Beings - Huldra

Why! What a nice living room! I love the way you’re not shying away from a bright color scheme, I didn’t expect that. Yes, yes, I’ll sit down. And yes, thanks, I’d love a glass of wine.

It was a nice walk from the nightclub, right? For me, it’s more easy to open up, walking outside in the fresh air like that. And I feel like I really got to know you a little more as well. But you said you wanted to know more about me? Ok then, I will. I will tell you my story. And after… After, we move on to, you know, other things. I can see your anticipation for that part as well.

My story might not be what you expect. Just don’t interrupt. At least don’t interrupt too much. Okay? Pretty please? I need to tell it my way. Bear with me.

Here goes.

You and I—we just met. Tonight, out on the dance floor. We were drawn to each other like magnets. That’s how it felt for me at least. Finding each other like that, while enjoying a night out with friends, it feels so normal, don’t you think?

From the outside it probably looks like I’m blending in effortlessly. But I’m not, I’m playing a role. It used to be easier to pretend, nowadays it’s quite taxing.

I suspect you do too, play a role I mean. But I think it’s more natural for you. You seem quite at home in a costume.

Yeah, it used to be easier, that’s for sure. But, to paraphrase the Poet, the times they are a-changin’.

And I’m not ”down” with the times. Like, at all. It’s been changing too much for too long. Life is much more complicated now, and time moves too fast for me.

What? Like an old lady? Yeah, maybe. I certainly don’t feel like a lady, but I do feel quite ancient at times.

Anyhow, the times a’changing? I used to roll with it. Easily learning the ways of every new generation; new ways to blend in, new ways to interact, new ways to connect. It is needed for what I do, for who I am.

Generations? Yes, that’s what I said. I guess here is where it gets a little harder to follow. But you promised to listen, so do that please? Just listen to my story. I’ll continue now.

My job—maybe ‘mission’, or ‘calling’, would describe it better—has become much more difficult to do. It’s harder to keep up. I just don’t have the energy for it any longer. I wish I could repurpose myself into something, anything, else. With my skill set, I just can’t see how. Or into what.

Used to be, in the good old days, I was the one who kept the balance between good and evil. I still do, I guess. Mind you, my job was never to eradicate all evil. Just… Maintaining balance.

I took care of the bad men. Not men who were sometimes bad, sometimes good, or sometimes passably decent, but the ones who were bad all the time, in all the worst ways. Those men.

Of course there are those kinds of bad amongst the women folk as well, but that has never been my area of responsibility. The Fiddler dealt with those. He still does, I suppose, even if he is fading, like me.

Back in the days, the Fiddler preferred to sit on a rock in the middle of a stream. He was stronger in such places. He would sit for hours, lazily plucking his strings. Patiently waiting.

The bad ones heard him for miles—he could cast his net wider the more the water flowed—and they would draw nearer to better hear his mesmerizing music.

I once saw him—on a rock, in the middle of a frothy spring river—lure a young woman with only a few carefully executed tones. Five times his fingers touched the strings, and she heard him from five miles away. Magical!

No more hemlock tea for the complaining elders, no more belladonna biscuits for the unruly kids. The woman was a goner and her village was better for it.

Back then even the very wicked children were punished. That was the job of the lake horse. I never approved of that. Children, especially the young ones, are almost always innocent. More importantly; they can still change. Not all bad children grow up to be bad grownups.

The lake horse, he was a nasty one. He had brown kind eyes and a long silken mane, and he would charm and trick the little ones to sit up. Once on the horse they were stuck like glue.

Then his eyes would fill up with blackness, his mane would turn into stinky sea weed, the teeth would grow to pointy fangs and down into the darkest depths they went.

The children would thrash and scream when they started to drown. For a few seconds, when they were fully under water, you could see their silent grimaces releasing bubbles in grotesque pantomimes. Then they disappeared into the deep, still stuck on the horse’s back, trying to get free.

Never liked that horse. When he was finally gone I remember being well and truly relieved.

But I digress. I can see you’re growing impatient. You’re eager to move on to the next step. You want to get down to business. I can respect a man with good work ethic.

Back to my job: handling the really, really bad men. In modern lingo: I was policing the extra epic, and the extra evil, creeps. The baddies. The ones who, if given too much leeway, would upset the balance in this world for generations.

How I did it you ask? Back then?

As I said, those were simpler times. People were not yet of the cynical sort you see today. At least most weren’t. Back then, I would wander in my domain: the woods. You could even call it patrolling, in a way that’s what I did. That’s what I still do, I guess: patrolling.

I wandered in the wilds, reinforcing the weaves of connections in my domain: governing the spirits and threads of animals, rocks, trees, mankind; spinning, cutting, pairing.

Then, sometimes, in the midst of my weaving, a faint vibration, a slight pulling on the threads: a bad man unwittingly calling on me.

When I found one, I would stalk my prey, step by step luring him in.

In those days, I could take my time, bad men not being in abundance, and times moving more slowly. I could have some fun with them if I felt like it. When they were extra deserving. Then I would play with them for a long, long time.

A glimpse of wavy, luscious hair, conveniently covering my entire backside.

A soothing song, calming the nerves of prey.

A slow, undulating movement of my glistening body, as I twirled in slow motion, feet moving on the moss carpet to the rhythm of the forest.

Lowering their resistance, raising their heartbeat.

Building the heat and obsession until they were so full of their own desires they no longer cared when they saw my hollow back.

Until they no longer ran screaming, when I started to devour them.

They would lie there, in the moss, while I fed. They would lie there wriggling in ecstasy, until nothing of them remained.

Good times.

Nowadays I still work. I’m still me, even if the times and I seem to be out of sync.

My powers are waning, but are not entirely gone. Today I stalk the nightclubs, like the one tonight, where we met. I dance on the hard disco floors, singing along and weaving my body to the beats blaring out of the loudspeakers.

In these modern times, my hollow back is covered by a prosthesis. Don’t wanna be exposed, you know? It would ruin my vibe, to say the least. And I suspect it would be very hard to do my job if I turned into a meme on social media.

I don’t like it, the prosthesis, it makes me feel crippled. I feel weaker for it. But my song and dance still has some magic to them, even if I need to be closer to my prey.

How it works? You sound a bit skeptical. For you, this is just a fantastical story. I understand it’s hard to take in. And harder to believe.

But let me show you! I’ll sing you a song. Maybe dance around a little even, here, in your living room. Pointy toes twirling around on your dark green shag rug. Would you like that?

I have a feeling you will find it compelling.