It‘s not so much that I don‘t know how to feel about my parents; it‘s that I don‘t know how not to feel about my parents. Individually and combined, my feelings run the full gamut.
There was one time when my parents were out drinking. That was a silly thing to say. There were literally millions of times when they were out drinking. But on one occasion, they became so rowdy that Tyr and Thor had to be called. Ok, that happened many, many, times as well, but on the occasion that I‘m thinking of, the two warriors showed up and manhandled my parents in an attempt to subdue them. So, they began giggling incessantly and squirming like small children. Then, noting that there were some art students across the hall, they spontaneously commissioned a painting. Yes, there is a portrait of the two militant gods posing, grinning wildly as they loose grasp my drunken parents. They are all beaming with pride, twinkles in the eyes of the excessively inebriated; two from alcohol; two from power. In some ways, this piece of art, that still hangs in the cave, says it all. In others, it barely scratches the surface.
When I was a little girl, I thought it was normal… of course I took care of my parents, making their dinner, reminding them of their bedtimes, cleaning and bandaging their frequent drug-induced wounds. But now that I‘m big enough to require a shirt in public, almost a woman, I know this is not the way it should be.
I know that I should have a home, with ceramic—breakable!— plates and cupboards full of healthy food. I know that it is time I cut them loose and make my way in the world. How else will they grow up? That‘s why I went to Uncle Óðinn. He wants me to always call him ‘uncle‘ in public. I seem to think you’re public.
Anyway, I went to Uncle Óðinn and told him that It is time; time I have my own home; time I have my own hall; time I have my own cupboards, filled with good food. And he agreed. It‘s no surprise that he‘s called me before the council today. Clearly, he has something in mind. So, I washed my hair and put on my best dress, and I‘m on my way to his hall where I will appear before him as he sits on Hliðskjálf.
As I enter the room, everyone looks at me. And I know it is my moment. I stand up straight and beam, looking each of the warriors directly in the eye. I consider bowing to them, but decide not to. This is my day to accept my power. I wear my pride like a victory banner.
Then Uncle Óðinn calls me and I walk to the plinth, slowly, deliberately, like I‘ve seen the brides do it. But then he tells me to come up, to join him on his high seat. I look up. It is quite a way, but there are rungs on the side, so I begin to climb. This is not as easy as it sounds, since I‘m wearing a dress. Thank Jorðr that I‘ve put on bloomers. When I get to the top, Uncle Óðinn grasps me by the shoulders, gently, but firmly, and turns me to face the crowd, perching me awkwardly one one knee. I open my mouth to object to being treated as a child, but he begins to speak.
“On behalf of our community, the Æsir, and in keeping with our peace and safety, I, O∂inn, hereby dispatch you to your new home, Helheimr, where you shall lord over our dead.“ And As he utters those last few words, he also tosses me, head first, over his shoulder, where I fall, fall, fall, toward the ravine behind him.
The shock is followed by fear, which also subsides until I become preoccupied with breathing. It is difficult to breathe normally when falling fast. So much air rushing by; I can‘t help but be aware of my inhalations, which I can‘t say I‘ve really paid much attention to in the past.
Eventually, I do see the bottom coming at me, quick. But then I see her face in the cliff wall. Jorðr catches me oh-so-gently, a near-frothy loam awaiting me at the bottom, pleasantly bouncing me to a tender stop before the earth turns hard, once again, beneath me. I stagger to my feet and look around. I am at the entrance to a vast home, with what appears to be an enormous hall. I stagger to the door, where I find a note.
In Uncle Óðinn‘s too-careful handwriting, it says ‘Welcome home, Hel, my Queen. This is to be your home, your hall, your realm, over which you shall reign. But all power comes with a price. You will never leave. Nor may you tell anyone that this is a gift and not a punishment. For fools are happy to pay to punish, even when they balk at paying to gift. You have done such a wonderful job caring for your parents, for your siblings, that I have promoted you to this underworld where you can care for all the broken, the inebriated, the foolish, that have been cast out without reward of their own, but able to share in yours, should you choose.
“Nooooo!“ I scream “Uncle Óðinn, Uncle Óðinn, Uncle Óðinn…“ I shout through sobs until my voice is gone. Then, when I cried and screamed it all out, I take a deep breath, hold it, and open the door.
There I find the most elaborate hall and pantry I have ever seen, fully stocked with china and tarts. A draugr appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and bows. I am surprised when his semi-transparent body bumps the table.
“Tea?” he asks.
I nod and wander into the next room, put on the dress that I find on the elaborate throne, take a deep breath, and sit down to enjoy my tea and tarts as I wait for the warriors to come and bow to me.