Witchlines: The Fire

The third and final tale we have been exploring as part of Witchlines is The White Bear King Valemon—a Norwegian version of the tale more commonly known as East of the Sun, West of the Moon, or sometimes The Bear Husband. This myth is also closely related to the story of Psyche and Eros. 

For this creative task I was called to focus upon one aspect of the story that had drawn my attention, and to tell the tale from the point of view of the bear-wife as an old woman, relating the events to a grandchild.

The Fire

It happened long ago, before I became lined with wrinkles; before I became stooped and grey-haired, like one of the three wise old women who helped me. But in my memory, it happened yesterday, for it is all so clear, and so dear to me. 

I’ve told you before of how I left my father’s house and went willingly with the great white bear, so large and fine, his fur softer than anything I had ever touched. I was a queen riding on his back. 

When we reached the bear’s house, he carried me across the threshold, as has always been the custom in these parts, and he set me down in a large kitchen, with the biggest hearth I had ever seen. Well, I walked thrice around that room, marvelling at the solid wooden table, with platters of bread and cheese upon it; admiring the shiny copper pots and pans that hung from hooks above the fireplace; breathing in the scent of the dried herbs that dangled in bunches from the ceiling. It was the most handsome and well-appointed kitchen I had ever seen. Yet what amazed me most was the fire, for it glowed with a strange warmth I had never noticed in a fire before, as if it was saying ‘Welcome home’—to me!—who had never set foot in that house before. Yet there I was, mistress of it, and I had never felt such belonging.

My bear-husband, kind soul that he was, assured me that I would be content in his house—all I had to do was keep that friendly fire lit. To this I readily agreed, for what is a home without the light, warmth and comfort of a fire? I knew I would keep it well.

That first night, in the darkness of our bedroom, I knew my husband as a man for the first time—and it was the sweetest of sleeps in his strong arms. But in the morning, before the sun rose and illuminated the room, he was gone.

Well, I was quite bereft. Yet when I went into the kitchen, all alone for the day, I was cheered by the sight of the fire, which burned low, but with such a strong ember-glow that it hungrily devoured the kindling I fed it, and grew quickly into a jovial, dancing flame.

Each day I would go out to collect wood from the edge of the forest where my bear-husband roamed, and where orange butterflies flickered through the trees, and I would build a pile of firewood large enough to feed the fire until the darkness came again. In the kitchen I would knead dough to bake bread, and sing love songs to myself; or I would sit and sew or knit, all the while giving fuel to the fire. That fire became the constant companion of my lonesome days, and I came to know all its colours and moods: the flickers of red and gold, and the white-blue heat at its heart.

Each night, as the light in the kitchen began to grow dim, and the fire became ever more amiably golden as it cast its glow about the room, I would present it with the last of the wood I had collected, enticing it into a gentle roar, and then retreat to the darkness of the bedroom to await my husband’s return.

Every night was dark and sweet; and every day was filled with the friendly warmth of the fire. In the morning it would be waiting for me—embers still aglow—somehow alive. It ate up sticks like a wild animal chewing on bones. It danced crazily as it grew, laughing and singing its fire-song.

I loved that fire. Its warmth sustained me, filled me, made my body sing with delight at the love I had found. It was always gentle and welcoming. Yet, with time I noticed the fire taking on a new and wilder light. It would beckon me close, so that its heat would make my skin blush red, and it would whisper strange things to me—of how it could bring me light in the dark; of how it could reveal the unknown. 

Well, after three years of this fireside bliss, I journeyed back to my first home to visit my parents, and you know what my mother gave me, what my father said. Yet I could not help myself—the fire had planted a question-seed in the dark of my breast. I carried the candle stub my mother had given me in my pocket, a tiny receptacle for a tiny flame, almost ready to come to light within me. 

When I returned to my home once more, the fire was there to greet me, as if I had never been away. It danced mischievously, it sang a mysterious song. It shimmered more golden than ever, and lit the hidden place in my heart.

That night, after reuniting with my husband in the darkness, I crept out of the room and into the kitchen where the fire smouldered red and pulsed, like a beating heart. I tenderly roused the fire, watched it birth itself the same and anew. Then I took the candle stub from where I had folded it into my nightgown, and with a piece of tinder I lit that candle, and thanked the fire—that generous, warm, wild friend of my days—and I turned back towards the darkness.

(Source: Wikimedia, by Giovanni Dall'Orto)