Yule Tales

Check out my “Yule” category for a whole sled-load of Yuletide flash fiction! I gave my own spin to these little-known Scandinavian folktales that take place during the twelve days of Christmas.

19th century painting — *“Rückkehr Vom Wald,” 1890, by Giovanni Segantini (1858-1899)*

During December you’ll find a quick link to Yule tales at the top of this blog. Hey, any time of year you can find “Yule” among the categories that show up at the end of the blog.

Uff da, I’ll make it even easier for you. Just click here.

“Night Riders” is my favorite out of the batch. In this tale from the parish of my ancestors, set during the unending dark of deepest winter, Raamund hurries across his icy courtyard to the barn to tend his mares. But a horse of a different kind awaits him there, sweeping him away to a night of terror.

Delve in for nine shivery Yuletide tales!

Troll Revels

OLD GYÐJA GOT LEFT BEHIND. Everyone else in Trøllanes piled onto sleighs or sledges and fled the doomed town, but the old woman’s temper had burst all bounds. Every year she argued the townsfolk should stay and fight off the invasion and every year her sons bundled her onto a sleigh against her will, off to refuge in Mikladalur.

Well, not this year. Her sons had not returned from their midwinter hunt in time, and no one else wanted to risk her wrath.

So here she stood in the doorway of her cabin, the only soul left in Trøllanes on the eve of Twelfth Night. Regret for her rashness crept down her spine like icicles.

Midwinter in the Faeroe Islands meant overlong night-time hours and only fleeting brightness near noon. The sun had already set. Dusk swept the icy landscape.

Shadows moved, dark against the snow.

Gyðja stepped out into the courtyard, looked in all directions – and saw countless moving forms, hunched, swaggering, all coming on straight for the village.

The old woman fled back indoors. She barred the door, shuttered windows, and huddled near the woodstove, shaking with cold and terror.

Soon she heard scuffling and tromping in the courtyard, then a rattling of the latch. Gruff voices called and answered. Rough laughter sounded from all quarters.

Now someone pounded at the door until the walls shook. The bars rattled loose from their brackets and clattered to the floor. The door latch lifted.

Gyðja stifled a shriek and dove beneath the table, hoping not to be seen.

The door slammed open. Footsteps came in. More and more, like a flock of sheep crowding into a fold. But those weren’t sheep hooves she saw. Troll feet stomping to troll music. Trolls prancing around, bashing into furniture, knocking bowls and cups to the floor and trampling them to bits.

Every house in the village, Gyðja knew, shook with the tramping and clamor of trolls, corrupting the sanctity of the holy day like they did every year. Trøllanes was cursed in name and in fact!

The old woman clapped hands over ears. She bit her lip to stifle the screams that tried to burst forth.

Toe-claws gouged the floor. Hairy tail-tips whipped past. The wild abandon reached a frenzy. Hulking bodies slammed the table. It reared, about to reveal the huddled human beneath.

The old woman shrieked, “Jesus have mercy on me!*”

That hated name – a blessing to Christians, a cursing to troll-folk – shattered the revelry, splintered the crowd. They peeled away, spilled out the doors and windows. One monstrous voice howled, “Gyðja broke up the dance!*”

The old woman crawled out of hiding and edged through debris to the door.

From every cabin, misshapen forms hopped and trundled and galloped, fleeing town.

Early 20th century painting of skiers — *“Laplanders in Snowstorm,” 1905, by John Bauer (1882-1918)*

A few days later, the first wary townsman came scouting and found Trøllanes vacated. When Old Gyðja stepped into view, he startled and crossed himself. “We thought you were surely dead!”

The old woman chuckled, pointing to clawed footprints in the snow. “I was too much for them!”

The trolls have not disturbed Trøllanes ever since.

* lines straight from the folktale, from Kalsoy in the Faeroe Islands

artwork: 19th and early 20th century paintings. Public domain info here.

Twelfth Night

EVENING FELL AS ARNI WALKED DOWN from Mikladalur village to the rocky shore. He found a hiding spot behind an outcropping where he could keep watch on the great flat rocks by the water’s edge.

Winter storms had swept the stage clean just in time for magical Twelfth Night, the last day of the Christmas celebrations. Now gentle waves lapped at the brink of the seal breeding grounds as light faded from the sky.

Arni squinted in the twilight. Seals came swimming from all directions and swarmed up onto the shelving rocks. Just as fable had said, they shed their skins and stepped out, now wearing the shape of everyday people.

He watched in awe. Only on Twelfth Night, legend said, did the seal-folk take human form. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stay silent. One seal-woman, now rising to stand on two legs, radiated such beauty as Arni had never seen before. Lovely as a Valkyrie!

The seal-folk danced and frolicked on the beach under the stars. In the dark, Arni crept toward the spot where that last lovely figure had laid down her sealskin. He took it, and sidled back into hiding.

When dawn’s first glimmer appeared, the seal-folk returned to their skins, slipped into them and waddled back into the water.

The loveliest of all couldn’t find hers. She wrung her hands and wailed as day brightened. Then she spotted Arni, the skin rolled up under his arm. “Give it back, please give it back!” she pleaded.

He stood and walked back up the trail to Mikladalur.

The seal-woman followed. What choice did she have?

Arni married the beautiful woman. He treated her with kindness and love in all ways but one. He kept her seal-skin locked away in a chest. The key always hung from his belt, never out of his grasp.

In time she warmed to him, and forgave him for taking her from the sea. She bore him three children. It was a good life for the little family.

One day while Arni was out fishing with several other men from the village, he was helping haul in a net loaded with fish when his hand brushed his belt. The key wasn’t there.

He cried out in alarm. “This evening I’ll be without a wife!*”

The other fishermen pulled in their lines and rowed home as fast as they could.* When Arni ran in the door of his cottage, he found his three small children huddling on the bed in the cold room, wrapped in quilts. Their mother had put out the fire to keep them safe, and locked up all the knives.

The chest stood open. The seal-skin was gone. And so was she.

Arni moaned and wept. He had cherished her so, and she had grown to love him, too. But with the skin in reach, she couldn’t stop herself from leaving. After all, as the old saying goes, “He couldn’t control himself any more than a seal that finds its skin.*”

As the children grew, they often felt drawn to the rocky beach. Sometimes at dusk, a seal could be seen just offshore watching them.

Arni knew it was their mother.

* dialogue and lines taken straight from the folktale

Nose Bone

ARNI DREAMED OF HIS WIFE, THE SEAL-WOMAN who had fled back to the sea when she found her seal-skin. Oh how he missed her lovely face, her sweet voice. She had loved him truly, and their three children as well.

Years had passed, dulling his grief. So he paid no heed to the warning she brought him in the dream. Just a fond memory, he thought, twisted by the foolish workings of the sleeping mind.

Next morning he joined the other villagers from Mikladalur. They trooped down to the beach with clubs and spears in hand. It was seal-pup season, and the rocky shore teemed with young seals.

Arni and the other villagers clubbed the baby seals to death. An easy harvest in a life otherwise filled with hardship.

He faltered as he approached the cave at the far end of the breeding ground. Just as he’d seen in the dream, a large male seal blocked the entrance, rocking back and forth on his flippers, baring his teeth. “My mate,” his wife had whispered in the night. “Don’t kill him!”

Arni laughed at such folly. He speared the seal, dragged it out of the way. Back inside the cave he found two seal pups, their big eyes staring up in fear. Her sons, she had hissed in the night.

He clubbed them to death.

As his share of the catch, Arni got the whole carcass of the male seal, and the flippers of the pups. For dinner he had boiled seal’s head and flippers. Just as he was sitting down to the table, there came a loud noise and crashing.

The door burst open. In stepped an ugly troll, hideous as scabby driftwood. “You,” she growled at Arni – in the voice of his seal-woman wife. “You!” she howled. “What have you done?”

She sniffed in the serving bowls, then roared like storm waves crashing upon the rocks. “Here is the nose bone of the old man, and here, Haredur’s hands and Fridrikur’s foot! Avenged it is and avenged it will be on the men of Mikladalur! Some will be lost at sea, and some will fall from mountain cliffs and ledges! And this will go on until so many have died that they can hold hands and reach all the way around Kalsoy!” *

With a great crashing, she disappeared, never to return in life or by dream. And her curse came true. Men of Mikladalur often perish at sea or fall from cliffs.

There is still a foolish farmer on the south-most farm, where Arni once dwelt, so it must be that the number of men that have fallen to the seal-wife’s curse is not yet enough to reach around the island.

* the wife’s whole rant taken straight from the folktale

artwork: 19th century century paintings. Public domain info here.

Last Task

WEIGHTED DOWN BY WATER BUCKETS, Vardi tromped into the barn. The homey, pungent odor of horses and cows warmed the log building as he filled the troughs. He clambered up the ladder to the loft – and jolted to a stop, dismayed.

The hay was nearly all gone. Only now he remembered Old Lavrans ordering him, just this morning, to take the sledge up the ridge and cut birch trees for winter fodder. Already loaded with other farmwork, Vardi had put it off, then forgotten.

He scurried down, darted to the door, looked out into the dusk, his breath gusting on the chill air. Laughter and cheer rang from the big house. All the farm servants, invited in for Christmas Eve festivities. He’d meant to join them after this one last chore in the barn.

Vardi gulped. No celebrating for him, not until he fulfilled that greater task. At least no one was around to see him scrambling to make amends.

He led a shaggy-coated gelding from its stall out to the sledge shed, hitched it up, fetched an axe, strapped on snowshoes, and set off up the hillside under the steely light of a full moon and myriad winking stars.

Old Lavrans would launch into a rage if he knew what Vardi was doing. Working outdoors after dark on the eve of any holy day broke the age-old custom here at Uvaas farm. The turning of the year, supposed to be more haunted than any other day. And twilight, the turning of the day, brought added peril.

What folly, Vardi thought, scornful of such childish superstitions. Who still believed in tusse-folk?

Above the spruce-cloaked lower slopes, Vardi came to a birch woods. “This won’t take long,” he muttered, and quickly chopped down three birch saplings. He hauled them to the sledge.

No sooner had he piled the third sapling than all three whirled off the sledge and tumbled across the snowfields as if blown by a snowstorm. But the night air hung still, crackling with cold. Not even a breeze.

Astonished and annoyed, Vardi scuffled after the birches and lugged them back.

Once again they flew off and skidded across the snow in three directions.

Vardi gritted his teeth and went after them. Time and time again.

He couldn’t go home with an empty sledge. How embarrassing. Furiously he chopped down new saplings and heaved them aboard.

And the unseen power cast them away.

At last, exhausted, Vardi gave up. A scolding or even a beating would be better than this frantic, useless, perplexing dance. He took up the reins, clucked at the horse, and turned downhill.

High up the ridge above him, a roar of laughter broke the tingling silence of the night. Cackles of glee pealed from the mountain slopes all around.

Vardi shook with terror. He bounded onto the empty sledge and whipped up the gelding. The snow hissed and cracked as they pelted downhill, racing for home and disgrace, fleeing the Yuletide mischief-making of the tusse-folk.

folktale from Uvaas farm, Telemark, Norway

artwork: 19th century painting. Public domain info here.

Glad Yule

EARLY DUSK SETTLED OVER THE SLOPING FIELDS of Hugserdalen. The sky stretched clear as a summer brook. Gunnar’s breath wafted clouds on the spruce-tanged evening air.

Laughter rang inside the cabin where his family hung paper hearts on the Yule tree. The Yule log sat on the hearth, nestled up to the charred remnant of last year’s log, ready to bring in Christmas Eve.

They’d need more firewood for the long night ahead. Gunnar’s stomach knotted to see how low the woodpile stood. Soon he’d need to take the sledge high into the forest and hunt for deadfalls of seasoned wood.

He swept new-fallen snow from one end of the pile, selected several rounds of spruce trunk, and set to work at the chopping block. Each thud of the axe cracked like a gunshot, echoing from the mountain slopes.

Gunnar gritted his teeth as he worked. Hearts may be merry, but bellies growled at the meager fare they’d had for months. There’d be no Yule feast. The barley crop had blackened in the fields after a summer of freezing nights. There’d even been snow in July. 1816, the worst year in memory.

Gunnar’s neck prickled. He let the axe hang a moment and gazed all around the farmyard.

No one was there, but still he felt the thrum of oncoming threat.

A thrum far too familiar. “I’ll be done soon,” he called into the twilight. “You’ll have peace and quiet again.” Gunnar wished he could promise the tusse-folk their yearly bowl of porridge swimming with butter and cream, but his children needed every morsel.

He set back to work. What had he done to offend the tusse-folk? All through haying season they’d plagued him out in the fields, tripping him, flinging stones, even yanking him backwards off his feet time and again.

Closer, he could feel it. Elven mischief hemming in his circle of outbuildings.

Gunnar hauled armloads to the cabin, dumped them into the entryway. Not enough. He went back to work, chopping in a frenzy.

His skin crawled, his back itched, his scalp tingled under his heavy knit cap. Menace drew nigh, unseen peril.

One last log, that should do it—

Something thumped Gunnar in the back. He whirled.

Another snowball whacked him in the shoulder. He spun.

Packed snow came whizzing from all directions. He ducked and twisted but could not escape. Worse and worse, the snowballs flew – harder and harder.

Early 20th century painting — *“Laplanders in Snowstorm,” 1905, by John Bauer (1882-1918)*

“I’ll quit, so ease off!” Gunnar cried, scooping up kindling. He dashed to the cabin, grunting at each impact.

Wild laughter winged up and down the dale, echoing from ridges and haunted mounds.

“How about you bring us some Christmas porridge this year?” he called into the racket.

A storm of snowballs came sailing out of the gloom. Gunnar slammed the door.

“Glad Yule!” his children chorused, mobbing around.

“Glad Yule,” his wife whispered in his ear as she helped him off with coat and cap.

Such joyful faces. Worry melted from Gunnar’s heart. “Glad Yule!”

folktale from Hugserdalen, an outfarm at Garvik farm, Telemark, Norway

artwork: early 20th century painting. Public domain info here.

Pussycat

BY THE LAST LIGHT OF DUSK, Reidar snowshoed across the courtyard. A husky farmer opened to his knock. “Merry Christmas Eve,” the fellow boomed, taking in Reidar’s frost-rimmed hood, then glancing beyond.

“No one else, just me,” the wanderer said. “Seeking lodging for one night.”

“Come in!” piped up the farmer’s wife. “Welcome to share our simple meal, though you may want to seek elsewhere for lodging.”

As Reidar unlashed his snowshoes, the farmer said, “Big dog you have there.”

Reidar tugged on the leash, and his companion waddled into the light.

“A bear!” the farmer’s wife shrieked.

“A show bear,” Reidar said. “Tame and trained and no threat to anyone, unless I give the word.”

The small brown bear sat down on the rug, feet out like a toddler, and scratched its round belly.

19th or early 20th century painting — *“She Kissed the Bear on the Nose,” by John Bauer (1882-1918)*

“So cute!” chirped the farmer’s children. “Like a big pussycat! Can we pet it?”

“What does it eat?” the farmer’s wife asked, a hitch to her voice.

“Scraps after meals, whatever you’d feed to the hogs. He won’t beg or cause any trouble, and tomorrow we’ll give you a fine show for Christmas Day, if you’ll let us stay the night.”

“Well—” The farmer scratched his beard. “No guests ever sleep here on Christmas eve, for at midnight the trolls of Brace Hill storm the house. They dance and feast and revel till dawn.”

“Last year,” the smallest child said, with a woeful look, “they ate my hobby horse.”

“We sit up all night, up in the loft,” the wife said, wringing her hands. “Clutching our crosses and hymnbooks and praying. We don’t get a wink of sleep.”

“I’m not afraid of trolls,” Reidar said. All through the meal he persisted. “Let me stay, please. I’ll deal with whatever comes.”

At last the farmer relented. The bear waved goodnight at Reidar’s command as the family climbed one by one up the ladder to the sleeping loft.

Reidar looked around the ground floor room. The fire had been banked, but the stovetop was cozily warm. Reidar made his bed on top at the back, and called the bear up to share the warmth.

After a short while, the door opened. A troll hag entered and looked around, then waved all her kin to come in. She set the table for a troll feast, and soon the farmhouse shook with bellows and howling laughter and the stomp of heavy feet.

Reidar watched with wide eyes, one hand on the bear’s head, words of command whispered in its twitching ear.

The troll hag at last noticed the bear’s snuffling and stomped over to investigate. “Hey, look at the pussycat!*” she shouted. “The cat shall eat. We will give the pussy some food.*”

Reidar nudged the bear and whispered a sharp order – and the bear leaped up with a snarl. Growling and snapping, it charged after the trolls, driving them all out the door.

A year later, at Christmastime, the folks at the farm heard the troll hag at the window.* She asked whether they still had that angry cat.*

“We sure do,” the farmer answered, “and now she has seven kittens!*”

“Then we won’t dare come to you again,*” she shouted, and fled never to return.

* dialogue and lines taken straight from the folktale, coming from Lycke farm, Hemsjö, Västergötland, Sweden

artwork: 19th century paintings. Public domain info here.

Outgunned

SONDRE SKIED UP TROLL-BOTTOM ROAD, hunting musket slung at his back. Hazy green curtains shimmered above the mountains, Northern Lights drowning the pale evening stars.

The spruce forest opened onto Napen farm and a view of Quarrel Peak, looming 150 meters above the slanting fields to the northwest. Sondre Hasleviki bellowed greetings, and grinned at echoes ringing back from mountainsides. He wasn’t a quiet man, except while on the hunt.

The cabin door opened to spill golden light over the snow-packed courtyard. Sondre’s brother Andres held arms out. “Glad Jul! Did you remember to bring your bear gun?”

“Ja, and plenty of powder. But only three balls. Thought I had more than that.”

“Three will be plenty. Come in.”

Sondre greeted the family, and sat down to a merry Christmas Eve feast.

At meal’s end, Andres brought out a jug. “Let us drink to the turning of the year. The darkest day is past.”

Andres’ oldest son pushed back from the table. “But first, Father, let Uncle shoot in Jul for us!”

“Ja, ja!” the other children clamored.

Sondre made a show out of priming the pan of his musket, pouring powder down the barrel followed by wadding and a lead ball. He tamped with the ramrod, then cocked the flint.

Nieces, nephews and servants flocked out the door. Sondre tromped after them, aimed his musket high over the fields, and pulled the trigger.

The flint struck. The bear-gun thundered, spitting sparks and a tang of sulfur. The bang echoed from the hillsides like a return volley.

Youngsters whooped and clapped, then hurried inside to warm themselves while Sondre reloaded.

Halfway through, there came a boom that shook the cabin.

Sondre paused a moment while everyone else huddled, clinging in fear. He took a swig of ale from the cup Andres had just poured, and went on loading. He stalked outdoors, cocked and fired.

Again the crash of powder in the musket, the answering barrage of echoes. He stood there, silent, listening.

Once more came a horrendous boom but twice as loud as the first. Ashes fountained from the chimney, and snow avalanched over the cabin’s eaves. Everyone still inside shrieked.

“Ja, ja, boys!*” Sondre yelled into the night. “I have one shot more to answer that!*” He tromped indoors to find the folk of Napen dusting themselves off and gazing at the ceiling where the boards gaped and let chaff sift down.

“It came from Quarrel Peak,” he told them. “Tusse-folk, sparring in light-hearted quarrel.” He primed the firing pan, loaded the barrel.

“No,” Andres said, clapping a hand on Sondre’s arm. “Don’t rile them.”

“My turn to salute. All in good humor. Jul greetings, nothing more.”

“Twice is enough.”

“Thrice is better.”

“Do you want to bring down the roof?”

Sondre saw how the children quaked with fear. Chuckling, he set the bear-gun aside. “I’ll admit, they outgun me. Must have cannons up there.”

Throughout the rest of Jul, peace reigned over Napen farm in the shadow of brooding Quarrel Peak.

* dialogue straight from the folktale, coming from Napen, Telemark, Norway

Quarrel Peak is my renaming of Napanuten; “nappe” means quarrel; “nute” means peak.

artwork: 19th century century paintings. Public domain info here.

Scoundrels

19th century painting of a snowy farm scene — *“Winter on the Isle of Stord,” 1890, by Frits Thaulow (1847-1906)*

Eirik Meinstad drained the last of his Yule ale. He cocked a brow at Targei Skoland who had edged around to the far side of the festivities to check out the keg.

Targei straightened, shaking his head.

Down to the last dregs? Eirik grimaced. Stingy hosts. You never got a decent amount of drink at these stodgy country celebrations. He threw a dark glance at old Hans Brekke up at the head table, still telling stories of the old days. Stingy Hans.

Targei came back to Eirik’s table. That fellow from Jønneberg farm trailed along. “Ski over the ridge to Gjuve farm?” Targei suggested. “I think we have enough time to catch their feast.”

“No, they had a bad year,” Eirik said. “They’ll have even less on tap than Old Brekke here.”

Two dairymaids slipped in to join them. “I asked around,” one said. “That’s all the ale they brought up.”

Her friend added, “No more to be had unless you want to break into the cellar.”

“Or take the nisse‘s portion.”

Eirik and Targei looked at each other and grinned. “They never caught on, over at Loftsgarden,” Eirik said.

“Caught on about what?”

“Everyone knows Kristens Loftsgarden leaves generous offerings for the local nisse every single holy day, and a bowl of buttermilk whenever she churns butter,” Targei said.

Eirik grinned. “We got ourselves invited to Loftsgarden for Yule last year. We hid behind the holy oak. After she left the Yule ale and brandy, Targei and I became quite merry.”

“Once we’d emptied the bowls,” Targei said, “we left them full again. Our own offering.”

The guy from Jønneberg sniggered.

“I hear after Søren Loftsgarden found the refilled bowls, he forbade his wife from putting out offerings for the nisse,” Eirik said. “Not even a slurp. But she pays him no heed.”

“Superstitious woman!” one of the dairymaids snickered.

“Who still believes in nisse-folk?” the other maid scoffed.

Eirik stood. “Well, who’s in with me? We can’t let that good ale go to waste out there!”

“We won’t need to hide behind our holy oak,” the blonde maid said with a grin. “Everyone says it has enough space inside for six!”

“Can’t do that,” Tarjei said. “They’d see our tracks going in.”

“How do we find it?” Eirik asked.

“I’ve been there,” said the other dairymaid. “I’ll lead the way. Skis on! Meet me by the haybarn.”

19th century painting of a massive oak tree — *“The Oak of Flagey,” 1864, by Gustave Courbet (1819-1877)*

The five young folk skied a roundabout path up the hill, hiding their tracks. Once the hulking oak came into sight, they huddled in a spruce thicket with clear view of the path coming up from the farm. Snow fell, soft but steady. Stifling giggles, the scoundrels watched the lady of the farm and a servant trudge to the base of the gargantuan trunk, set out bowls, and pour them full.

The five stayed hidden and silent until they had the hillside to themselves. They scurried across the sleek expanse of new snow, laughing at their cleverness. But when they slid to a stop before the ancient oak, their jesting voices fell silent.

There were no tracks at all except for the lady’s and her servant’s. No one had gotten there before the five of them.

But the bowls sat empty.

From the depths of the hollow oak came the softest chuckle and a belch.

19th century painting of a gnome — *“Gnome Watching Railway Train,” (train blurred out) by Carl Spitzweg (1808-1885)*

Combining elements of folktales from Gjuve, Brekke, Jønneberg, and Loftsgarden farms in Telemark, Norway.

artwork: 19th century painting: in the public domain, according to these sources:

wikiart: “This artwork is in public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or less.”

wikipedia: “This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 100 years or fewer.”

{{PD-US-expired}} : published anywhere (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before 1926 and public domain in the U.S.

Night Riders

Raamund pulled on trousers in the dark. He shoved stocking feet into wooden clogs waiting by bedside, then felt for his heavy coat.

It wasn’t there.

The early hours of a frigid midwinter morning — too dark even to find a candle.

Raamund grimaced, braced himself against the cold, and left the relative warmth of his cabin. Beneath the sharp crystal gaze of the stars he hurried across the snow-packed courtyard to the barn. His ponies didn’t care if the sun wouldn’t rise until midday. Their bellies clamored for feed at the same old time, every day.

night sky detail from "Dresden in Moonlight," 1843, by Johan Christian Dahl — *detail from “Dresden in Moonlight,” 1843, by Johan Christian Dahl*

Raamund felt his way between stalls to the ladder, climbed up to the loft, found a twine-wrapped bundle of hay. Bundle under his arm, he started down the ladder again.

The world shuddered. Raamund lost balance and toppled — but didn’t fall far. He landed on his rump. Upon a saddle. Upon the back of a large creature that neighed, shied and swiveled.

A huge horse. It pelted into a run, out the barn door and into the courtyard. It leaped into the air and galloped up the sky with Raamund clinging to the pommel, gaping in terror as the landscape flowed past.

His farm, Rue under Røyte Moor, vanished behind them. Other wild black horses joined the race, ridden by hideous creatures.

detail from "Asgardsreien," 1872, by Peter Nicolai Arbo: the Wild Hunt — *detail from “Asgardsreien,” 1872, by Peter Nicolai Arbo*

They crossed over the western ridge, flew over Sundbarm Lake, and landed at Sanden on the opposite shore. The night-riders milled about, jostling, yammering, bellowing laughter. They shared bread slabs and flasks of some foul drink.

Raamund turned down the waybread, tried to dismount, but his monstrous steed once again sprang into the air. Off they all dashed again, flying north over Langlim and up to Ommersdal. They wheeled about and came roaring down Svartdal, skimming the hilltops, soaring over frozen lakes. Raamund hugged the hay bundle against his chest, shuddering as frigid winter wind stabbed through shirt and trousers.

Just a few days until Yule, the darkest and coldest time of year, the most haunted time of year, and now he’d been swept into the dreaded Oskoreid, Yuletide’s greatest peril. Was he doomed to ride with them for eternity?

The Wild Hunt swept up again over high moorland as daybreak neared. Raamund peered down. So hard to recognize landmarks from above — but hadn’t they circled around in a great loop? Weren’t these the moors that loomed above his farm, Rue?

He studied the terrain below. That frozen waterway, the way it twisted coming down from the heights, and those three hillocks on the banks — this was Røyte Moor!

“Jøss!” he cried. “We’re back again!”

At sound of the Christian god’s name, the devilish horses bucked and bugled, the hideous riders shrieked. The saddle slid out from under Raamund. In one thundering heartbeat, he found himself standing upon the frozen stream, the hay bundle clutched tight in his arms.

Winter’s chill gnawed at his flesh, but the warmth of life and hope flowed through his veins as Raamund started his trek downhill, back to the humble haven at Rue.

detail from "Dresden in Moonlight," 1843, by Johan Christian Dahl: two figures walking a road in the dark — *detail from “Dresden in Moonlight,” 1843, by Johan Christian Dahl*

folktale from from Rue Farm, Seljord, Telemark, Norway

first published 25 Jan 2021

Two paintings by Peter Nicolai Arbo, depicting Night and Day: "Natten," 1887, and "Dagr," 1874 — *“Natten,” 1887, and “Dagr,” 1874 (“Night” and “Day”) by Peter Nicolai Arbo*