The Storm is Hungry

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...