“We knew so little about the Devil in those days, now everyone knows so much about him.” (p. 42)The Wax Child has been growing on me, holding me in a power all its own. At first, I thought, “Okay, witches. The seventeenth century. How is this relevant, and who cares?”
(I knew it was a mistake to read The Remembered Soldier first.)
But, now I keep thinking of The Wax Child. Indeed, it has woven a spell over me, just as the incantations of the women themselves were spoken periodically throughout the book. Here are a few:
“Take a swallow bird. Take her heart and roast it on a stick. Take then the swallow’s tongue and place it under your own. Eat then the swallow’s heart. Carry with you thereafter the swallow’s tongue, and whenever someone is angry with you place the swallow’s tongue underneath your own and speak to the person who is angry and her anger toward you will at once be stilled.” p. 26
“Cast some blood of a jar into the fire, so that it makes a smell, then all the girls of the house will piss themselves. Or give them blood from a bat and those who have mixed with men will play piss themselves.” p. 61
“Take the water from the eye of a stallion that has not yet been led to a mate, and with it wet your own eyes, then all can be seen that would otherwise be unseeable, and this three mornings in succession.” p. 76
Jomfru Christenze Axelsdattar Kruckow, a noblewoman, has fashioned a doll made of wax. It is this doll, who cannot open her lips, or move her mouth, which tells us the tale of Christenze, Maren, Apelone, and Dorte. They do unspeakable, unchristian things. They meet in secret, and their very existence seems to threaten the men around them. They ultimately meet their demise at the hand of these men; all but Christenze are tied to a ladder and burned alive. Christenze herself is beheaded.
“Since they (the women) are weak, they find a secret and easy manner of vindicating themselves by witchcraft. Where there are many women, there are many witches.” (p. 73)
Ah, now I see the point. Judging by appearances, judging out of fear, judgment of any kind cannot be made blanketly, with any amount of accuracy. Ravn calls into question men who judge falsely, creating what is termed feminist fiction. But, I think it is a more widely applicable problem in our society.
The mood she has created, blending her imagination with fact, is commendable. The novel reads as a poem, and a disturbingly horrific one at that.
(Thank you to New Directions for sending me a copy for review.)