Content note: sexual assault and child death.

 

For woman wild with witch’s curse,
Take husband’s hand and heed this verse.
As man and child make mother whole,
A wedded witch may save her soul.

 

Ylva clutches the prayer to her chest. It is her most precious thing, a gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday, when she had awoken to find her hands covered in blood. He told her it would protect her from her curse. The words continue to guide Ylva when her father gives her away to a foreign lord, when she boards the longship to her new home, and when her husband dies of fever on the journey.

She recites the prayer over and over as she gives birth alone, but for all the words she whispers, none become a name for the child. Although custom dictates she should, Ylva cannot bring herself to name him after her father, nor her husband, even though he has inherited their scowling, black eyes. Yet his hair is wild and red like hers: red as fire in the sun and blood in the dark.

She digs the last piece of meat out of storage. The pig head has frozen solid. She hates that this land makes her call the curse, this land where there are no trees for firewood. She turns the skull between her palms, and the ice melts under her warm, sorcerous touch. Thawed blood pools where her fingertips touch its surface. When it is soft enough, she digs her rusting knife into its thick hide and unearths the tenderest meat first. She sets the cheeks and jowls in front of the child.

This child has never suckled milk. Instead, he puts the raw flesh to his lips and laps the bloody runoff. When he has drunk his fill, he rips into the meat with tiny, pointed teeth. He growls, and snarls, and juice runs down his arms and chin.

The child has had the first taste, so now it is Ylva’s turn. She peels the skin neatly into square mouthfuls. Then she waits for the fat to melt onto her fingerprints before popping them between her lips. They are warm now, but still bland—for the child will not let salt pass their threshold. Although the island has no rules of etiquette, she chews each piece politely like she would have at her father’s table. She eats the ears, the snout, all the stringy and rubbery parts the child dislikes because his hands are not yet strong enough to tear them.

As Ylva carves out the pig’s eyes, the child’s dark ones grow darker, rimmed with red. He is still hungry. He bares his teeth and howls, blood still fresh on his face. He pounds his tiny hands against the ground, and Ylva’s heart quickens with the memory of his father’s harsh grip.

She slides what remains of the pig’s head in front of him. He reaches forward, clenching and unclenching his little fingers until he wraps them around the carcass. It is almost as large as he is. Then he greedily begins to suckle. He happily rends the precious muscle with his teeth while Ylva tries to ignore the growl of her unsatisfied stomach.

The child plays with the shreds of meat, pulling them out of his mouth and smearing them on his face. Fiber by fiber, he consumes the rest. By the time he is done, the skull has been picked clean. He looks expectantly at Ylva, hungry for more, but there is none. So she placates him the only way she knows.

She places her arms around him, shushes and swaddles him, when he grabs her hand and bites down hard on the flesh of her palm. Each tooth is a needle. She continues to hold him tight, even as she jerks her hand back, even as she winces, even as she assesses the damage in the hearth firelight. The mark is small this time, but blood still wells from the pinprick.

The embrace means nothing to the child, and he cries louder. The wooden beams that hold up Ylva’s home begin to rattle. The fire blazes in its pit, littering the ground with ash. His hard eyes demand food. She hates to do this, but there is no meat left. There is only her.

She gently places her pricked finger on his lips. Instinctively, he reaches for it and places it in his mouth. She cringes when he bites down, but it is gentler this time. He is getting what he wants. Her blood begins to flow, and he laps it up greedily. She waits until he lets go with a satisfied burp. Now full, he slumps against her with a soft gurgle, and his eyes flutter closed. 

Ylva lets out her sigh. He is finally asleep, and she can allow herself to rest. But still, she feels pain, feels anger. Sinful, violent thoughts tempt her to raise her monstrous hand against this monstrous child. 

But, no. She is appalled by her own mind. Yes, these thoughts are why she has been cursed. She must recall her father’s prayer—as man and child make mother whole, a wedded witch may save her soul. She needs this boy, and a husband will redeem them both.

Pink sunlight reaches through the smoke hole in the longhouse roof. She longs to rest now that the child is finally asleep, but she knows he will be hungry when he wakes. The larder is empty, and she is the only one around to fill it. She must go out and find her pigs.

The cloak she dons is thick and in dire need of mending, but she never learned the skill because her warmer homeland never needed it. Even so, not a sheep she brought with her remains to make new garments, for they starved to death on the dry grass and the child ate their carcasses. Only the pigs have taken to the harsh climate. Come spring, she should still have some to breed. If they are not eaten as well.

Her eyes dart over the terrain of black rock and yellow grass. This should have been her husband’s country, unfamiliar and stony like he was. She misses the mainland she knew with its soft shades of green and scent like rain. The island smells strange, like it is constantly burning.

But stronger than the sulfur, she smells a hog. She must be getting close. The pigs do not roam so far when it is cold. But as she steps nearer, the flavor changes. It is thicker, sweatier, and, to her surprise, tinged with fish. She follows, and when she reaches the top of the hill, she sees something much more interesting than a hog.

It possesses a stout body with muscled arms and legs, clothes worn by salt spray, and a pleasant face behind a grizzled beard. A young man stands on the shore next to a small wooden boat, both still dripping seawater. He pulls in a fishing line and unhooks his catch. The cod flail loudly against the hull when he throws them into his vessel. She counts four, five, six fat fish, and her mouth waters.

Ylva approaches cautiously, but before she can warn him to leave, the man begins talking at her as if her very presence invites conversation. “I did hear of a woman living in these parts.”

It has been a long, long time since she has spoken. Her tongue fumbles against her teeth. Her first sound is guttural, animal, but it slowly warps into “good morning.”

“Quiet, I see,” the man grins. “That’s quite alright. It’s charming.” His smile is welcoming and healthy.

She quickly ducks her eyes.

“You have very lovely hair.”

“Th—thank you.” She smiles. Ylva hopes the gesture is warm, but the movement feels more like a wolf baring teeth. She has not thought of how she looks for a long time, but the man’s words have made run her hands through the tangled, fiery mess of her mane. When the knots catch her fingers, she remembers the opening line of her father’s prayer: For woman wild with witch’s curse.

“I am Einar,” he says with a bow. The civility takes her aback.

“My name is Ylva.” She has not said the word aloud in a long time.

“Ylva… Ylva… Ylva… That is a pretty name.” It sounds both strange and sweet on his tongue. Einar reaches forward and takes her hand.

Take husband’s hand and heed this verse. Ylva tenses with hope. “I live—I live over the hill.” She stammers and steps back, unsure how to continue at the touch. What would she have said back home? “And I am looking for my pigs. Have you seen them?”

Einar shakes his head. “Sorry. Just cod here for stockfish.”

“I mean to slaughter my pigs to make meat for winter.”

“Then perhaps they know, and they hide from you for a reason!” Einar laughs, head thrown back and mouth open wide with his own humor. It is a crass, boisterous sound, but to her surprise, Ylva likes it. She laughs, too. It must be awkward because Einar looks at her and laughs even harder. “Have you not had company in awhile?”

Ylva thinks of her father, her husband, her child. As man and child make mother whole, a wedded witch may save her soul. She answers, “Not for a very long time.”

“Then maybe I should stay for dinner. I have caught enough cod for the day. More than enough to share a night with a beautiful stranger.” He leans in close, and heat creeps up Ylva’s neck. She shudders at how he makes her feel. This man is so kind, and she is so monstrous. She feels guilt for wanting him to lift her curse.

But she is so hungry. But she is so alone. But no one has called her beautiful before. Even when her husband reached his calloused hands up her skirt, he spoke only of curses.

So Ylva nods courteously. “Cod sounds delicious. Please, follow me.”

She leads him to her farm. There is a wooden wolf carved above the doorway, just like the smell of thick hair and musky sweat are carved into her memory. Einar touches its blood-red paint as they pass under its threshold.

“My husband’s symbol,” Ylva explains.

“Is your husband home?” The fisherman asks.

How does she explain her husband? She had followed her father’s prayer to the latter. She had been so virtuous, obedient to his every word. She laid in their bed on the longship journey, just as instructed, every night. As he held her down, she told herself every heartbeat raced with love, not fear. But the curse in her hands still called to the blood in his chest. Red poured from his eyes as he howled. Witch. Witch. Witch.

After that night, the man was gone, but when her son was born, she learned to fear the boy instead.

“No,” she tells Einar, shaking her head. The movement feels more natural now. “He died some time ago.”

The fisherman’s eyes light up. “Well, I am truly sorry. That must be quite difficult. The island is a harsh place. A woman should not be alone.”

“I make do.” Her eyes fall on the child, thankfully still asleep, swaddled in furs. “We make do.”

Ylva’s heart races as Einar follows her gaze and walks over to the child. Her mind recalls the boy’s wailing, her husband’s blood, and she reaches out to stop the fisherman. But Einar peels the blanket back gently, and the boy continues to sleep. Ylva sighs with relief.

Einar smiles. “What a beautiful babe. He has your hair.”

She must now remember how to feed a man. She searches for her only iron pan. A year of dirt and dust is frozen to the pot’s surface. It cannot be used like this, but she could melt it with her curse.

She knows Einar will abandon her if he sees, so she keeps her back turned and pretends to keep searching, praying the clattering metal noises will not wake the child. She calls, “Just a minute!”

She warms the pan with her hands, melting the frost until it seems like it was used yesterday, all the while shielding her secret with her body.

Finally, she hangs the thawed pan from the hook above the fire pit. Einar produces a knife and begins to gut the fish. He tosses two on the fire and says with a wink, “For tonight. The rest, I will leave with you to dry.”

“That is very generous of you.” Ylva smiles again. This time it feels familiar. She tends to the crackling meat with a stick she finds on the ground, flipping the filets with a quick gesture.

“Careful not to burn yourself,” Einar laughs. Ylva does too. Perhaps this man is different. Perhaps he can withstand her curse.

Carefully, she lifts out a slice of cod and serves it to Einar. He takes a healthy bite out of it, before awkwardly pausing and putting the rest down.

Ylva wrings her hands anxiously. “Is something the matter?”

With a sheepish grin, Einar peels the filet apart. The middle is still translucent, completely raw.

“I—I—I am sorry,” Ylva stutters as she grasps for a reason. “I am a pig farmer. We do not eat much fish.”

Einar blinks a few times, and embarrassment floods Ylva’s cheeks and neck. But then he smiles. Then he laughs. He roars with laughter. Ylva doubles over with relief and begins to laugh, too, deep from her belly. It almost hurts.

With all the noise, the child stirs. His dark eyes open slowly, but they quickly turn red. He dislikes being awoken. Ylva’s heart leaps to her throat.

But to her surprise, Einar smiles and calmly peels a bit off his meal. Then he reaches forward and offers the morsel to the child. The boy’s eyes narrow in suspicion. Wary of a bloody outcome, Ylva quickly slides herself between the man and the child, taking the fish between her own fingers.

The boy’s eyes track her hands, and he widens his mouth. She can see all his needle teeth, many more than a human child should have. Gently, she places the white meat on his tongue, and he snaps his jaws closed. Ylva is careful to move her fingers quickly away. He pauses, tastebuds puzzled at the cooked meat. Finally, he grimaces and spits it onto the floor.

Ylva fears Einar will be offended, but her worry fades when he simply laughs again.

“As I said,” Ylva says with an honest grin. “We do not eat much fish.” Smiling makes her feel better than she has in a long time.

Ylva looks at the child, and realizes he is calm. His attention is glued to the gentle movements of Einar’s hands turning the cod over the fire. 

When the fish’s skin has crisped brown, he hands the piece to Ylva with a gentlemanly bow that makes her giggle. She takes it in her hands, and it almost flakes apart. Quickly remembering the rest of the world does not eat bones, she picks them out carefully with her fingernails. A piece of meat falls on her skirt. But before she can brush it onto the ground, Einar picks it up. To her surprise, he gestures for her to open her mouth. Gingerly, she does. And he places the delicate, white flesh inside.

The taste is one she almost forgot, light and buttery. And it is truly warm, not the lukewarm of blood, but the true warm of cookfire. The heat reminds her of roasted game gathered from her homeland’s verdant country, feasts at her father’s table.

“It tastes…” She rolls her tongue against her cheek, trying to make the flavor last. “It tastes like home.”

Einar asks, “Where is home?”

“Across the ocean.”

“That is quite far,” he ponders. “Are you lonely, then?”

She pauses for a bit before admitting, “Yes.”

“I am sorry to hear that. But I will do my best to make this one night less lonesome.” He picks off another piece of fish, and she leans forward to take it in her mouth. Bit by bit, she takes her meal from his hands. She is so warm now.

As he hands her the last bite, he brushes his finger against her tongue. Her blood pumps through her heart. Hope is so similar to fear.

The child begins to whine, and Ylva’s nerves go cold. The boy must be jealous. He is accustomed to eating first. But Einar lays his hand on hers with a hushing sound. “The child could stand to learn some patience.”

Even so, Ylva stands, but Einar grabs her arm and forces her back down. The boy ceases his rising complaint. Confusion crosses the child’s eyes, as if he does not understand her refusal. After all, this has never happened before.

Einar laughs like he has won. “He will be a good man yet.”

Still holding her arm in one hand, Einar reaches the other around her waist and tightens his grip. Ylva’s heart skips, but something feels wrong. Why is she nervous? In her head, she recites her father’s prayer to reassure herself.

For woman wild with witch’s curse.

The child begins to whine again, and every fiber in her body lurches with instinct to feed him and stop the coming rage. But Einar holds her tighter, placing both his hands on her thighs.

She meets his eyes. They are dark. Dark as the child’s. Dark as his father’s. Einar reaches forward and runs his hands across her temple. “You really do have lovely hair.”

Take husband’s hand and heed this verse.

He angles toward her, and Ylva tilts back on instinct. But he continues leaning forward. Forward, forward, until she loses her balance and rolls onto the hay-strewn dirt.

She expects Einar to help her up, but instead he falls upon her. He lays pressed against her, and she cannot push off his weight. The smell of cod mixes with desire on his breath.

His fingers gently stroke her cheek and come to rest in the soft corner above her collarbone. She turns her head away and presses her palms against his neck, but he takes it as a sign to draw closer. His eyes are filled with genuine surprise. “You invited me in. You ate my catch. My fingers touched your lips. Is this not what you wanted?”

As man and child make mother whole, a wedded witch may save her soul.

Ylva can feel the curse stirring in her hands, calling to his veins. She wants it to stop, but she feels his blood surge and harden against her inner thigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the child furrow his brow with envy.

Einar’s hand moves down and takes her dress with it. “After all, did you not say you were lonely?”

The child has had enough with being ignored. He keens, shaking Ylva to the bone. But the man’s grip holds firm. “You should teach that child to wait.” Einar nestles his face against her neck, and his thick beard scrapes against her now bare shoulder. “You are so warm.”

This will not end well. Her pulse is on fire, and despite the dim light, she sees the unnatural, bloody flush in Einar’s face. She must stop the curse. She must stop the child. “Please, you do not want this.”

“But you do, do you not?” He whispers, mouth brushing hers.

No.

For woman wild with witch’s curse.

Yes.

Take husband’s hand and heed this verse.

No.

As man and child make mother whole, a wedded witch may save her soul.

Yes. 

The prayer has always guided her, and she asks it to guide her now. 

She lets Einar’s tongue slip between her lips, but his blood is running into her mouth. It tastes salty, so salty. The child cries louder. The sound has two voices: one high-pitched and ear-spitting, the other low and ground-shaking. The iron pan trembles until it falls into the hearth, spraying bright sparks across the dirt. They set fire to the hay on the ground.

The child screams louder. Einar lurches back. Shadows from the growing fire distort his face. No. No, not shadows. Blood. Ylva’s touch has called his blood to her. It runs from his hair, his ears, his eyes. He claws his skin, leaving ragged trails as it tears away. The child smells the blood and rips at his nest of furs. He is hungry.

“…a witch,” Einar hisses, staring at his own mangled flesh between his fingers.

No, no, no. It is just like before. Ylva shakes her head rapidly. She tries to free herself, but she is still trapped under Einar’s body.

Witch, the name her husband gave her. The name her father gave her.

Her father’s prayer has not saved her. 

It has never saved her.

Einar howls and stands. “Witch! Witch! Witch!” He digs his nails into the soft underside of her wrist, but she just draws more blood from his skin. He throws her to the other side of the room, dragging red prints across her arm.

The child has freed himself. He crawls forward on all fours, growing in size. Red hair grows along his spine, spreading to cover his entire body. Baby fat morphs into corded muscle. He roars, and his teeth lengthen, pushing out his jaws. The ground shakes. The fire spreads.

Ylva now cowers before a wolf, larger than her, larger than Einar. Its long fur is red as fire, red as blood. The hungry beast claws the ground and lifts its snout into the air. Meat. It smells meat.

The wolf charges the bleeding man and knocks him flat. Einar’s scream is cut off by the snapping of his neck between deadly jaws. Then, the creature tears into his soft flesh, swallowing mouth after mouth of the fresh kill it has craved for so long.

Ylva scrambles to her feet, aiming for the door. But she stumbles on the threshold. As she grabs the frame, the animal looks toward her. It towers over twice her height and trains its dark eyes on her. They are as hard and inhuman as they have always been. Ylva knows that the corpse’s blood will not be enough. No, it grows bored of cooling flesh. It wants something alive. It wants the comfort that can only come from nursing its mother’s blood.

The wolf tears the low ceiling, raining stone and sod into the house, and her exit collapses. In desperation, she throws her hands in front of her. The wolf catches her hand in its iron jaws. She screams. Blood calls to blood.

She waits for the crack of shattering bone, the sight of ruined flesh. But her arm does not break. The wolf gnaws at her wrist, but despite all his rage, he cannot leave a scratch. No, he is the one who bleeds. Dark blood runs from his eyes, staining his fiery fur almost black.

The curse in her hands is stronger than his fury. It wants blood. It wants to live. She searches for the only thing that has ever truly protected her, but she does not find her father’s prayer.

All she finds is herself. And she wants to live. Live free from fathers with no hearts, husbands with rough hands, and sons with sharp teeth.

She calls her curse. She calls her power.

She digs her nails into the wolf’s fur, and it melts between her fingers, leaving an oozing hole in the creature’s flesh. It tries to back away, but her hands are seared into its skin. When the beast scrapes its claws against the floor, its nails lodge in the dirt and peel off. It tries in vain to shake its head free, but more blood sprays from its open mouth. White bits dislodge from its gums, and Ylva realizes they are teeth. She cannot pull away. Her hands demand blood. She demands blood.

In her grip, the wolf melts from inside out, roaring, twitching. As it breaks down, the fire sputters to embers, and she is left among smoking sod with blood trailing through her fingers. The beast is gone.

The child is gone.

Her husband’s curse, her father’s curse, is gone.

Only Ylva’s curse—no, her power, remains. She feels hope for the first time since she stepped foot on the island, and she smiles because she cannot hear her father’s prayer in her mind.

Her heart continues racing in the stillness. It pounds with the earth-shaking volume of a wolf’s howl. The beast has flowed into her, and, to her shock, she feels good.

She looks around the rubble. The man’s body is still there, facedown and pale from blood loss. She does not deign to use his name, for he looks more like the frozen hog from last night than the man she met this morning.

Ylva picks the body up by its ragged shirt. It weighs so little now. She drags her scavenged prey back across the yellow grass and black rocks, down to the shoreline, until she reaches a tiny, wooden fishing boat still loaded with cod. She heaves the corpse inside.

Then she looks down at her hands. They are stained red. She dips them into the water, but despite her scrubbing, the blood will not wash away. Her nails are sharp and red as fire in the sun. She knows they will be red as blood in the dark.

Ylva hops in the boat and pushes out to the water, refusing to look back. She does not need to. No matter how many leagues, she can smell home now, with its rich, green grass. And when she returns, no one will cage her again.

As the waves carry her away from shore, she digs her claws into the dead man’s cheek and places the raw meat in her mouth. When she swallows, she realizes, for once, she is no longer hungry.

© 2023 Grace P. Fong