island – Hindsight

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.

Safe Haven

BENGT GROPED HAND OVER HAND along the rail leading aft. The gale snarled and raged, heaving the sloop like a monstrous cat playing with a mouse.

Several times Bengt nearly lost his footing on the slick deck. “I heard a cry of ‘Land ho!'” he called to the sailor at the helm. “Will it be safe haven in a cove or shipwreck on the rocks?”

“You should stay in your berth, Herr Holbek,” Johan shouted from the stern. “You’ll be washed overboard!”

“If we’re bound to break apart, I’m headed for the deep anyway. What does the lookout say? Any idea where we are?” Bengt saw nothing ahead but mountainous waves. He lashed himself to the rail, tested the quick release of the knot, then tied again.

The sloop slid sideways into a trough, keeling to the side. Johan wrestled the tiller until the ship grudgingly heeled about to plow head-on into the coming billows. “Thought it might be Røst, our last chance. But no, lookout says it’s too low.”

“Have we been blown past Røst in the storm?” Bengt asked.

“No way to tell, with the compass smashed. Whatever it is, if we can work our way around, we might find shelter in the lee.”

Bengt wiped sleet from his face and peered again into the murky rain veils ahead, swirling in heavy hues of grayed purple and slate blue. They had warned him, back in Bergen, it was late in the season to voyage north.

But they’d had clear sailing past Trondheim, such fine weather that the captain reasoned it a good risk to set out across open ocean, heading for the Lofoten Islands.

In autumn, how quickly the weather changes.

Bengt straightened and stared at a glimpse of emerald green through the dark shrouds to port. “Did you see–” he began.

Voices clamored on the wind. The lookout. Other sailors. Then the captain shouting orders.

Johan hauled on the tiller, guided the skittish sloop into the calm waters of a bay.

Bengt gaped at the sight. Beautiful green-and-gold meadows sloped down to meet the sea. The low island seemed to curl around the harbor, unruffled by the storm howling past in the heavens.

A chain rattled as they lowered anchor. Bengt untied his safety line and joined the sailors along the rail, staring at the shore where barley grew thick and golden as the pelt of a fox. The field didn’t end at water’s edge, but continued underwater. Bengt leaned over the rail and gazed into the depths where barley still thrived, waving with the current.

No one suggested going ashore.

At last the storm broke. As sailors labored to haul the anchor aboard, the land began to sink. The whole island vanished beneath the waves.

The crew halted all movement, everyone staring at the anchor dripping on the deck, ready for stowing. It was twined with barley ears. The barley of Utrøst, the hidden island of bliss.

Good luck followed them until their journey’s end.

Folktale from Tysfjord, Ofoten, and Lofoten, Nordland, Norway

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

Disenchanted

INGA WALKED TOWARD HOME, her basket empty. Sometimes after a spring storm she found piles of kelp, good for strewing on the fields. None today. She swept one last look at the empty horizon, then back to land.

She shaded her eyes. Who was that coming down the path from Vidareidi village?

Not who. What. The village sow. The lean old pig trotted along, her snout in the air.

Just this morning two villagers had bantered over that same sow. “I’m nearly out of bacon,” Bengt had said. “Not going to last until Curly-Tail’s next litter.”

“Never enough pork for you,” Iørn said.

“Where do you think she finds a boar to mate with? Not a single one on the island!”

“I have no idea.”

Everyone in the village shared in the pork come slaughter time. No one on Vidoy island had any clue where Curly-Tail ran off to every spring, but she always came back sassy, soon fat with another litter of piglets.

Now here came the sow, snuffling at a scent on the breeze, curly tail flicking in eagerness, beady eyes fixed on the sea.

19th century seascape painting — *“North Sea (sketch),” by Carl Bloch (1834-1890)*

Inga glanced that way. Where moments before waves had smacked against sky, a billowy mist now glided like a ghost. An eerie sight out of legend. A magical floating island.

Inga dropped the basket. She patted herself, searching for metal. Iron breaks otherworldly spells and enchantments. Five iron keys on a ring, they’d have to do. She pulled the ribbon from her braid, knotted it to the key-ring, ran to cross paths with the sow.

Curly-Tail squealed displeasure when the woman grabbed her tail. “Just a moment, old girl,” Inga panted, hanging on, swiftly knotting the keys to the thin, bony curl.

The sow pulled loose and galloped into the surf. Off she went, swimming like mad, snout aimed at the drifting mist.

More fog rolled in, shrouding the distance, creeping up the shore. Inga shivered, picked up her basket, made her way home. What she’d say when her husband wanted use of the keys, she didn’t know. Had she guessed right?

Only a dozen paces along, Inga felt a change in the air. The fog shimmered, melted like shadows under a noon sun.

She found the village in an uproar. Lookouts had spotted an island unveiled by the dissipating fog. An island where none had been before. Villagers manned a boat and rowed out for a closer look.

Inga watched from shore as they returned, bellowing with laughter. Curly-Tail swam along behind the boat, tethered, snorting her annoyance to be hauled home again.

“The island is teeming with swine!” one boatman called out.

“A floating island!” another added. “But floating no more. It’s been disenchanted. By iron.” He held up the key ring.

“Who’s the quick wit who helped Curly-Tail break the spell and fix the island in place?”

Inga strode forward, her unbound hair tangled by the sea-breeze. “I’ll take my ribbon back, please. And my keys, thank you kindly.”

folktale from Vidoy, Faeroe Islands

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

Three Gifts

JOHAN SAW FIRELIGHT on an island he thought uninhabited. He steered his skiff to shore, ready to barter with any hunter or hermit he might find. Everyone welcomes the traveling tinker.

19th century painting of a skiff offshore — *“Nocturnal Voyage,” by Marcus Larson (1826-1864)*

A good thing for him the island’s resident had already finished supper. The old troll sat picking at his teeth, the bones of two seals and a walrus tossed aside. “You look a tasty morsel,” the ogre growled, “but for now I merely hunger for news. What do you hear from Smörkullen?”

Knees knocking, Johan raked his memory for gossip. “B-butter Knoll? The flocks and herds are thriving, I hear. Not losing so many to preda- preda- predators.” He gulped.

The troll grumbled. “Good mutton and beef. Miss that, I do.”

“They’ve finally finished walling in the graveyard behind the church.”

“Does that blasted ‘bell cow’ still ring at dawn and dusk and every hour in between?”

“Ah, ja. The church bell does toll many times during the day.”

The troll bared his fangs. “I hated that clamor. Drove me away, you know. Why they had to build that pile of stone in my neighborhood–” He growled and gnashed teeth.

“There’s to be a wedding.” Johan bit off that bit of gossip. Weddings happen at churches, after all, and would involve a great clanging of bells.

“Astrid?” bellowed the troll, lurching to his feet and scattering carcasses.

“Ja!” Johan cowered back. “You know her?”

“Know her? Know her!” the troll bellowed. “Should have been a wedding long ago. But she wouldn’t have me.” He stomped away, scuffed and knocked about in the dark.

Johan edged aside, glancing down the shingle to his skiff. Could he outrun the troll?

The ogre lumbered back into the firelight. “Take these,” he snarled, holding out a bag. “A necklace for Astrid. Give her my best wishes. A box to place on the church altar. And a small chest with seeds. Tell the folk of Smörkullen to plant them in their best field. Take them. Take them!” he roared.

Johan took the bag and pelted down to the beach.

Back at Smörkullen’s town green, Johan related the terrible encounter. He emptied the bag.

The glittering necklance he fingered for a moment. Give it to the bride? Not on his life! Johan tied it around the oak tree near the church.

The oak wrenched from the ground and flew up into the air, sailing off in the direction of the troll’s island.

Put the little box on the altar? Never! Johan set it on a stone at the top of Butter Knoll.

It burst into flames.

Johan planted the seeds in a weedy field at the edge of town.

Seeds sprouted. Up grew a hundred troll heads, with shoulders coming right behind. Everyone in the village took a scythe and cut them all to the ground.

Johan never again visited a lonely island, no matter how the firelight beckoned.

folktale from Skrea, Halland, Sweden, retold by Joyce Holt

artwork: 19th century paintings: 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.

Watery Waste

KELLINGIN GLANCED AT STARS OVERHEAD. “Better hurry,” she told her husband. “Night half-gone already.”

Risin grunted but picked up his pace, sloshing through chest-deep water. He carried an immense coil of rope over his hulking shoulder. The loose end trailed along behind him, bobbing on the waves as if dancing with his hairy tail.

Kellingin carried a bag of cattle for their dinner. She trudged along in Risin’s wake. “What you muttering?”

“Iceland be big enough for all us jotuns. Why do chief-trolls think we need more islands?”

Kellingin rolled her eyes. “Remember tribal war-cry.”

Risin shuffled through memory. “More, more, more,” he rumbled at last, then snorted. “More cattle, ja. More ale, ja. More walk, walk, walk? Gives me sore foots. We lost yet?”

Kellingin peered across the watery waste. She pointed. “There be islands.”

The two jotuns hiked another league through the sea. The closest spit of land jutted northward like the prow of a monstrous ship.

“Now what?” Risin asked.

“I see knob for tying rope,” Kellingin said, looking up the cliff. “There. On top.”

Risin followed her gaze. “Hunh,” he said, scratching his chin.

Kellingin waited, tapping her toe, sending a tidal race up the nearby waterways. Must tow this island back to Iceland under cover of darkness. Woe to any troll grazed by the sun’s deadly beams.

Risin’s gaze remained blank.

“Pah!” Kellingin gusted at last. She snatched the rope from Risin and clawed her way up the cliff. Around the highest spur of rock she looped the heavy rope made from walrus hide. She cinched it tight with all her strength.

Stone cracked. The knob broke off and fell into the sea, narrowly missing Risin’s head.

Kellingin lashed around another spur, then tossed the coil of rope back down to her husband. “Pull!” she yelled.

Risin hauled on the rope.

The spit of land groaned, but held fast to the seabed.

“Yank left, then right!” Kellingin called down. “Break it loose!”

Risin howled with his efforts, but the island refused to give way.

“You brag you strongest of Iceland’s jotuns,” Kellingin hooted. “Can’t move one itty bitty spitty?”

“Itty bitty spitty with big fat troll-wife sitting tops.”

“I do climbing. You do pulling.”

Risin snarled and threw his weight into the rope.

The island lurched, then settled back into place.

Kellingin rolled her eyes in disgust, then whirled to face east. The sky was growing light. “Morning comes!” she shrieked, and scrambled down the cliff.

19th century painting of a wild seascape at dawn. — *“The Ninth Wave,” 1850, by Ivan Aivazovsky (1817-1900)*

Risin dropped the rope and staggered about, staring at the brilliant colors rising from land and sea. “Hurry!” he barked. “Back to Iceland.”

“No time, you lackwit!” Kellingin cried, leaping to his side, each step sending a gout of water into the air. “Into shadow of cliff!”

“Iceland!” he roared.

“Cliff!” she shrieked, yanking on his arm.

Risin broke free and took a step away from the island.

The sun slithered up from the edge of the world, stabbed shafts of light, and turned the two trolls to stone.

A tale from the Faeroe Islands, about the origins of the seastacks Risin and Kellingin (Giant and Wife) below cliffs at the north end of Eysturoy Island.

artwork: 19th century paintings: 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.