Stephan | Höfn

'Did you ever wonder about the Slavitdr who grew babies in the hollowed out trees? They'd find The Mistreated Ones and give them to the Ointfelt. These Slavitdr children were different; detached from worldly concerns, they taught the wisdom of natural rhythm—of connection to everything.' Every year was the same. On the eve of Latens Day, April 16th, they visited the museum for this one display. He'd repeat the same words. She didn't know why and he never told her, but the visit was written into their marriage contract. She hated its bare bones, its poised, skeletal finger, hated museums, hated seeing things that should be buried. He'd kept it hidden from her, hoping that one day she would be curious, but she remained silent, unmoved. He remembered the smell of his mother, the sap that flowed through fleshy membranes, the figure-of-eight pure energy that he felt in his own body—maybe it was time, especially as their baby was growing in her womb. It was on the tip of his tongue. He toyed with the notion, but knew she wasn't ready, her vibration stayed at the same low level even in pregnancy. He knew this was just a knee-jerk reaction to circumstance—that it was best to teach the child in secret. The child would have two names, just as he had.