Children of the Wolf

A Novel

Abby Geni

We love this book, and though we devoured it in a weekend — and talked about it a lot — we’re still not sure what genre label to plaster on it. It sounds like a thriller, and it’s not NOT a thriller. But it’s more.

Ulf Thorvaldsson is obsessed with his Viking heritage. No surprise, really, given that he’s a direct descendent of Erik the Red, and the name Ulf means ‘wolf.’ The taciturn giant-sized man hews as closely to 9th-century life as one can in the modern age. He and his children — son Finn, daughter Liv — subsist off the grid on a compound in rural Iowa. Homeschooling lessons — all conducted in Swedish — consist of the Norse sagas called Eddas, reciting the nine noble virtues, violent swordplay, and archery. They have almost no interaction with anyone else, and all Norse holidays are celebrated, including the occasional blood sacrifice in the woods.

Periodically, their father disappears for a day or two, only to lock himself in the basement on his return. The basement where the children are forbidden to go. Sometimes there’s blood.

One day, the FBI busts through the perimeter fence and arrests Ulf; he’s sentenced to a handful of lifetimes in prison. Although the story is narrated by the now grown-up Liv, the father of her childhood dominates the first half of the story.

After the arrest, we jump ahead 20 years. Liv and Finn have relocated to a small town in Michigan, quietly taking care of bees and selling their wares at the farmers’ market. Until violence re-enters their lives and upsets their carefully constructed peace.

Reading this book is two distinct experiences. There’s the page-turning WHAT?! Tell more more about this Viking stuff! And the gut-punch of complex characters and their fates — plus, an ending that lingers like a mist in the forest.

Liv is a compelling protagonist. As a child, she was quiet, obedient, eager for approval from her domineering, volatile father. The grown-up Liv is prickly, anxious, and suffers from debilitating insomnia. She works over her past with the scalpel-sharp insight of an adult — and is almost pathologically protective of her older brother Finn.

The brother, her protector as a child, has matured into a silent, self-contained man who prefers the company of animals to people. His constant companion is a wolfhound. He communes with their bees and befriends an injured raven who brings him shiny gifts as thanks.

The sibling’s feelings about their abusive, dangerous, larger-than-life father are complex. ‘God, how I loved him,’ Liv says. ‘I know it may be difficult for you to understand. He taught me to braid my hair like his… He took me through the forest in the spring, teaching me which mushrooms were edible.’ From him, she learned to harvest fuit, make jam, snare animals, and bring down game with a bow and arrow, ‘since providing meat for the menfolk was a vital part of a Viking woman’s duties.’ But the education came with accompanying lessons of violence.

The second half of the book celebrates the kinder lives they’ve built in the Michigan wilderness — and introduces a new character into their lives: Penny. She’s unerringly compassionate, a vegetarian who raises but doesn’t eat animals. She keeps pigs, chickens, and bees simply to have them in her life. She and Liv begin a romance that’s quite tender and sweet — and very cautious. As we’re rooting for Liv to let down her guard, we learn that Penny has a secret. A locked door in her house. A locked door that’s too reminiscent of Ulf’s locked basement. Is Penny merely very private? Or is history repeating?

The suspense in this book is relentless — and as the stakes rise, so does the emotional engagement. Captivating detours into Viking lore and the nuances of beekeeping are not mere set dressing; they take us further inside Liv’s heart and mind.

This thriller-family drama delves into the best and worst of humanity, loyalty, love, and fate.

It began with red.

I was hiding under the kitchen table when my brother found me. I can’t be sure of my age— four or five, probably—­ a pale, barefoot girl with a messy blond braid. Busy in play, I did not notice Finn’s approach until he leaned over the edge of the table, blotting out the sunlight.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s a mess to clean up.’

‘What happened?

‘Get up.’

I glared at him. ‘You clean it up. I didn’t make any mess.’

‘Liv.’ His tone made my name into a command. Finn was three years older, not exactly an authority figure but close enough. I crawled out from under the table. The curtains undulated in a summer breeze that circled the kitchen, warm as breath. Finn led me down the hall to the living room and stopped in the doorway. Red on the floor. I blinked, trying to verify what I was seeing. A track of scarlet splotches trailed from one end of the living room to the other. The drips varied in size and shape, some as big as my palm, some mere pinpoints. The window screens shimmied in the breeze, casting rectangles of light on the floorboards and fluorescing each crimson blot. I smelled something unfamiliar — iron, rust.

‘I’ll get the mop,’ Finn said. — Abby Geni

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