gold – Hindsight

The Word

THE BUNDLE IN HER LAP STIRRED. A small hand tugged a flap of blanket aside and a pair of eyes blinked at the early morning light. “Mama!”

Maryam smiled. “Good morning, sweetie.”

A finger pointed. “Sky!”

“Yes, we’re out and about already. Going for a ride.”

“Bed?”

“Bye-bye to the bed.”

“Papa?” The child arched to look around. “Bye-bye Papa?”

“No, Papa is right here, leading the donkey.”

“Clop clop clop!”

“Yes, cloppity clop.”

“Oh oh. Papa, oh oh!” The child squirmed.

Her husband shot her a glance.

She nodded. “We need a stop.”

Yossef shielded his eyes, gazing back along their path. “A quick one should be safe,” he muttered. He took the child from her arms and to the side of the trail.

18th century painting — *detail of “The Rest on the Flight to Egypt,” by Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo (1727-1804)*

Maryam rummaged in a saddlebag. “Hungry, sweetie?” she asked when they were done. “Here, a hunk of bread and some dried figs.”

“Yum!” The child nestled back in her lap and nibbled his breakfast.

Maryam and Yossef both cast glances to the north, then took up their rapid pace again.

“Walk! Me, walk, Papa, now.”

“No, we need to go fast. Clippety clippety clop!” She tickled the child.

He giggled, then gazed at the rocky scenery passing by. “Go Yoyo?”

“No. Yohanan isn’t home.”

“Yoyo go ride?”

“Yes. Yohanan is riding that way.” Maryam pointed east. “We’re riding this way.” She pointed south.

The child gazed eastward in silence a while. “Yoyo catch hoppers.”

Maryam laughed. “Yes, he loves to catch grasshoppers.”

He pointed east. “Yoyo safe.”

“Yes. And Auntie Liz is safe, too.” Maryam dropped her voice. “Pray God they’re safe.”

The child looked up with earnest gaze. “Papa safe. Mama safe.” He clapped. “Walk now?”

“We’ll slow down and walk when Papa says we can.”

Yossef glanced back. “When did he pick up ‘safe’?”

“Just this morning. According to him, we’re now out of danger.”

Yossef met her gaze for a thoughtful moment. “Well, we’re not slowing until we catch up with the caravan. Which shouldn’t be much longer, by the way that pile of camel dung is steaming.”

“Dung, dung, dung,” the child chanted, trying out another new word.

“I see a bird!” Maryam chirped. She pointed out a lark flitting through the chill morning air. “I bet it’s looking for hoppers, just like Yohanan.” She told him stories, and played finger games, and sang her favorite psalms. “Look!” she said at last. “See the camels?”

“Little!”

“When we get close, you’ll see how big they are.”

A caravan guard came riding back to check for threats. Yossef asked to join the procession, and negotiated a price for protection — one of the gold coins they’d been gifted a couple weeks before.

The guard galloped back to his fellows on the high horizon.

17th century painting — *“Return of the Holy Family from Egypt,” ca 1616, by Jacob Jordaens (1593-1678)*

When the donkey finally crested that same spot, the land beyond spread out before the travelers.

“See the long-legged camels?” Maryam said. The caravan wasn’t far off now. “See what big loads they carry, so much more than a donkey can.”

The child gazed silently at the vista beyond the caravan. He pointed at last into the hazy southeast. “Egypt,” he said, the word ringing clear.

Maryam and Yossef looked at each other. Had little Yeshua heard their frantic whispers in the middle of the night? “Yes,” she said. “We are fleeing to Egypt.”

15th-16th century painting — *“The Flight Into Egypt,” 1500, by Vittore Carpaccio (1465-1526)*

The Christ Child was probably near the age of two at this time.

Names: in Aramaic (the Semitic language spoken by Jews in the Near East from about 6^th century BC to 7^th century AD)

The Hebrew and Aramaic word for Egypt was Misrayim (among other spelling variations).

artwork: 17th and 19th century paintings. Public domain info here.

Dah-di-dah-dit

LIZA SHUFFLED THE HOT PIE, bunching the towel to spare her fingers while she listened beside the open window.

Eddy’s voice rose outside. “Gold, I tell you! That fellow from up north, he found gold!”

“On Foxfire Ridge?” came Al’s deeper voice. “Never heard of gold in these parts.”

"Shenandoah Valley," a painting by William Louis Sonntag, Sr — *“Shenandoah Valley,” by William Louis Sonntag*, *Sr (1822-1900)*

“Look,” Eddy said. Paper rustled. “I jotted down the message. ‘Come prepared,’ he said, then a few words I didn’t catch, then, ‘it’s gold.'”

“‘Cave, Foxfire Ridge,'” Al read aloud. “‘Bring miners helmets.’ Did Mr. Sawyer know you were listening?”

“He doesn’t believe me. I keep telling him I’m good enough at Morse code to take messages when he’s out, but he says, ‘Go back to your primer.’ Primer, hah! Kids’ stuff.”

old illustration of a telegraph key, used for sending messages by Morse code — *telegraph key*

Al hummed a moment, “You may be right. That means we need to move fast, before out-of-towners flood the valley and up the ridge and take all the gold. It belongs to us as live here.”

“We’ll need lanterns, picks and shovels,” Eddy said.

“Gold pans, and bags to carry ore out for sluicing.”

“A basket of grub, and jugs of water,” Al said. “It’ll be a long day’s work.”

“That’ll weigh a ton. Hey, we can take Sleepy Sue to carry it all!”

Liza plunked her pie on the windowsill to cool, braced hands on either side of it, and leaned out. “Sleepy Sue won’t budge for anyone but me,” she told her brother and his friend. “And as mule driver, I get a third of the loot.”

detail from an etching: "The Two Mules," 1830, by Eugene Verboeckhoven — *detail from “The Two Mules,” 1830, by Eugene Verboeckhoven (1798-1881)*

All the way up Foxfire Ridge, Al and Eddy grumbled at having a girl join their quest.

Liza just smiled. Sleepy Sue plodded along behind her, picks and shovels rattling in the panniers along with the hearty lunch she’d packed.

When Eddy had jabbed her about eavesdropping, she had thrust right back about telegram etiquette. The threat to tell his employer went unspoken.

The boys had tried to talk her down to one quarter the haul since she’d be doing none of the labor, but she changed to her old stained laundry-day dress and put on her field boots. “Who manured the whole garden last week while you were off hunting?” she asked.

They had rolled their eyes.

“Caved in, have you?” Liza had said with a grin.

They had groaned.

It took all morning for Al to track the northerner’s blundering trail up the steep wooded slopes. “A lousy hunter,” he said.

“Didn’t even have a rifle,” Eddy hooted.

“What was he looking for if not game?” Liza wondered.

"Scene in the White Mountains," a painting by William Louis Sontag, Jr, circa 1865 — *“Scene in the White Mountains,” by William Louis Sontag, Sr* *(1822-1900)*

“Stalactites and stalagmites,” the northerner told them when he found them wandering perplexed through the cave. “A magnificent limestone formation, isn’t it? My colleagues from the university will arrive tomorrow to map out the caverns.”

“But what about the gold?” Eddy asked.

“You’re the lad from the telegraph office, aren’t you? I said nothing about gold.” The bespectacled northerner knit his brows in thought. “I did mention the cold.”

Al and Liza glared at Eddy.

He shrugged and looked sheepish. “G and C are almost the same in Morse code.”

photo inside a limestone cavern with stalactites and flowstone, by Jed Owen on Unsplash — Photo by Jed Owen on Unsplash

First posted on Hindsight on January 8, 2021.

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

Wheeling Around

Wisconsin homestead, 1917

JESSE RAN HOME FROM THE OLD MAYFIELD PLACE. “Silas!” he yelled to his older brother. “You’re right! There’s a new family moved in. They got a cow ‘n two hounds ‘n a bunch of babies ‘n a boy who’s seven, just like me!”

“What’s his name?” Silas asked.

Jesse shrugged. “Dunno. He didn’t say.”

Silas leaned on his ax haft. “I’m guessing you didn’t say your own name neither. Right?”

“Right. But I told him where we live. Oh Silas, he’s got a bicycle!”

“Swell! Did he let you ride it?”

“Can’t. The front wheel’s broke. Oh Lordy, wish I had a bicycle.” Jesse kicked a rock.

“A bicycle that don’t work?”

“Bet I could fix it. But I don’t got nothin’ to trade.”

Silas tipped his hat back. “You can have my old gold-plated watch if you cut oak brush for me. I need to get this garden in for Ma.”

“Really?”

“Yup. See the stakes? They mark the corners. I figger it’d take me three, four days to clear it. Might take you five though.”

“But your watch don’t run!”

“Neither does the bicycle.”

Jesse studied the thick oak scrub, then nodded. “Okay. It’s a deal!”

The brothers spat in their hands, then shook.

Five days and several calluses later, Jesse ran back to the old Mayfield place, gold-plated watch clutched tight in one fist. He found his new friend and showed the treasure. “It don’t run, but neither does your bike. Wanna trade?”

The kid’s eyes widened at sight of the beautiful watch. “Sure!”

Jesse carried the broken bike all the way home. “Look, Ma! Got me a bicycle! Can I have the wheel off your old spinning wheel? Looks like it’s the same size!”

“All right with me. It’s just gatherin’ dust. Lord knows I ain’t got time to spin.”

19th century painting of a woman at a spinning wheel — *“The Spinner,” 1889, by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890)*

Jesse rummaged in the shed, found Pa’s hand drill, and bored a hole in the wooden wheel for the valve stem of the tire. Before long he had it mounted in place of the broken one. He straddled the bicycle, but balancing it proved a puzzle.

He ran to find Silas, but the fifteen-year-old was nowhere to be found.

Jesse wheeled the bicycle to a high point in the dirt road, got on, and coasted downhill once, twice, thrice. A few bumps and bruises later, he’d mastered the art of staying upright. Then he moved on to learning the pedals.

Over the next six months Jesse saved up money earned at odd jobs. For the grand total of seventy-five cents he bought a new tire rim. He changed over the spokes from the original broken wheel, so it looked like new.

19th century photo of a man with a bicycle — *detail of a photo, 1899, by Thomas Eakins (1844-1916)*

“Now I can truthfully say I have never owned a car that I enjoyed more than that old bike with the spinning wheel,” Jesse wrote much later in his life story.

And the spinning wheel? Jesse gave it back to Ma, “none the worse for the use I had gotten out of it!”

A tale from the life of my great-uncle.

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

In the Nick

SIF STRODE OUT TO THE COURTYARD. Ash trees leaned over the wall, leaves quivering in the breeze and casting speckled shadows across banquet table and gilded chairs. “Bryn,” Sif called. “Have you seen my husband?”

A dark-haired young woman looked up from the dagger she was whetting. “No. What has he done this time?”

Sif tossed her golden tresses. “Do I look upset? Just curious. See what I found in the household treasure chest!”

Sif set out a board and markers

“A hnefatafl game,” Bryn said, sheathing her dagger. “Made of gold! Has he been dealing with the dwarves again?”

“I don’t know. None of my jewels are missing, so he must have won this some other way. Play a round?”

*photo of a hnefltafl game board and pieces, by Vinicius “amnx” Amano on Unsplash*

The two women tossed a golden die to see who would field a king and defenders, and who would man the attacking army. Bryn’s thin lips sharpened into a predatory smile. She gathered up her game pieces. “I have yet to lose when I invade.”

Sif bristled. “I have yet to lose when I defend. Feel like wagering on the outcome of our game?”

After much dickering the two agreed on their stakes. A magnificent ruby on Sif’s part, and on Bryn’s, the pick of the loot from her next foray to Midgard.

The golden die rolled on the banquet table’s inlay, chiming like a bell. The players placed their pieces, one by one. Bryn made her moves with swift sure steps, her attackers clicking like talons on bone. Sif took longer on her turns, sliding the defenders with the softest of whisks.

Sif lost ground, then regained it. Bryn cursed, and songbirds scattered.

Footsteps tromped about inside the hall, and a voice thundered, “By Odin, what thief dares break into my chest?”

“Out here, husband dear,” Sif called. “No one’s stolen anything. I found it and came looking for you, but thought I’d give it a–“

“Fool woman, put that down!”

Sif scowled at the hulking redbeard in the doorway. “It can wait a moment. I’m just two steps from winning–“

“No, you’re not.” The Valkyrie Brynhildr rose with an invader piece in hand. “Because I’m just one step from–“

Thor whirled his hammer, though he did not release.

Brynhildr staggered back, and the game piece went flying.

“Put,” Thor shouted, “those–pieces–down!” With each word-blast he stomped a great stride across the courtyard.

Both women meekly obeyed.

“Now gather them back to the starting positions,” he ordered.

High above Asgard an eagle screamed. Two ravens circled Odin’s watchtower. A squirrel nattered in the ash branches.

Thor listened to the tidings, then turned to his wife. “This board came from the Norns, the spinners of fate. Your idle game here set in motion a war in the world of mankind. We nearly lost our greatest flock of adherents! But truce has been called, in the nick of time.”

Sif sniffed. “Men and their toys!”

Early 20th century painting of Valhalla — *“Walhall,” about 1905, by Emil Doepler (1855-1922)*

Loosely based on Norse mythology. The Old Norse played hnefltafl, a distant cousin of chess. Attackers and defenders had different numbers of playing pieces, and the board was marked with areas of refuge or blockade.

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

Grinding Gold

A SMOLDERING TORCH IN ONE HAND and his lifeline gripped tightly in the other, Ágeirr lowered himself down Gívrinarhol, a shaft that plunged deep into the bluff. The grinding noise in the depths grew louder as he slid and bumped along the rocky walls.

His feet settled to ground again. He let the rope hang slack, held up the torch. Its flicker lit a vast cavern echoing with the sound of stone on stone.

There! A figure moved. He caught his breath.

The tales were true! A giant woman dwelled here, an ogress hunched over a great low slab of a table, cranking away at a mill.

Early 20th century painting of a huge cave troll — *“The Boy Who Was Never Afraid,” 1912, by John Bauer (1882-1918)*

She slowed, lifted her hoary head, glanced around in all directions. Her gaze swept right across Ágeirr without taking note. Her milky-white gaze. Blind. She went back to milling.

Ágeirr tiptoed closer.

The ogress went on with her work.

Ágeirr lifted the torch to see what came out of her mill.

Golden nuggets!

He edged closer, within reach, scooped gold, slid it into his pocket. Another fistful. His hand froze on its way for more.

The ogress had stopped grinding.

Ágeirr could have sworn he’d made no noise, but the giant woman spoke in a voice nearly as rough as her mill. “There’s a mouse or a thief prowling around here, or something is wrong with my old mill.*”

He edged away, then in a panic broke into a run. At the shaft he dropped the torch and grabbed the rope, hauling himself up hand over hand.

Behind him heavy feet slapped and clawed hands scraped stone. The ogress bellowed, “Thief! I’ll have you! Sand and stone, where has he gone? Halla, Halla, neighbor mine! Help me in the hunt! A thief! A thief! He’s climbing the shaft!”

Two ogresses after him! Ágeirr reached the top of Gívrinarhol. He leaped astride his horse and set off down the bluff. He could see below the shining waters of the lake, and beyond that, in the east, the village of Sandur where safety lay. Not safety in walls or castles or swords or snares, but safety in the church that reared like a spear against the sky. A spear that cast terror into all otherworldly creatures.

Ágeirr reached the foot of the bluff before the neighbor ogress broke into the open at its height. Thundering footfalls, howls and shrieks loud enough to shake leaves from trees, the giantess came hurtling after him.

He had a good headstart, Ágeirr believed. A swift horse. Not far to go once he rounded the lake – and in moments he was halfway around.

19th century painting — *“The Twelve Wild Ducks,” 1897, by Theodor Severin Kittelsen (1857-1914)*

He glanced over his shoulder – and nearly fell from his horse. The ogress wasn’t swerving. She was heading straight at the lake and gathering herself for a leap.

Ágeirr whipped up his horse, kicking madly. The wind swung about, bearing the monster’s scent. The mare lit into a pelting run.

The ogress landed from her lake-spanning leap. The island shook. Boulders crashed.

A horrendous snarling came closer and closer. The poor horse shrieked, and Ágeirr felt a jolt. The ogress had caught the mare by the tail!

Panicked, the horse lunged ahead with all its strength.

Snap!

The mare squealed as she leaped back into a gallop, leaving her plumed tail in the monster’s grip.

Over the last ridge they pelted. There ahead rose the spire of Sandur’s church.

The ogress gave one last howl, then turned and trudged back toward the bluff, the cavern, and Gívrinarhol.

Her footprints can still be seen both sides of the lake, and still, at the mouth of Gívrinarhol, you can hear the grinding of gold far down in its depths.

* line taken straight from the folktale, from Sandøy, Faeroe Islands

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

Empty Apron

ELLA WAS USED TO FOLK KNOCKING ON HER DOOR at all hours. As a midwife, she often needed to drop her day’s tasks and rush off to a birthing. So the knock this evening came as no surprise.

But when Ella opened her door, already untying her baking apron, she found a small mound-man on her doorstep.

“My wife is having a baby!” the hulder-man cried in his bird-like voice. “Please come help!”

“Me? But I’m–” Ella spread her arms, gesturing to her size.

“I’ve no time to go to my kin. You’re closer. Please help us! The baby’s coming!”

Ella put on her birthing apron and took up her bag. She followed the little hulder-man on a winding path through the forest. “Do you have water heating?” she asked.

“Ja, of course. Hurry! Here! Watch your step.”

Ella drew a deep breath and descended into the heart of a mound. She hardly stooped at all for it was a spacious and lovely dwelling. In an alcove she found the little mound-wife moaning in labor. Ella set about her business with water and towels and rags and liniments.

Soon a tiny baby, neatly swaddled, lay in the mound-woman’s arms. Ella cleaned up and bid the little mother farewell.

The hulder-man beamed as he gave his thanks. “Open your apron!”* he told Ella.

When she did so, he filled her apron with wood shavings.

“Ah, thousand thanks,” Ella murmured in surprise. Many kinds of gifts came to her for her service, whatever the grateful parents could afford. She would have thought that mound people could part with some small trinket from their treasures. But it wasn’t in her to complain.

The mound-man led her up and into the world of mankind, then vanished. The doorway into the mound vanished as well.

Ella stood there, her apron full of wood shavings. She shrugged. The sights in the otherworld would do for her reward. What a marvel! She shook her apron empty and pattered all the way home.

The next morning she found one of the shavings had stuck to her apron. It had turned to pure gold.

Ella ran back to the site where she’d dumped the other shavings, but of course they were gone.

* dialogue line taken straight from the folktale Folktale from Kristiansund, Nordmøre, Norway

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

Bangle

SAMANYA STARED AT THE STRANGERS trudging up the bank from the river. “Have you ever seen anyone with a face that pale?” she asked her big brother Bakari. The men wore headgear with brims like flattened baskets. Their clothes covered them from neck to toe. “Perhaps they dwell in caves and must hide from the sun when they crawl out.”

Bakari laughed. “They rowed up the river under full sun, and there are no caves downstream.”

early 20th century painting of a jungle scene — *“The Waterfall,” 1910, by Henri Rousseau (1844-1910)*

One stranger called and waved, an unseemly gesture. “Barbarian,” Bakari said with a sniff of disdain.

The other two travelers carried large packs on their backs and gazed at all the folk of Chidzurgwe who came out to see them. “Traders?” Samanya guessed. Bakari nodded.

Chidzurgwe’s headman gave stiff greetings to the three men. He and the strangers threw words back and forth until they settled on a dialect partly understood by both sides. “Ah,” Bakari said. “They know tribes closer to the coast. They must have come from the sea, from some far country.”

The headman appointed a spokesman from among Chidzurgwe’s traders, then went about his own business. So did Bakari. Samanya and other children followed as the spokesman led the strangers to the marketplace where mats and booths already hosted folk from near and far. What do ghost-white foreignors have to trade?

Ghost-white bowls and jars, painted with blue designs, glinting in the sun. Beads of every color and shape. Skinny jars clear as water but hard as copper. Samanya had seen ceramics and beads before, carried by traders with honest dark skin, but not the skinny jars.

Many citizens took interest in the goods, but the traders turned down the copper offered. “Smooth,” they kept saying. “Give us smooth.”

Samanya and her friends ran to find smooth pebbles, smooth twigs, smooth monkey pelts.

The strangers frowned. “Smooth!” they insisted. “Ororo! Ororo!”

When Samanya held out a piece of ivory, one trader grabbed her wrist. “Ororo!” he cried, grabbing at her copper wrist bangle. He yanked it free and pointed to the gold wire adornment. “Ouro, ouro!”

“Mine!” Samanya cried, reaching for her bangle.

The trader shoved one of the clear jars into her grasp instead. If anything was smooth, this glass thing was. She shook her head. Her grandmother had given her that bangle. She thrust the bottle back, other hand open, demanding. “Mine!”

The three barbarians grabbed at wrists of women and girls, trying to take any bracelet spangled with gold. Squeals and screams brought the men of town, Bakari among them.

“Ouro, ouro!” the strangers cried as they were wrestled to the ground. “Trade for ouro!”

“The fools seek gold?” Bakari scoffed as he helped tie the men. “Why don’t they say so? Can’t talk straight, and don’t know which way to turn. Coming to copper-rich Chidzurgwe when everyone knows the gold mines are north at Masappa.”

Samanya took back her gold-spangled copper bangle. “The word,” she told the ruffians, pointing to the gold wire, “is dhahabu.”

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

Villemann and Magnill

~translation of an old Norse ballad~

Villeman came courting up in Magnill’s bower.
Ah! fagraste lindelauvi alle!
There they sat and played gold-tablets hour after hour.
For de runerne, de lyster han å vinne.

Villemann: “VILL-eh-mahn” ~ Magnill: “MONG-nill”

Each time that Magnill cast the golden die,
Ah! fagraste lindelauvi alle!
A tear glimmered bright at the corner of her eye.
For de runerne, de lyster han å vinne.

[from here on, omitting the repeating 2nd and 4th lines]

“Weep thou for my chest of gold, or weep thou for my hoard?
Or weep thou that thou’ll soon be dining by me at my board?
Weep thou for my kegs of ale, or weep thou for my bread?
Or weep thou that thou’ll soon be sleeping by me in my bed? “

“I weep not for your chest of gold, I weep not for your hoard,
I’d never weep to think of dining by you at your board.
I weep not for your kegs of ale, I weep not for your bread,
I’d never weep to think of lying by you in your bed.
I weep now for the fate of this my skin so white
So soon to drench in river mud as dark and black as night.
I weep now for the fate of this my hair so gold
So soon to twine with river weeds among the slime and mold.
I fear the haunted river that I soon must cross
For there on their wedding days, two sisters I have lost.”

“Magnill, lovely Magnill, please dry your tears!
I’ll build a sturdy bridge for you, so cast away your fears.
I’ll build for you a sturdy bridge with bulwarks of stone
To brace against the river’s flood the day I bring you home.
I’ll build for you a sturdy bridge with oaken beams
High above the grasp of any monster in the stream.
I’ll build for you a sturdy bridge with planks of pine
Safe footing for your steed on the day that you are mine.
I’ll send a troop of men ahead, I’ll lead a troop behind
To keep you safe from trolls and imps and ills of any kind.”

“Villemann, oh Villemann, you don’t know what you say!
The runes foretell a watery fate upon my wedding day.
No matter how you try to guard, no matter how you fend,
The fate that the runes decree will win in the end.
No matter how you try to run, no matter how you flee,
No one escapes from the runes’ decree.”

The wedding procession formed into a boisterous line
With four and twenty men ahead, the same to guard behind.
The wedding procession trooped along the forested ridge
Then trailed down the dale and began to cross the bridge.

The bride’s prancing pony had horseshoes of gold
But even so, the steed misstepped, and Magnill lost her hold.
The edge of a pine plank caught the golden horseshoe —
Pony stumbled, Magnill tumbled, through the air she flew.

The guards all leaped to aid her, but they moved too slow.
Magnill plunged into the raging river below.
For one moment only Magnill had a chance to gasp,
“Villemann! oh save me from the river troll’s grasp!”

As Villemann dashed down the bank, he shouted to the rest,
“Quick! Go fetch my golden harp from the golden chest!”
On the bank sat Villemann weeping for his bride.
At last his men, with harp in hand, returned to his side.

Villemann stood at water’s edge, and on the harp he strummed.
Such skill and craft he wielded that the air itself, it hummed.

He strummed the harp with cunning
and he strummed the harp with skill
So that echoes rang from mountainsides
and boomed from every hill.
He strummed the harp with sorrow
and he strummed the harp with grief.
It shivered bark from spruce and birch,
and trembled every leaf.
He strummed the harp with anger
and he strummed the harp with wrath
So that boulders tumbled from the cliff
and thundered on the path.
He strummed the harp with fury
and he strummed the harp with rage.
Both near and far the earth now shook,
and shuddered for an age.
He strummed with all his craft and skill,
he strummed with all his might.
He broke the monster’s power,
and drew the troll to light.

“Take your bride!” the monster roared, “and take her sisters, too!
Leave my river now! I’ll have no more to do with you!”

“I’ll take my bride, her sisters, too, but nei, I will not go.
You’ll never more be dragging folk beneath the river’s flow!”
Villemann, he struck his harp — it rang a shrieking tone.
With creak and crack the river troll — turned — to — stone!

This ballad was inspiration for my short story, “Golden Horseshoe, Golden Harp,” also found on this blog.

Freckles and Bronze

THE SUN BLAZED OVERHEAD, beating without mercy as Kynan toiled up the naked mountainside. Charcoal burners had hewn down acres of forest here. With each footstep, the odor of charred wood spiked the air. New growth, hip high, offered no shade. Sweat stung his eyes, soaked his linen undertunic.

Kynan didn’t dare strip down in the open, though. The sun has no mercy for fair freckled skin.

19th century painting of the hilly Welsh coast — *“A Country Track Leading to Harlech Castle,” 1842, by David Cox (1783-1859)*

As soon as he reached the forest verge, he slung his belongings to the ground, stripped his woolen tabard, and rolled up his linen sleeves.

With a last glance at the path behind, Kynan caught sight of a glint on the ground. He stooped to examine a small object in the dirt.

A ring. A fine golden ring.

Who in these wild parts could have dropped such a treasure?

Everyone knew about the Spanish princess being regaled at the king’s estate on the coast. Had a royal hunting party come this way?

And here he was, a lowly kennelman, on a hunt of a different kind. Perhaps if he returned the trinket, he’d win a reward.

Kynan grinned, reached down, took the cool metal ring between thumb and forefinger.

“Higher!” piped a thin voice from the shadows.

“Higher!” trilled another from the depths of the woods.

“Higher?” Kynan gulped and looked up. Nothing to see but leaves.

Shrill laughter resounded from all directions. “Hire! We said hire! Thou hast taken the pay, now thou must earn thy hire. The queen of pixies has need of thy service. Come!”

Kynan stumbled along after half-seen figures flitting through the deep woods, afraid to back out of the deal he’d unwittingly entered. Better to serve quickly and be done than to offend any fey, however small.

“What service does her grace desire of me?” Kynan called.

“An ogre!”

“Save us from the ogre!”

Kynan faltered. “I am no warrior! I carry no arms but a poor bronze dagger and a broken flint knife!”

“Thou hast taken the queen’s gold. Thou wilt earn thy hire.”

Kynan thought to toss the ring and flee. And be pursued by a mob of furious pixies. Better to face the ogre.

His guides hovered at the entrance to a dim green grotto veiled by brush and thicket. “Thou must not bear arms,” one cried from the grotto.

Kynan unbuckled his belt and let his dagger drop to the ground.

“Thou must not bear arms!” sang another from the right.

He tossed aside his flint knife.

From the left echoed, “Thou must not bear arms!”

Kynan planted hands on hips. “Then how am I to battle the ogre?”

Laughter pealed. “Thou must not bare arms! For nettles and thorns do beset our path!”

Red with embarrassment, Kynan rolled down his sleeves, retrieved his blades, and plunged into the grotto.

Thus did Kynan the kennelman not only save the pixies from a small, noisy, hairy, fearsome ogre but fulfill his own quest of returning to the princess her lost Cocker Spaniel.

Everyone knows that fey chance befalls at dusk and dawn, the in-between times. And perhaps at midnight. You don’t expect uncanny happenings at noontime!

Written for a challenge: when a character hears the same message for a third time.

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