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