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.
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
text: © 2021 Joyce Holt
artwork: 19th century painting. Public domain info here.
Hindsight 