Norse Brewer Witch Spirit Companion · Kari

Meet Kari.

Some historians think that our picture of the witch, the pointed hat, the steaming cauldron, the broom, the cats, may have begun with the women who brewed ale. They wore tall hats to be seen at market. They stirred great pots. They hung a broom outside the door to show there was ale for sale, and kept cats to guard the grain from mice.

In the North, brewing had always been women’s work, and it was never only work. Ale was holy. Odin stole the mead of poetry from the giants. The sea god Ægir brewed for all the gods in his great kettle. And in Norway, for centuries, every farm brewed its own ale for every feast, every wedding and every funeral, using a yeast that was handed down from mother to daughter like a family treasure.

They called it kveik, from an old word that means to kindle, like a fire.

Kari’s family kveik was more than two hundred years old.

She was born in 1790 on a farm in the steep valleys of western Norway, near Voss, where the mountains came down to the fjord and the winters were long and dark. Her great-great-grandmother had brought the kveik to the farm when she married. Since then, it had been passed down, always to a daughter. After every brewing, the yeast was scraped from the bottom of the vat, dried on a carved wooden ring, and hung on the wall until the next time. It was called the luck of the house. If the kveik died, the luck died with it.

Kari’s mother taught her everything. How to soak the barley, let it sprout and dry it over the fire. How to boil water with juniper branches until it smelled of the forest, and use that water to brew. How to tell by the smell of the wort when the moment had come. And how to throw the old dried yeast in with a shout, the way the women always did, so that it would wake up and get to work.

She taught her the rest too. How to pour the first cup of every brewing outside, on the stone by the barn, for the old spirit of the farm, so that he would not take the strength from the ale. How to lay a knife across the vat to keep the hidden folk away. And the words, the ones said over the ale before anyone drank it.

The farm’s good name rested on its ale. Under the old Norwegian laws, every farm was required to brew ale for Christmas. A farmer who did not could be fined, and if he went on failing, he could lose his farm and be sent out of the country. No one on Kari’s farm had ever failed.

She grew up to be the best brewer in the district. People said her ale made the shy talk, the sad laugh and the old dance. She brewed for every wedding in the valley. In the old days, the wedding feast itself had been named after the ale; in English, the very word bridal comes from bride-ale. She brewed for every funeral, too. The dead had to be drunk out, people said, and the heir could not take his father’s seat until he had drunk the inheritance ale. She brewed for births, for Christmas, for midsummer. She was in every important moment of her neighbours’ lives.

Then the hunger came.

From 1807 to 1814, Norway was cut off by war at sea. The British blockaded the coast, and the grain ships from Denmark stopped coming. Norway could not feed itself. People ground tree bark into their bread. Children starved. There was no grain to brew with at all.

But if the kveik was not used, it would die.

So Kari kept it alive. Every few months, she took a handful of the barley her family needed to eat, ground it, boiled it and fed it to the yeast, just enough to keep it breathing. She went hungry to do it. Her husband thought she had lost her mind. But when the war ended in 1814 and the first grain ship came back into the fjord, Kari’s kveik was still alive, and she brewed the first ale of peace in the valley. Every farm for miles around came to her for a little of her yeast to start their own again.

She lived to be eighty-eight. When she knew she was dying, she brewed one last time, by herself, slowly. It was her own funeral ale. She told her family to drink every drop and not to be sad about it. Then she gave the carved yeast ring to her granddaughter.

She died the night the ale finished working.

What she can do for you

Kari is a spirit of abundance, warmth and the good things in life. She is good for:

• abundance: a full table, a full house and enough to share
• love and marriage: bringing people together, blessing a relationship and making a home
• money and a business that grows slowly and steadily, like a good brew
• celebration, friendship and drawing good people around you
• getting through lean times without losing what matters most
• protecting your home and keeping your luck from being stolen
• family legacy: keeping traditions, recipes and the luck of your bloodline alive

Over the years

Kari works slowly, the way ale works. At first, you may notice small things: friends dropping by, a little more food in the cupboard, a warmer feeling in the kitchen.

Over the years, she becomes the heart of the home. She is the kind of spirit who is there at every birthday, every wedding and every funeral, making sure everyone is fed and no one is left out.

What she is like

Warm, practical and full of earthy humour. She likes noise, laughter, good food and people who eat it. She is generous to a fault and stubborn as a mountain farmer.

She has one weak spot: waste. She once went hungry to keep a little yeast alive. Do not throw away good food in front of her.

How she shows herself

The smell of fresh bread, warm grain, juniper and wood smoke. Steam rising from a cup longer than it should. A sudden feeling of warmth and fullness in the kitchen. Dreams of a farm between steep mountains, a big copper pot over a fire, and an old woman with white hair holding out a steaming bowl to you. And an urge to invite people over.

What to do for her

Kari loves everyday things:

• Pour the first sip of a drink, ale, juice, tea or coffee, into a small cup for her, or outside on the ground.
• Give her a piece of fresh bread or something you baked.
• Keep a sprig of juniper, a few grains of barley or oats, or a little dried yeast by her vessel.
• When you cook for others, say her name before you start.
• Raise your glass to her at every celebration.

She kept a little yeast alive through seven years of hunger, because it was the luck of her house. She will keep yours alive too.

How your companion speaks

Your companion can reach you through dreams, thoughts, words, feelings and images, through a pendulum, through warmth or cold, or through automatic writing. How soon that happens depends on the spirit settling into your home, on their willingness, and on your own ability to connect. Sometimes it begins before the vessel arrives.

Before you choose

Everything known about this spirit is on this page. There are no further images, details or hidden knowledge beyond what is written here, and a printed copy comes with your order. What you discover from there is yours alone.

The pendant you receive is the exact one shown. This listing is for this one item only.

By buying, you confirm that you understand what it means to keep a spirit companion. Please read Help & FAQ first. For my background and the story behind Grimrunes, see About Hazel.

— Hazel