsa squinted at the sun bouncing off the waves before she pinched me, grinning at my yelp.

“You’re funny,” she grinned. “Look, I’m funny too.”

“And fast,” I lamented with a half-smile.

“Very,” Yrsa’s grin became wolfish.

“No, Ivar refused to believe him. Liv revealed what she had learned about his real mother and her ancestors, and the sister who had run away. Ivar directed his anger towards Liv, realizing that her curse had been the truth. But he stood no chance of attacking Liv with the others in attendance, so he ran away again, this time leaving his captive behind. Her name was Eivor. She died later, giving birth to a daughter, Revna.”

“Ivar’s child,” I asked, knowing the answer before she nodded.

“Bastard,” I spat the word.

“Yes,” Yrsa said, her eyes quiet and still.

“Liv took responsibility for the baby, raising her to know the truth. She blamed her parents for not doing so with Ivar. I think perhaps she was too honest, because Revna grew up to be a very serious-minded child. Astrid tried to counter with her own gentleness, but” Yrsa paused.

“Liv’s influence was strong, and Revna grew up worshipping her, I believe. A bit as though Liv was her teacher, not as a surrogate mother. She was earnest and had a quiet intensity. Observed everything. Liv raised her to be a scout. A finder of people and secrets and things. She was quite skilled.”

“Poor kid,” I said, kicking at the sand. “She deserved to have a childhood first.”

“We didn’t have much of one either, but my parents showed us love, and we played games in between our labor, although they were usually ways to teach us how to fight or survive. Still, we played and imagined. Liv may have used some of the same games, but it was always with a driven purpose. She seemed unable to relax. Revna,” Yrsa shrugged her shoulders, sharp, irritated movements. “She became the best at what she did, but there was a sacrifice made.”

“A badass but at a cost to who she could have been.”

“Yes, a badass,” Yrsa chuckled. “Your words in this age are amusing. You are right, though.”

“Oh, we are aware. What happened to Ivar?”

“Astrid had warned him not to pretend to be a Úlfhéðninn, but of course, that is what he did. Eventually, he was discovered and caught, brought to the King by the same warriors he had been impersonating in the surrounding areas. Ever the impostor. They stripped Ivar of everything, and he was whipped and branded a liar, for all to witness. The King banished him. He should have sentenced Ivar to his death, but spared him at his parents’ request. Astrid was most convincing, and her husband raised no objections. Another mystery of our family’s,” Yrsa added. “Liv looked at this as a sign of weakness from her father, and did not understand why Astrid now had such influence over him, or the King.”

“You haven’t told me his name, Astrid’s father. Everyone else but him. Not much enthralled by him, are you?”

“No, I am not,” Yrsa rolled her eyes. “His name was Sten. It means stone in your language. As unmovable as one. Most of the time. He was hard on his family, his wife. Everyone. And not as smart as the women in his family. It is not a combination I admire.”

“Yeah, difficult to find room for respect there.”

A seagull flew overhead, circling for its next meal. A thought drew shivers across my back.

“Is it safe to be outside right now, Yrsa?”

“Yes, they won’t be able to cross over for a while. That took a lot of effort to happen. They are his, the Ástarlauss. He created them from something old and wicked that he found in his wandering. Uncovered an evil that was waiting for someone weak like Ivar to stumble upon it. Ivar is not himself a powerful man. The evil that he found is, and it has used him for over twelve hundred years.”

“What’s it called?”

“Mannaz. Though it has many names throughout the world. For over twelve centuries, our family has tried to stop the chaos caused by our mistakes, Ivar’s sins, and the evil that has manipulated him. We have continued to fail. Until now, we hope.”

“Okay, and you’re here now because, what, I possess the magic key to stop it? Jazz hands,” I add, rolling my eyes as I gesture for comedic effect.

“Yes. Jazz hands,” Yrsa replies calmly, ignoring my sarcasm.

“You know what, this is some bullshit,” I sputter, throwing my hands up in the air before turning back towards the house. “That’s enough of that, thank you very much.”

Yrsa waits a moment, then follows me back to the house, a mother following her petulant child. “You feel it in you. You’ve ignored it, repressed it, but you are one of us, Caroline, a vǫlva.”

“You’re saying that I’m like a witch? This is ridiculous, Yrsa. Look, look,” I scoff, hopping up and down a few times, “I can’t fly. I don’t see any gold poofing its way onto my lap. Poof! See?”

“Stop it, you are insulting your ancestors with your weak-minded humor, and you look like an imbecile flapping your arms like some clumsy bird. For someone who was a ballerina, you could be much more graceful.”

“How do you know I danced?”

“Because I am your grandmother, many times removed.” Yrsa’s voice was low, and she spoke each word with a quiet strength.

“We have watched you, as we have watched each of us, one generation to the next, as they watched me, waiting for the one who, as you say, holds the key.”

I moved away, but she held my arm, grounding me. Her eyes looked like a storm was gathering in them.

“Make it feel small for yourself now if you need to do that to understand. There is no key, Caroline. There is only our bloodline and our power.”

I watched as clouds swirled in her eyes, heard the thunder before the lightning followed, and saw the skies open, darkness above an ocean of blues. Something familiar knocked in the recesses of my mind.

“You insult your blood by referring to us as witches. We are the daughters of the first of our kind. Be quiet and listen. We are shamans, seers, healers. Kings and Queens, leaders have consulted us for thousands of years, since the first of us and the first of them. You are much more than a witch,” she sneered, the word sounding common when she spoke it. Her eyes were typhoons, violence barely contained by the bones surrounding them. Her voice was no longer youthful but wizened and deep. Her grip on my arm burned cold like frost. I hissed at the pain, but her strength bested mine.

“We are honored and feared by the Gods themselves, who seek us out for our aid,” Yrsa said, a smile that spread slowly across her face, darkened as she spoke.

“We see the past, we study the future, and we can alter any destiny if we choose to do so. We commune with the dead, both the blessed and the damned. And there is so much more in us, each of us with our own strengths. That is the power of a vǫlva, and we are the first-born daughters. First of our kind. The keepers. The inheritors of such madness and power. And you, Caroline, are one of us,” Yrsa continued, pulling me closer to her, her touch now the warmth of a fire, a comfort, not a burning.

“Whether or not you want to be. None of us has chosen this fate. Some of us have elected to live a muted version of our true selves, but each of us has been tested. You can pretend that it’s not real, as you already have for years now, or you can recognize the truth and let me help you step into your power, then perhaps we can finally stop him together.”

A frustrated cry released itself from my throat, and she released my arm. I stumbled back. Yrsa’s eyes settled, the waves calming, then replaced by pupils and irises, studying me quietly.

I didn’t want to believe any of it. I felt the sting of tears, and, clenching my fists, refused to let them spill. But a memory had come crawling to the surface, of a conversation whispered between my mother and hers, when they thought I wasn’t listening. Now here I was, standing at the edge of everything I’ve known, and I had to say yes to this new reality. The door opened in my mind, and I remembered everything. I could hear the slow drip of a faucet, and my grandmother whispering words about my future. The sound grew louder as the water rushed out.

Yrsa watched as my eyes opened wide, and she smiled before catching me —a graceless collapse onto the porch, followed by a bit of a faint. I heard her chuckle before I lost consciousness.

“Good,” she said.

Fuck, I thought. Then nothing.