The Coven had a large, circular village in the Swedish wilderness where all the high-witches and several of their descendants lived. Sanna Elinsdotter, the grand-niece of the thirteenth high-witch and a particular favourite, lived in a modest house in the thirteenth triangle of the village with her mother, Linnéa Elinsdotter, and her husband, Frey Elinsson. And now, today, her and Frey’s first born a beautiful blonde baby girl who they named Lotta, free woman. Lotta was two, when Agda, good-hearted, was born. Still too young to talk, she grinned a toothy grin and gurgled some baby nonsense when Agda was placed next to her sister on the blanket for a photo. By now, Lotta’s light blonde hair had started to darken until it was a shade or two darker than Agda’s light blonde baby fluff, but the family resemblance between the two was unmistakable.
“I’m making up for you and Morster Aina not having any children,” Sanna joked to the high-witch Elin as they lay out on the beach, Agda sitting between them playing with shells, wind blowing their identical blonde hair. Lotta, three now and walking, toddled over the beach bringing polished stones and shells for her baby sister to play with, dark blonde hair in a braid, Sanna’s vain attempt to keep her eldest daughter’s whispy hair neat. She was pregnant for a third time.
When Eira, merciful, was born, it had only been Sanna and Linnéa in the house, Frey having taken the girls to the Lodge to watch the high-witch Saga spin one of her lovely tales over the fire. Linnéa floo’d one of Ronja’s Healers and although the living room couch was ruined, there was a new witch born to the Elinsdotters. Ruining the couch would only be Eira’s first act of mercy, her second would be to pull one of Lotta’s curls so that Sanna’s hard work curling her eldest daughter’s painfully straight hair went to waste. Lotta, for her part just smiled and cooed over the new baby.
A year later, My, rebellious woman, was born. Linnéa was beyond grateful. “Four granddaughters in four years,” she said to the Healer who had come to help. “It’s a blessing.” Frey, for his part, smiled happily although Sanna was sure he had wanted a little wizard to follow in his footsteps. My was the only daughter to have curly hair and was even more rambunctious a baby than Eira had been. Eira had calmed a little over the past year and Agda who had just learned to talk was already trying to teach Eira how to say “förlåt” because, as Lotta who was four explained it, “Eira needs the lesson.”
The following year, Frey left the village for year long fishing expedition with some of the other wizards, and when he returned he found his daughters all lined up at the Gate, dressed in their finest summer clothes to welcome him home. “We have a surprise for you at home,” Lotta said, now six, her arm around three-year-old My. Eira shifted uncomfortably but gave her father a beautiful smile when Agda who was five and already beaming squeezed her shoulder. Frey followed them home to their modest house in the thirteenth triangle of the village, where Linnéa opened the door and Frey saw his beautiful wife, feeding their new son at the kitchen table.
“His name is Óskar,” My said, having broken free of Lotta’s arms and poking her curly head through her father’s as he stood at the table looking at his beautiful son. She grinned at him widely, her shiny baby teeth lined up perfectly.
“Óskar,” Frey echoed as Sanna handed him their white-blonde son to hold for the first time.
“No more children,” Linnéa muttered fondly as she collected ratty-haired My and tried to detangle the girl’s messy curls.
“I can run faster than you!” Agda called as she ran through the brambles outside the village. Six-year-old Eira panted to keep up with her older sister, frowning when some of the brambles tore at her new pinafore. She stopped to survey the damage, pouting when she saw a stain on the corner from having brushed against a too-ripe berry, and stomped on an ant to convey her anger.
“That’s not fair, Agda!” she shouted into the thick shrubbery. “You’re bigger than I am.”
“Not by much,” Agda called back in a sing-song voice. “We’re practically the same size, you just gotta try harder!”
“Ignore her,” Lotta said, coming up behind Eira and putting an arm around her comfortingly. “When Mamma catches up to us, we can have her fix it.”
Eira smiled back prettily and shrugged Lotta’s arm off her. “Just you wait, Agda, I’m going to catch up in no time!” She ambled off after her older sister while Lotta hung back to wait for little My to find them and sure enough, out she tumbled, ripped dress and berries smeared across her face and down the front of her lovely dress, hair a mess. Lotta smiled and shook her head, reaching out to pluck a branch from My’s tangled curls.
“How do you get yourself into this, hmm?” she asked with a soft smile. My grinned a toothless smile at her. Her front two teeth had come loose the week previous when she herself had fallen out of a tree and scrapped up her two knees and fallen out two nights before.
“I wanted to eat the berries,” My explained patiently as though it made all the sense in the world. “And I had to go somewhere Óskar wouldn’t find me because he’s a pest and won’t leave me alone.”
“Óskar is not a pest,” Lotta said patiently.
“Is too,” My insisted. “He doesn’t understand that I’m one of the big girls and he’s always trying to tag along.”
Lotta hide a smile and held her hand out to My. “Well then, let’s go and catch up with Eira and Agda then, but you have to make Óskar a special tart and play with him sometimes too, okay?”
When Lotta and My had caught up with Eira and Agda, they found a perfectly peaceable Eira filling her pail with berries while Agda, fuming over the state of her now stained pants, delicately plucked the bramble before her clean into her pail. Agda hated getting messy, that much My knew, and she looked wide-eyed at the red stained blue. It was probably the first time she had ever seen Agda wearing something dirty.
Swedish words used in this post: Morster - aunt Förlåt - sorry
Note to remember: The Coven believes children are one year old upon birth.