The True Story of Mrs. Claus
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Ingefær Claus, original art by me. Thanks to Moonlight Cottage ASMR for the pose and setting reference.
I have a recent fascination with Mrs. Claus, spurred on by the fact that I hope to start enacting her role in the next few years. When I started thinking about the back story for my Mrs. Claus, a very clear voice emerged, and I had to tell her story.
I hope you enjoy this holiday offering this Christmas Eve. May you have a very Merry Christmas.
The True Story of Mrs. Claus
I never wanted to grow up to be a mythic figure. I never gazed out of my window at night and wished on the brightest star that I could be a revered figure of maternal comfort. Of course, in those days, when I was a child, little girls were not supposed to ask such questions about their fate at all. Get married, keep a household, give birth to the next generation, love your husband, and die at about forty-years-old if you were lucky. That was the path I was given. But I was never much good at obeying.
My dear husband isn’t very good at obeying either. Many a silly modern person would argue that Santa Claus is a recent phenomenon, that he’s a construction of advertising mixed with folk belief. In fact, many don’t believe in him at all anymore. Dear Klaus is slippery and nimble. (He has to be to get so much work done in one night, even with the use of magic.) He shows up in different stories in different forms depending on where you are in the world, where you look in history, and what you want to see. The humans call him a jolly old elf, which makes the actual fey folk who give us aid each year laugh until they tumble over with sore stomachs. Santa is not an elf. He’s not a human either. Nor is he a saint, though the Christians argue otherwise. He’s something entirely different, old and wise, handsome and cheerful, and a wonderful life partner.
Despite my stubborn tendencies and a streak of independence, I do love that fellow, and tend to ramble on about him once I’ve begun. But this story isn’t about him, nor is it really about me. It’s about us, and how we met.
It was a long time ago, by how humans render it. In fact I suppose it might have been centuries since, now that I ponder. My name is Ingefær, not exactly a typical Norwegian name, even in the blustering north country in which my tiny village was nestled. But I was born on Yule eve, with a full head of cinnamon fire hair, and my mother immediately named me for the ginger sprinkled into the cookies she had been making when her labor pains arrived. You see, I was born into a family of magical women; wise women who were respected in our village and the surrounding country for our knowledge and the aid we could bring to those in need. Herbs and remedies, childbirthing and last rites; we were there at the beginning and at the end of many lives. Our family had knowledge, passed down generation to generation, yes, but we also quietly and secretly had a touch of magic as well.
Even among a family of odd women, I was unusual. Strange even. I learned the ways of gathering plants and working with the earth, but my eyes were also often on the skies. I would stare at the Northern Lights glowing their swirling rainbow patterns above us at night, and wonder. One day I asked my mother “why don’t we try to bottle the lights in the sky? Or catch the stars in our potions?” She chuckled at me and held me close, explaining that such things just weren’t possible. But I never believed her. Just like so many children still believe in Santa long after their parents confess he is imaginary, I also still dreamed that there must be a way to capture the magic of the sky, even after my mother dismissed the idea. I wouldn’t steal the light, of course; I would only harvest respectful amounts taken with permission, in gratitude and humility. So I began experimenting.
I knew that to succeed at something no one else had done before must take time and patience. I considered reflections, attempting to capture the shimmering lights in a bottle of still water. But though the water might have a slight sheen to it by morning, the glimmer quickly faded. It was enough magic to give me hope, though. I started studying the constellations, paying attention to the phases of the moon (which of course were already a factor in the creation of my family’s herbal potions and concoctions), the solstices, the position of the north star. I knew I had to use something to keep the slippery streaks of glittering magic held fast within the bottles, and once I finally realized what I could try, I was excited and a little embarrassed at the obviousness of the choice.
On winter solstice night one year when I was turning eighteen, I went out to the spring near our house, a sacred space for water we sometimes used in our potions. This sacred font never failed to give the magic even more potency. Leaving an offering of bread and a braided crown of holly to the spirit of the well, I got to work with my ice pick, and chipped away at the thick frozen layer above the water. But instead of dipping my bottle into the water below, I carefully gathered the chips and slices of broken ice, and poured them into the glass.
As quietly as I could, walking across the snowy and uneven ground, I made my way to an open field where the sky stretched above. The swirling patterns writhed and twisted in shades of green and violet, fuschia and cobalt. If ice was water captured in suspension, I reasoned, then ice was what I needed to use to capture the cold fire in the sky.
Just to be even more certain, I placed a contraption around my bottle that I had made from wooden planks sliced thin and pegged together in a shape like a large funnel. I wanted the ice shards to only be able to see the sky. To not be distracted by the view of snowy field or distant forest. I set the bottle in the wooden funnel and settled down in the field to wait.
All night I sat in that field, in the snow and the bitter cold. I was wearing every layer of warm blanket and coat I could find, but it was still an ordeal. I felt my mind slowing as I tried to communicate with the magic above me, to explain that I didn’t want to be greedy or use the sky’s magic for my own gain. I simply wished to have new ways to help others…different tools to utilize in my potions and creations. And I promised that if the sky didn’t agree, I would forever cease my fervent experiments. I would listen to the answer I was given that night.
I must have fallen asleep at some point because I dreamed that I looked up at the sky, and the colors were brighter than they had ever been before. I saw a stream of shimmering light streaking down into the meadow, like a rainbow in our all too brief summer days there in the cold north country. It filtered into the wooden funnel, and then just as quickly was gone again, back to the sky from which it came.
In the morning, I put a stopper in the top of the bottle, reaching down into the wooden funnel without looking, since I was afraid to peek too soon. I carried my contraption back to our home, allowing my mother to fuss over my ice-frozen lashes and flushed ruddy cheeks. I tucked the wooden vessel into a corner by my bed and vowed not to look at it for at least a day, giving the ice time to melt down into water. But the sky had other ideas.
Around mid-day, as we were mixing a potion for a visiting neighbor whose gout was bothering her terribly, we heard her timidly inquire “what is that candle you have over by the bedside? (We had a large cottage for a family of our size, but my bed still sat by the kitchen hearth) I glanced over at the bed, and gasped, quickly ushering her out with her herbal remedy. The wall by my bed was shimmering with the reflection of light refracting from the bottle below. The funnel shape was only acting as a projector, making the rainbow colors shine all the brighter on the wall. I shouted with joy and started to cry, while my mother simply looked confused. Stepping over to the wooden box, I lifted out the stoppered bottle, still half frozen, but half swirling with glowing light.
“I bottled the Northern Lights,” I told her, collapsing on the bed from exhaustion and emotion.
~*~
From that moment on, I refused to listen to anyone who told me about impossibilities. I realized, with even more sincerity and belief, that the entire world around us was animate and living, breathing and coexisting. If I could listen with respect and wonder, and just a touch of the magic my family gifted me, many forces of nature were willing to lend me aid. I borrowed water from a bubbling brook for a potion to foster joy. I asked a thunderstorm for a wisp of thundercloud to bring courage to those who are timid. And I started experimenting with mixing these and more elements as well, only if they would allow it, to bring joy and prosperity to my village.
Just as I was born to magic, I suspect I was also born to love Yuletide, having been born into its spices and glow. Anything to do with the festivities at the end of each year celebrating warmth and wonder, brotherhood and evergreen, ghost tales and folklore, left me utterly enraptured. I felt like there was a reason why I couldn’t stand to wait a moment longer to be born on that cold Yule evening. And so each year, my celebration of warmth in winter grew larger and more boisterous and joyous. I would open a bottle of the Northern Lights each Yule evening and the glowing rainbow streaks would skate and dart all throughout our (prosperous and quickly growing) town. Children would run around and try to catch the slippery lights, and the magic would attract small faerie beings to flit and dart around as well.
Rumor of our winter celebrations began to spread, though I tried my best to keep them as contained as rare ingredients in a potion bottle. Soon we started having visitors to our once-village-now-town each year. Neighbors built lodgings for the visitors, winter markets featuring items for sale sprung up among the winter snow, and by the winter of my thirtieth year, a stranger’s face seen at winter time was not a peculiarity. But his caught my eye all the same.
“His eyes, how they twinkled, his dimples so merry…”
I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. But his eyes really did sparkle with a magical glow, and the little creases in his cheeks made his generous smile all the more infectious. I recognized something in him the moment our eyes met, and I realized that he was a magic maker as well, probably from another long line of magicians. There was a glow of warmth around him that drew people to his side, and made them leave with joy on their faces. And yes. He was handsome. His hair was the same red as mine, but liberally streaked with premature white. Despite how crowded the tavern was that December evening, he made his way over to me quite easily.
“I’ve heard you are the one behind this midwinter magic,” he said in greeting.
Klaus was never one to mince words. But as I have already said, I was a stubborn one, and didn’t want to give in to his charm so easily.
“That may be so, or it maybe it’s the collective joy of all those here giving the festivities an air of magic instead.”
“Ahh, but only one hand lifts the stopper on the bottle each Yuletide night,” he argued in response, with a friendly laugh.
The laugh was what did me in, dear reader. Santa is known for his Ho Ho Ho, but in those early days, it was less robust and more twinkling, but every bit as infectious. I grinned back at him and relented.
“How can I help you, Mister…?”
“Just call me Klaus, dear Ingefær, just call me Klaus.”
~*~
And so I did, and so I have, from that day on. We quickly discovered we had a mutual love for magic, but also for generosity and giving, goodwill toward mankind. And we both had a deeply held passion for the winter holidays. Even though he fared from a warmer land, he adjusted well enough to the cold. Our winter celebrations grew and grew, until we reached the point where we had to find a way to keep our magic a secret for fear of greedy and selfish individuals trying to ruin what we had created. And so we went to the faeries, and they taught us the secret of shifting into another world. They also gave us their gift of immortality. It was not a gift they offered lightly, and we had to earn it, but that is another story for another day.
And so, dear children, we became eternal, and the “North Pole” was born. (You didn’t think you could actually travel to the northernmost pole and find us, did you? First, northern Norway is cold enough, thank you very much, and second, we shield ourselves quite well from being seen unless we wish to be.)
These days, I still have my bottles and potions. Some of them are used to help Santa keep from being discovered, some are used by the elves to bring extra magic to gifts for people of all ages who believe. Klaus of course has his own magics, which I respect and admire greatly. We work together as well, letting our benevolent energies mingle and merge on projects to awe and inspire all over the world. I chuckle sometimes at the modern depictions of both of us. Though he is a soft fellow, he’s also strong, and there’s no massive belly on him. And ruffled dust caps and spectacles for me? Really? I prefer my hair in a sturdy braided crown around my head, and any cookies I make are mixed with magic and as potentially dangerous as they are delicious.
You may get the details wrong, but there are still some things you get absolutely right. We love Christmas. We love magic. And, dear secret believer, we do exist. Just have a little faith in wonder, in love, and look to the northern sky.
