Welcome back,
It’s Halloween time! It's time for a holiday double feature :D This week I’ve got another one of my micro-fiction 100-word stories, entitled A Death in Fire, that also pulls double duty as an opener prequel of sorts for my main story, The Heretic.
I’ve also realized something I figured I’d mention here: If you are only reading my posts via email, you won’t see the updates I tend to make within the first few hours of publishing. I’ll rat on myself for a second and let you all in on a dirty little secret of mine, I tend to find errors or remember something I left out and run back to my laptop to make the edits shortly after posting. It’s usually something very minor that no one would ever notice anyways but I do go back and make edits like, all the time. SO if that matters to anyone… you’d get the most updated and edited version of my posts by viewing the story either on the Substack app or website, whereas the email is what it is when I hit “publish.” Just an FYI :)
I also want to give a shout-out to a fellow writer and close friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) for giving this week’s story a once-over and provided some much-needed motivation (and edits). You know who you are, thanks bro!
Happy Halloween!
#SteveOnSub
A Death in Fire
Her bindings were unbearable around her wrists, cutting into her skin as they held her in place. It wouldn’t last long, though, she knew there was no escaping fate today. Soon it would all be over. A gentle trickle of blood ran down her wrists while flames spread across the hay, crackling louder as they caught hold of the surrounding pyre. Her body now destined for the fire; screams soon gave way to its roar while beautiful features melted into the smoke rising toward the evening sky. None spoke out in defiance, silenced by the new fear of eternal damnation.
The Heretic
Svip’s father lay dead under the comfort of his blankets in his bed. The bed that he and his wife, Gróa, had shared for so many years until she, too, left the world of the living. His skin turned shades of pale blue and was as cold as the morning frost that formed elegantly across the fields outside their home. Bubbled spittle dried in the corner of his mouth in a white hue that clashed with the red of his blood across his lips, turning shades of pink where it met. He had been perfectly fine just several days prior, before he suddenly fell ill. Never one to complain of a cough or ache, it all seemed a mystery to Svip. How could his father, the strongest man he had ever known, become so irreversibly sick? He had his suspicions, and they all pointed at one person.
His mother’s untimely death had been less natural. Her practices had been well known and deemed blasphemous by those who diverged from the Old Gods in favor of a new savior. While Svip’s mother clung to the forest and its supernatural mysteries, she fell further into isolation. The old ways were becoming obsolete, considered archaic, and replaced by new practices. They called her a sinner, a heretic most despicable, and in doing so justified their vile methods, giving way to temptation. Late one night, when they knew Svip and his father would not be home, they came. Like cowards, they waited until the men of the house were off hunting to pass judgment and execution for her supposed sacrilegious trespasses, a sacrifice they deemed worthy for what they considered the greater good of a greater God.
The crowd gave way to bloodlust and murdered her that night. Separated from her family, alone amongst a crowd of those she once called dear friends, Svip’s mother was set ablaze before both Old Gods and new. Svip and his father would return the next morning to the ashes of her remains. No one noticed, or cared, when Svip collected what little he could in an old jar for a proper ceremony away from prying eyes. He became lost in his solemn despair that day; no son so young should have to bear a burden such as this.
Unwilling to leave their ancestral home and start anew, Svip’s father weighed the gravity of it all. The necessary plight of playing along for the sake of his son, despite the evil done to his family. Judgment had not been passed on them, only his wife, whom many gossiped about spells and curses cast on the poor man and his son. Svip was less understanding in his youth and resented his father for his silence, for his perceived acceptance of what had transpired, and for ignoring the rumors that followed. He couldn’t fathom why his father did not exact violent revenge; he was too young when it all happened to see the greater game at hand and the danger of resistance. His father had a son to care for, and Svip meant the world to him. Now, older but not much wiser, Svip understood that revenge would have to be slow. It was only a matter of time.
After his mother’s death, Svip’s father was quick to remarry. “Better for the home to be whole again,” he said when he saw the bitterness in his son’s eyes at the news of their engagement. His father had married a young woman whose family had a better name than his, a feeble attempt at rejoining village society and repairing the family’s honor. Something sorely lost by his mother’s actions. Burying his torment, Svip’s father found some resemblance of happiness with his new bride, and together the three appeared to have made something of their family, reborn out of the ashes of the old. Witnessing the humbleness of his father, judgment was not laid on Svip for his reclusiveness from the village. Pity replaced skepticism toward Svip’s reluctance to rejoin the fold, and before long it was all simply a bad dream to most, the severing of a failing limb for the survival of the body. Surely no one could blame Svip for his malcontent; he was just a boy, after all.
Now, with his father gone, it would just be Svip and his stepmother. A more miserable thought he could not imagine. He hadn’t taken to her so much as he tolerated her for his father’s sake. Svip was an orphan now, technically speaking, having no one but this strange woman living in his home, sleeping in his parents’ bed, uncertain of his future.
She had only recently arrived in their village a few years before meeting his father. She was one of them. One of the many that had come, bringing a new faith with them. They began small, using an old home to practice their rituals until their numbers had grown tenfold since first opening its doors, expanding the house of worship several times in recent years. Svip’s stepmother was no convert, though. She was born in the lands far to the South where they all practiced this way, and she had helped bring her Southern faith to his village. Svip always laid a portion of blame for what had happened to his birthmother on her. It was her people, after all, that had torn his family apart. Now, he felt as if it would only be a matter of time before she turned her efforts toward him, a thing he could not allow.
His stepmother had been hinting at Svip’s coming of age and need to start a family of his own, mentioning that he might travel and see the world beyond the borders of the only village he had ever known before settling down. “The world is full of beauty, including plenty of beautiful women. You need to go find someone before long.” She would say, nagging him incessantly. But he knew her true intentions, her love for him and his father always felt absent in comparison to the way it used to be before she had entered their lives. With his father gone, Svip was the rightful heir to his family’s land, something not lost on his stepmother either. The farm had always been prosperous, with rich earth and healthy livestock, the family had enjoyed meager comfort for generations. Never one to seek fame or fortune, his father was content working the land as his father had done before him and his father’s father for generations.
After an evening of argument and spilt mead over Svip’s plans for the future, Svip abruptly ended the futile attempts at reason with his stepmother and left her to deal with the mess at what he still considered his father’s table. He left with only half his wits about him into the evening's sunset toward a place he knew he would not be bothered.
Alone with his thoughts, he stomped through the dried thickets full of thorns and the overgrowth that hid the small trail to his mother’s resting place. Hidden just beyond the tree line of the forest behind his home was a small earthen mound covered by stones to keep the scavengers of the forest at bay, two of them perched above in the tree branches, watching his arrival. Unmarked and unaccompanied, no runestones were raised nor carved symbols in the surrounding trees to give hint at what lay beneath the ground. This was his holy place, the place where he buried his mother’s remains in secret. No one else need to know of it. He hadn’t come to visit her grave in quite some time, but tonight he knew of nowhere else to go.
“Mother, what shall I do? I know she had a hand in all this. I know of what she conspires…” he complained to himself aloud while sitting against the ash tree nearest the meager pile of rocks. As he spoke, a soft breeze blew across the forest, cooling his face and soothing his nerves. He could feel the air gently brush back the hair from his forehead like his mother would always do while voicing her own complaints about the length of his hair covering her son's handsome face. He felt strangely entranced by the wind, and a sense of calm washed over him where he sat. “Wake up, mother. If what they all say is true, then I call to awaken you from the doors of the dead. I stand upon the stones of your grave and call out to you. Do you hear me?”
A short-lived gust of wind blew against him that carried whispers of its own. But no one could be seen, nor creatures scurrying about to explain it. He nervously looked around, feeling foolish for doing so, and concluded that his mind had played a cruel trick on him. His earlier consumption, combined with his current tense state of affairs both likely culprits in the matter.
A second breeze brought more whispers, “Svip,” he heard distinctly and without question. Alarmed at the familiar voice, he stood up and demanded answers. “Who’s there!? Whose head shall I have for such tricks?” He shouted, assuming someone had followed him and was toying with his temperamental state.
“Calm down, my sweet boy. It’s me.” The voice in the wind replied. “What troubles you? What burden do you carry that causes you to awaken me, calling from the warmth and happiness of your world full of song and dance?”
Astonished at the sound of his mother’s voice, Svip realized she had been telling him the truth about the worlds and their mysticism, and suddenly felt ashamed he ever doubted her. All those years he thought she had been telling him silly stories. Always talking about nature's unseen powers and ancient words that awaken them, the magic of the runes, and how certain herbs and other strange things one could gather from the forest floor could be used to heal wounds and cure ailments.
Without hesitation, he replied, “Mother, I am being led astray. Someone has told me I should set out to test myself as a man. She told me I should travel far away from our home in search of adventure and to seek out a family of my own. But these are not her true intentions, for she is a deceiver. She wishes to lay claim to our home now that Father is gone.”
“The journey of life, yours included, will be long. As the roads often are for everyone, my boy. If fate allows it, you will take your course in stride and see such wonderful things, I know greatness awaits if you seize upon it.” She predicted as if she knew what the Norns had already woven for Svip.
“Protect me, otherwise I think she will try to kill me if I stay. Or if I leave, I shall die along the way, and I am yet too young a man for death.”
“I will protect you nine times over, my son, once for each of the nine branches of the World Tree that binds everything. No harm shall befall you, lest fate be entwined otherwise.” She promised.
“I do not wish to die along the road ahead, please, Mother. Do as you see fit with me.” Svip asked, relinquishing himself to Gróa.
“I protect you from evil, from those that would stand in your way and I give you the ability to lead yourself along the path of life, letting no earthly man nor woman decide your fate. I will keep your direction in life pure and your course true so that you do not wander from its path. If great rivers threaten your journey, you will be safe in your crossing. If your enemies come forth, they shall fall by your hand. If you are bound, even by chains, they will not hold as they did me, for my fate is not yours. I protect you, my son, from great seas and give you fair winds to guide you across their treacherous waters and all the things that lurk beneath the waves. I protect your flesh from the frost of the mountain tops you will surely pass and let no cold of winter cause your bones to ache. I also protect you from the giant’s spear, should one stand in your way, as your heart and mind shall have the wisdom to overcome anything that challenges you on your journey through life. Finally, I protect you, my son, from the Christian woman. In life and in death, her reach will not harm you; even from the afterlife, should she be so lucky to find it, she will not stop you.”
“Thank you, mother. I miss you; I wish that you were still here with me, with Father…” Svip replied in both gratitude and defeat, becoming overwhelmed by his emotions once again.
“I know, Svip. But the fates have other plans for us, for you. Now, you must remember to choose your path wisely and your battles even more so. Never fight unless the odds are in your favor or you have no other choice but to draw your sword, and never go where the way ahead becomes impassable. Heed my guidance and no curse shall stand between you and your desires in this life. I speak these words standing within the doors between worlds, on an earth-rooted stone by our home, but I will always be with you so long as you carry me within your heart. Commit to memory my words from here, my son, and let them dwell on your thoughts. You will have more than enough luck throughout your lifetime if you follow your mother's message.”
Her final words on fleeting winds faded away into the night sky, and Svip finally understood what must be done. Determined to either reclaim his family’s name or make a new one by his own hands, he would choose for himself which direction in life he would follow as he turned back toward his home. His journey would begin tonight, just as his mother’s was unjustly ended, in the darkness of the village they called home.
He walked through the door with a newfound sense of confidence not felt in years, prepared for the task ahead. His stepmother was sitting by the fire, warming herself comfortably in his mother’s chair.
“Get up, woman.” He ordered.
“Svip, I don’t know what's come over you, but you will not talk to me in such a manner.”
“I said get UP!” He shouted back, moving in closer to her with clenched fists.
Seeing the hatred in his eyes, she did as he said. Not in obedience, but out of fear for what was about to occur. “What’s gotten ahold of you, Svip?! How dare you…”
Before she could finish her sentence, Svip grabbed her by her throat, squeezing it like a rodent caught in a snare. He forced her from where she stood near the warmth of the fire and shoved her against a nearby pillar. He took out a piece of rope he had grabbed from just outside before entering his home and set to the task. He tied her hands behind her back to the beam just as his mother had been bound, silent in his work while she pleaded hopelessly. Her words fell on deaf ears as he finished.
“Tell me the truth, you have nothing left to lose now. Tell me how my father died. Tell me how you knew of those who conspired against my mother. TELL ME!” He shouted at her.
Still choking from his assault, she spat at his face in defiance and began reciting her lord’s prayer.
“Nothing will save you; he cannot save you from me. Answer me and I might hasten your death, or do you prefer to be cleansed by the flames as well?” Svip offered, gesturing at the handle of his knife with his hand while shifting his eyes toward the burning logs across the room.
“Of course I knew, I helped plan it all, you idiot! She was a witch, dealing in the black arts with the Devil, and needed to be brought to justice for the sake of us all!”
Infuriated at the admission of what he had always suspected, Svip abandoned mercy. He grabbed a half-burning log from the fireplace and held it to her face, watching the flame's reflection dancing in her eyes. Her skin turned red by the heat of the fire he now held just in front of her. The smell of burning hair and flesh began to fill the room as he watched, unfazed by the stench.
“And my father? Did you kill him too?” He asked rhetorically, already convinced of the matter.
Laughing through the pain, she cried out, “I poisoned your father, this was all to be mine! He was a weak excuse of a man and I have had many suitors absent his suspicion, the fool.” She taunted, relinquishing herself to the inevitable while the flames caught hold.
Never turning his gaze, Svip stared her in the eyes as he dropped the torch at her feet, and watched the flames spread up the wooden beam of his home, burning her dress and the skin beneath as it climbed upward. Svip left before the fire took him as well, and in doing so, he turned his back on his past and his childhood home now engulfed in flames, erasing his father’s name along with it; scavengers already circling above, watching and waiting for the chance to pick at the remains. He could hear her final screams abruptly halt, a sign of her fate now sealed.
The End
Northern Inspiration
A Death in Fire & The Heretic Explained (SPOILER ALERT)
Stop reading now if you haven’t actually read A Death in Fire & The Heretic. This week’s stories are both Substack originals and haven’t been published anywhere else. They are also both about witches, which I thought was perfect for Halloween. I had the idea of doing a witch story for October a few months back and I am glad I found the right stories to tell. Hope ya like ‘em! Also on a side note, for those of you who don’t know me personally, I do have a stepmother who is anything but evil, contrary to her own claims, and my real mom only dresses up as a witch once a year :)
A Death in Fire Explained: All the metal heads out there should recognize the title of this micro-fiction as one of the best damn metal songs ever recorded by Amon Amarth. I wrote this as a stand-alone, and then thought “Hey, it obviously pairs well with that witch story I’m working on,” and then I decided it could double as a prequel and direct tie-in to The Heretic. I wrote them to match, making the witch Svip’s mother Gróa, and I think it worked out well.
The Heretic Explained: The inspiration for this story stems from real Old Norse poems from the Poetic Edda1. Specifically, this is my retelling of the story of Grógaldr or The Spell of Gróa2 (also called variants like Svipdagsmál I – Grógaldr – Groa's Spell) and is about a mother and a witch, or Old Norse Seeress/Volva, or shaman, named Gróa. Simply put on Wikipedia:
“Grógaldr or The Spell of Gróa is the first of two Old Norse poems… [and] is one of six eddic poems involving necromantic practice. It details Svipdagr's raising of his mother Groa, a völva, from the dead. Before her death, she requested him to do so if he ever required her help.”3
I shortened the son’s name to “Svip” because I thought it sounded better and refrained from using the actual verses from the poem verbatim, as opposed to the way I incorporated lyrics for my previous story, The Curse, where I retold an Old Norse song using lyrics in the dialogue. I wanted to make it more my own and not merely copy/paste the lines from the original poem. I do follow them closely, though, so if you read the poem after reading The Heretic it should be easy to find where the poem enters my story. I stuck with the general theme of the son in need, raising his witch mother for help, but I gave a different backstory and ending. For more on the backstory and history of this poem, see some of the video links below.
My creative process for this go-around was definitely a mess, hence my reaching out to a friend for review. The first few pages were in a different order and felt jumbly, so after some much-needed reorganizing I finally made it flow. I bounced some alternate titles around, including The Woman of the Forest, The Mother, and a longer The Mother & The Heretic but I felt The Heretic was best fitting with my overall Substack theme. I also wrote the beginning and end first, because who doesn't like to write gruesome deaths before fleshing out all the details? Connecting the pieces took some more time as I did not want to sound too much like the verses from the poem and tried to make it sound more like me, with added detail.
One of my intentions was to continue writing about the clashes of society in the Viking Age between competing peoples and belief systems, which I’ve written about a couple of times now (see Issue 08 - The Ritual & Issue 10 - The Curse for more on this). This story continues that narrative, old replacing new and those caught in the middle or unwilling to abandon heritage. I wasn’t sure about parts of the ending, specifically with the violence towards the stepmother. Obviously, I went with it but there was a moment of hesitation with some of the physical parts. This is also the first time I believe I have made mention of the two ravens, Hugin and Munin, more than once in a single story. They are first brought up at Gróa’s grave and again at the end, always watching the demise of my stories.
YouTube FTW
Anna Brigland’s Collection of Folklore, Mythology & Fairy Tales YouTube channel has a video called Hekser: Witches and Witchcraft in Nordic Folklore you can check out below for more on Nordic witches.
And for those following along my Substack journey, you may remember this guy: old Norse specialist Jackson Crawford. He’s got a few videos I’ll link below for those with plenty of time on their hands :) The first one is specifically about my story and was a huge help in developing part of it. I listened to him recite the poem in both Old Norse and English while I typed my version of events. If you care to hear the original versus of the poem, give his video a click.
An Old Norse Witch Story (for Anne Hathaway) by Jackson Crawford:
The Vǫlva (Norse Seeress) and Seiðr by Jackson Crawford:
Art & Its Influence on My Writing:
Kim Diaz Holm’s Artwork & Influence
There is a lot of witch-related art to share from Kim this week, including a collection he does each October called “Inktober” - which is full of dark and creepy things, as one might expect. I really think his work was perfect this week, with the obvious choices of burning people and the more subtle female spirits in the forest.
Kim believes that art should be free and offers his work as free to use and share.
”I make art and release it under Creative Commons licences, so you can use it exactly as you see fit. While doing so, I also release merchandise, prints and originals for those who would like to support me on my way.”4 - Kim Diaz Holm
Theodor Kittelsen’s Artwork & Influence
As always, more Kittelsen! & More Goats! The first row is artwork that felt it matched The Heretic, especially the middle one, and the second row is art I found by Kittelsen that seemed to fit the season. The third row is… goats!
As per the Norwegian National Museum, Theodore Kittelsen’s art is in the public domain and free to use with no known copyright restrictions as per Creative Commons.5
Check out more at the Norwegian National Museum’s Theodor Kittelsen
Collection.6
Northern Hymns on Spotify
Music that motivated me while writing A Death in Fire & The Heretic! I was pleasantly surprised to see so many artists that have made music involving the story of Grogaldr (Gróa). \m/
Artists include music from Heilung, Vigundr, Eivør, Eihwar, the appropriately named Witchery, Arch Enemy, Amon Amarth, and Unforgiving: A Northern Hymn Original Video Game Soundtrack,
& more music vids below!
Happy Halloween, everyone!
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Open Book Publishers - The Poetic Edda. https://books.openbookpublishers.com/10.11647/obp.0308/contents.xhtml.
Open Book Publishers - The Poetic Edda - Svipdagsmál (Gróugaldr and Fjǫlsvinnsmál). https://books.openbookpublishers.com/10.11647/obp.0308/ch36.xhtml#_idTextAnchor3555.
Wikipedia - Grógaldr. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gr%C3%B3galdr#:~:text=Gr%C3%B3galdr%20is%20one%20of%20six,is%20illustrated%20in%20this%20respect.
Holm, Kim. https://denungeherrholm.com/pages/about-kim.
The National Museum. https://www.nasjonalmuseet.no/en/collection/producer/56283/theodor-kittelsen.
Kittelsen, Theodor. "Theodor Kittelsen Collection." National Museum, 1904, www.nasjonalmuseet.no/en/collection/producer/56283/theodor-kittelsen.