Child of the Storm

Nettle darted around the mountainside, desperately trying to stuff as many mushrooms as she could find into her basket as the first snow of winter rolled in from the west. She expertly sliced the fungi at their stems with her curved knife as snowflakes swirled around in the howling wind and landed on the carpets of moss blanketing the forest floor. Just a few more she kept telling herself, knowing that once nightfall came and the storm swept over the land, whatever remained would perish in the ice. Winter always came early at this elevation, but this year she’d neglected the autumn mushroom harvest until the very last minute.

Her frantic foraging was cut short, however, when a small cry sounded from a hollow log next to the stream. She paused, wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her. Had the wind whistled through the log at just the right angle to replicate a human child? Or was it a nisse, or some other woodland sprite from a storybook trying to lure her into a trap? Nettle lingered for a moment, straining her ears to hear any sound other than the wind and the trickle of the creek. But then the unmistakable cry of a baby begging for rescue issued once again from the log and she nearly tripped over some tree roots rushing to its aid.

And sure enough, swaddled in a blanket of sheep’s wool, was a baby. It was tucked as far into the hollow log as possible, a crude yet somewhat effective shelter from the wind. Nettle held the baby in her arms and looked all around the forest.

“Hello?” she called, her voice dissolving into the storm. “Is anyone there? Your baby!”

But there was no reply. No creature, human or fairy, came to claim the child.

“Where did you come from?” Nettle asked the infant, looking down into the rosy-cheeked face in her arms. The baby cooed, seemingly grateful to be retrieved from the log. The child was in good health and surely hadn’t been abandoned for long. Where were its caregivers? Nettle had been up and down this hillside all afternoon and she hadn’t seen a soul. But as she examined the baby further, a pit of fear welled up in her stomach. This was no ordinary child. One of its eyes was brown, like hers, and its other eye was bright violet, like the gods.

The gods were known to walk among the mortals, often taking the form of humans or animals, depending on their mood. But a god partnering with a human was unheard of. Was it even possible to produce a child that was half-god? As Nettled blinked unbelievingly at the infant, her mind raced with all of the reasons a half-god child might be abandoned in the woods and left to be devoured by the wolves. Perhaps it was the forbidden nature of a god and human union that led the baby to be left out in the cold. Its very existence might be a source of shame or a deep taboo. Nettle didn’t pretend to understand the gods. But whatever the reason was, the child had somehow found its way to her. It was her baby now.

Nettle parted the mushrooms in her basket and laid the infant among them. She surrendered whatever was left unharvested on the mountainside to the winter, the new life in her basket a far greater importance. She pulled her scarf over the bottom half of her face as the bitter winds continued to whip ice crystals into the air. Holding the basket to her body, Nettle trudged back to the cabin she shared with Sylvie with the child they always wanted, but never had.

Sylvie was sitting in her usual chair by the fire, her knitting needles clicking away as she pushed to finish a new sweater before the chill of winter consumed the land. “The storm’s getting worse,” she said as Nettle came in the door. “I was just about to call for you.”

“Sylvie,” Nettle said, nearly out of breath. “You won’t believe–”

But as Nettle turned the basket to face her wife, Sylvie dropped her knitting on the floor and gasped. “Where did you get that?” she sputtered, gesturing at the baby.

“I found it abandoned in the forest,” Nettle said softly. “Unharmed, but perhaps a little cold. No one in sight for miles. I do not know who abandoned this baby. But perhaps the gods meant for it to come to us.”

Sylvie rushed to Nettle’s side, poking her fingers into the basket to examine the child. The infant was calm and babbling softly as the women fawned over it. “Its eye,” Sylvie whispered. “How does it have one violet eye?”

“I think it is half-god,” Nettle replied.

“That’s not possible, is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure it was abandoned?” Sylvie asked. “If it is half-god, perhaps we ought not to have stolen it.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Nettle said. “This baby was abandoned. No one wanted it.”

Sylvie’s eyes welled with tears. “We prayed for years to any god that would listen for a baby, knowing it is impossible for two women to create such life by ourselves.”

“Not that we didn’t try,” Nettle said with a smirk.

Sylvie laughed through her tears and playfully batted at Nettle’s arm. “Perhaps this is the answer to our prayers.”

“I wonder which god it came from,” Nettle said, touching the baby’s cheek. “I wonder if it will ever possess any powers.”

“What an adventure,” Sylvie whispered. “A gift.”

The wind rattled the shutters outside the cabin as the snow storm enveloped the tiny home. The women bathed and changed the baby, discovering that it was a little girl. They named her Ravenna, a tribute to the tuft of black hair on her head. Sylvie got to work at once knitting baby clothes while Nettle assessed their pantry, identifying foods she could grind into a puree. They were both grateful they’d not sold the dairy goat out in the barn and that they had a fresh supply of milk.

“I’ve never been happier,” Sylvie hummed with her arm wrapped around Nettle as they watched their daughter asleep in her makeshift bassinet by the fire. She kissed her wife and then leaned her head onto her shoulder.

“Me too,” Nettle agreed, pulling Sylvie closer. “Me too.”

***

As the little family settled in for a long winter, an unseen power lingered in woods just beyond the cabin, watching them through the windows.

“You chose well,” the violet-eyed owl said from its perch in a pine tree. “They’ll take good care of her.”

“I suppose,” the violet-eyed wolf sighed. “I still don’t like it.”

“They’ll be devastated when you finally take her back, you know,” the owl said, clicking its beak.

“That’s what I don’t like,” the wolf growled. The wind howled and the snow fell harder.

“Could you at least let up on the storm?” the owl complained, shaking the snow off its wings. “You might be the storm god, but this is ridiculous.”

The wolf huffed a bitter laugh. “No.” The owl hooted indignantly and puffed up its feathers. “But I will give them an early spring.”

“Why them?” the owl asked.

“I suppose they reminded me of myself. Desperate for a child, but unable to have one.”

“There are good reasons why we aren’t meant to bear young,” the owl reminded the wolf.

“And I broke the rules,” the wolf glowered. “I found a way around our limitations.”

“And now you must hide what you have done.”

“Only until she’s older.”

“And then what?”

The wolf fell silent, letting the raging storm express its emotions. It laid down in the snow at the base of the pine tree and sighed. “Then she will have to decide who she wants to be. Half-god, half-human. Neither of our world nor theirs, but blessed with the strength of both. A being of unique creation and novelty.”

“Do you regret it?” the owl asked.

“No,” the wolf whispered. “Because I know she has a purpose greater than any of the gods or mortals.”

The owl laughed. “Nobody exists on purpose, not even us. You know this.”

“Yes, yes,” the wolf grumbled. “Leave it to the god of knowledge to remind me of my unimportance and futility.”

“Our unimportance and futility,” the owl corrected cheekily.

The wolf gave a long-suffering sigh as the snow fell harder. “Even if she does nothing with her mixed blood, her life still has meaning. She will be loved and cared for, and in turn, will love and care for others.”

“That,” the owl conceded, “is the only meaning any of us will ever have.”

“I know,” the wolf agreed, laying its head on its paws. “I know.”