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
text: © 2022 Joyce Holt
artwork: 19th century painting. Public domain info here.
Hindsight 