When I was somewhere in that too-big, too-small space between age 10 and 12, I found a faded copy of Julie of the Wolves on my grandmother’s bookshelf. I still can still feel the brittle cover flap in my hands. And the sound of the pages crinkling, blinking in light they hadn’t seen for decades probably. My grandmother said that it had been my aunt’s book. And then she said something about how I probably shouldn’t be reading it. So of course, I hurried to a hidden corner in my grandparents’ big, silent farmhouse as soon as possible. As I read about a Native Alaskan teenager facing a bitter-cold adolescence, my eyes darted under the bed in a long-unused guest room in Florida. I was afraid to mess up the comforter if I sat on the bed, and afraid of what might crawl out from under it if I sat beside it. But reason got the better of me. I knew that not a speck of dust fell to the ground without my grandmother knowing it. She’d have paid someone to scrub and spray for spiders faster than I could imagine them. So I settled into the fluffy beige carpet and read my mysterious, disapproved book. The first thing that really struck me – maybe because I was used to stories about survival and frigid wildlands – was that Miyax had her period. And the author just wrote it, right there on the page. My parents, and everyone that I knew really, avoided mentioning periods like my grandmother avoided the concept of dust. My dad would change the channel when Tampex commercials came on. And my mom would furtively ask if I needed to change anything “down there.” I had my first period when I was 10, before all my friends. I’d never read a book that included periods as a part of a character’s story that was worth-mentioning, or even mentionable. Now the book was even more interesting. When I got to the part about the sexual abuse, I had no idea that the book was banned because of that. I only knew it was another thing my family would never talk about. I was horrified for Miyax but I felt some kind of warmth knowing that at least here, on these pages, we could say these things aloud. Real things – things I had like periods, and things, thank God, I’d never experienced. But it all belonged. Seeing it all there so exposed like the tundra helped me think that it all deserved to be spoken. Little did I know then that in a few years I’d move to Alaska – Miyax’s land - with my family and my well-hidden stash of pads. I can still feel the squishy, concealed bulge in my bag. Long before we moved, my aunt took back her book from me. But I’d read it already, and I knew that even my periods belonged. I already had what I needed, courage like Miyax.

My aunt always tells me stories that my mom wouldn't approve of. That's why I like going to her house. Tonight, we are reading by candlelight because the electricity is out again. My aunt lives in the mountains, where there are more trees threatening the power cables than were honking horns at home. She always says one day she'll go right off the grid so she won't have to put up with all this. "I'll go right off!" she says with her hands in the air and a smile like she was about to do something unthinkable.

"Now," says my aunt, "I have the perfect story for tonight! One of my favorites to tell."

I'm getting a little old for stories at bedtime, but there's no one to impress out here.

"Not that one that starts with on a dark and stormy night," I say.

"Oh no," says my aunt, "Clichés are only helpful when you're not living them." She gestures out to the wild rage beyond the window.

"This is a story my grandfather used to tell. When I was your age."

"When you lived in Sweden?"

"Yes. It's a myth we have. But many people say it is real."

"Would my mom like it?"

I like the shared game we have of knowing what my mom wouldn't like.

"Definitely not. She used to leave when grandfather was telling the story. She says it's not good to dabble."

"Dabble?"

"In the spirit world. You know, if you talk about something, it might become real. But the thing is, it's already real. Better face the facts, you know?"

"I thought you said it was a myth?"

"They're often the same thing. Myths are just facts that have been around longer. So, ready to dabble?"

"It's the perfect night for dabbling!"

She sat on the edge of my bed and looked out the window as she began. Her voice was like a low murmering song.

Come child, the storm is hungry.

Sit close the fire beside

And listen as I tell thee

Of the Vielkikykeride.

In the dark and frozen forests

The Vielkik hunters ride

And haunt the childblain waters

Of all the Northern tide.

Their voices smite the valleys

And fill the bitter gloom

And all the blood not frozen

The Vielkik will consume.

Along the hidden passes

There floats a ghostly sigh

And hosts of laughter tremble

Like frenzied funeral cries.

In the high cold Northern mountains

With darkness deep inside

From wind and Vielkik voices

There is no place to hide.

Come child, the storm is hungry,

Cling close the fire beside,

For the Vielkik are a people

Who lived and never died...