'The Homestead Westward in the Blue Mountains' by Jonas Lie

Jonas Lie was a contemporary of Ibsen, born 1833 at Hvokksund, not far from Oslo, but spent much of his childhood at Tromsø, inside the Arctic Circle.  He was sent to naval college, but poor eyesight made him unsuited for a life at sea, so he became a lawyer and began to write and publish poems and novels which reflected Norwegian life, folklore and nationalism. A collection of his short stories based on Norwegian and Finnish legends, 'Weird Tales from Northern Seas', was published in English in 1893. This is one of them. Other tales from the same collection can be found here, and here.

There was once a farmer’s son who was off to Moen for the annual manoeuvres. He was to be the drummer, and his way lay right across the mountains. There he could practise his drumming at his ease, and beat his tattoos again and again without making folks laugh – or having a parcel of small boys dangling after him like so many midges.

            Every time he passed a mountain homestead he beat his rat-tat-a-tat to bring the girls out, and they stood and hung about and gaped after him at all the farmhouses.

            It was in the middle of the hottest summer weather. He had been practising his drumming from early in the morning, till he had grown quite sick and tired of it. And now he was toilng up a steep cliff, and had slung his drum over his shoulder and stuck his drumsticks in his bandlolier.

            The sun baked and broiled upon the hills; but in the clefts there was a coolness such as you get by a rushing waterfall. The hills were covered in bilberries all the way up, and he bent down so often to pick whole handfuls that it took him a long time to get to the top.

            Then he came to a hilly slope where the ferns stood high and there were lots of birch bushes. It was so nice and shady there, he thought, and he couldn’t for the life of him resist taking a rest.

            He took off his drum, put his jacket behind his head and his cap over his face, and went off to sleep. 

            But as he lay dozing there, he dreamt that someone was tickling him under the nose with a grassblade. He quickly sat up, and was sure he heard someone laughing and giggling.

            The sun by now had begun to cast oblique shadows, and far down below, towards the valleys, lay the warm steaming vapours, creeping upwards in long drawn-out gossamer bands and ribbons of mist.

            As he reached behind him for his jacket, he saw a snake, which lay and looked at him with such sharp quick eyes. But when he threw a stone at it, it caught its tail in its mouth and rolled away like a wheel.

            Again there was a laughing and sniggering among the bushes.

            And now he heard it coming from some birch trees which stood in such wonderful sunlight, for they were filled with the rain and fine drizzle of a waterfall. The waterdrops glittered and sparkled so that he could hardly see the trees properly.

            But something was moving about in them, and he could swear it looked like a slim pretty girl, laughing and making fun of him, and peeping at him from under her hand because of the sun, and her sleeves were tucked up.

            And a moment later he glimpsed a dark blue blouse moving behind the twigs. He was after it in an instant.

            He ran and ran till he was almost ready to give up, but then glimpsed a dress and a bare shoulder between a gap in the leaves. Off he pelted again as hard as he could, and just as he began to wonder if it was all imagination, he saw her cornered against the green bushes. Her hair had torn loose from her plaits from the speed with which she had flown through the branches, and she looked back at him, pretending to be terribly frightened.

            She was holding his drumsticks! She should pay for that, he thought, and off they ran again, she in front and he behind. But she kept turning around, laughing and jeering at him, and tossing and twisting her head so that it looked as if her long wavy hair were writhing and wriggling and twisting like a serpent’s tail.

            At the top of the hill she stopped by a fence and waved the drumsticks at him, laughing. Now he was determined to catch her, but before he could grab her she was through the fence, and he tumbled after her into the enclosure of a homestead.

            “Randi, and Brandi, and Gyri, and Gunna!’ the girl cried up to the house.

            And four girls came rushing down over the greensward. The last of them had a fine rosy face and heavy golden-red hair, and greeted him graciously with downcast eyes, as if she was quite distressed that they should play such naughty pranks with a strange young man.

            She stood there quite shy and uncertain, poor thing! just like a child who doesn’t know whether to say something or not. She sidled nearer till she was so close her hair almost touched him, and then she opened her blue eyes wide and looked straight at him.

But she had a frightfully sharp look in those eyes of hers.

“Better come with me and you shall have dancing – or are you too tired, lad?” cried a girl with blue-black hair and a wild dark fire in her eyes. She skipped up and down and slapped her rump; she had white teeth and hot breath, and would have dragged him off with her.

“Tie yourself up behind first, black Gyri!” giggled the others, and immediately she let the lad go and wobbled away backwards, twisting her hands behind her back. He couldn’t help staring: she writhed uncomfortably as if she were hiding something behind her and was suddenly so quiet.

But the fine bright girl whom he had chased, the prettiest of them all with the slender waist, began to laugh and tease him again. “Run as you like, you’ll never catch me,” she jibed and jeered, “nor your drumsticks either.” But then her mood shifted right round and she flung herself on the ground, sobbing. She’d followed him all day, she cried, and never had heard any fellow who could beat a rat-tat-a-tat so well, nor ever seen a lad so handsome as he slept. “I kissed you then,” said she, and smiled up at him sadly.

“Beware of the snake’s tongue, lest it bite you! It caresses before it stings,” whispered the shy girl with the golden-red hair, stealing softly up. And all at once the boy remembered the snake on the hillside, as slender and supple as the girl who lay there weeping and mocking at the same time, with the same sharp, cunning eyes.

Now a bent, clumsy little figure stuck her head in between them, and smiled bashfully at him as if she knew and could tell him so much. Her eyes held a deep, inward sparkle and over her face passed a sort of pale golden gleam, like the last sunbeam fading over the hilltop. “At my place,” said she, “you shall hear music such as no-one else has ever heard. You will hear all that sings and laughs and cries in the roots of trees, and in the mountains and in everything that grows, so that you will never care about anything else in the world.”

Then the boy heard a scornful laugh, and up on a rock he saw a tall, strong girl with a gold band in her hair. With powerful arms she lifted a huge wooden horn, threw back her head and blew a blast as strong as the rock on which she stood: it sounded far and wide through the summer evening, and echoes rang to and fro across the hills.

But the pretty girl on the ground stuck her fingers in her ears and mimicked the sound and laughed and jeered. Then she peered up at him through her ash-blond hair and murmured, “If you want me, you’ll have to pull me up.”

“She has a strong grip for a girl,” thought he, as he did so – “But first you’ll have to catch me!” cried she, and raced for the house. 

Suddenly she stopped, crossed her arms and looked straight into his eyes. “Do you like me?” she asked.

He had hold of her now, and couldn’t say no to that. “You’ll have to decide on this, father,” she shouted in the direction of the house. “The boy wants to marry me!” And she dragged him hastily towards the hut door.

There sat a little, grey-clad old fellow with a cap on his head like a milk-can, staring at the livestock on the mountainside. He had a large silver jug in front of him.

“It’s the homestead westward of the Blue Mountains that he’s after, I know,” said the old man, nodding his head with a sly look in his eyes.

“Is it, now?” thought the boy, understanding at last. Aloud he said, “It’s a great offer, I know, but surely too soon to decide. Down our way, the usual thing is to send go-betweens first of all, to see matters properly arranged.”

“You did send two ahead of you, and here they are!” the girl said promptly, and she brandished his two drumsticks.

“And with us, it’s customary to look over the property first, however smart the girl may be,” he added.

Then she shrank into herself and there was a nasty green glitter in her eyes –

“Haven’t you run after me the livelong day, and courted me right down there in the enclosure, where my father could hear and see it all?” cried she.

“Most pretty lasses hold back a bit,” said the boy, seeing that it wasn’t all love in this wooing. Then she bent backwards in a complete circle and shot forward her head and neck, and her eyes glittered. But the old fellow lifted his stick from his knees, and she stood upright again, merry and sportive as ever, with her hands in her silver girdle, and looked in his eyes and laughed, and asked if he was one of those fellows who were afraid of girls?

“If you want me, you might be run right off those legs of yours,” she joked, and skipped and curtseyed, making fun of him again. But behind her he saw her shadow whisking and frisking in circles on the grass like a long, coiling ribbon.

They seemed in a great hurry to get him under their yoke, he thought, but a soldier on his way to the manoeuvres is not to be married off-hand. “I came here for my drumsticks, not looking for a wife, and I’ll thank you to hand them back.”

“Not so fast. Look about you first, young man,” said the old fellow, and as he pointed with his stick the drummer boy saw mountain pastures full of dun cows grazing, with cow-bells clonking and the prettiest of milkmaids carrying bright copper buckets. There was wealth here for sure.

“Maybe this dowry of mine in the Blue Mountains doesn’t seem much to you,” said the girl, sitting down beside him. “But we’ve four such saeter as this, and what I inherit from my mother is twelve times as large.”

But the drummer had seen what he had seen. They were rather too anxious to settle the property upon him, he thought. So he declared that in such a serious matter, he needed a little time for consideration. 

The lass began to cry, and take on, and accused him of trying to fool a poor innocent young thing and pursue her, and drive her out of her wits. She had trusted him, she said, and fell a-howling and rocking with her hair all over her eyes, till at last the drummer began to feel quite sorry for her and almost angry with himself. But when she looked at him with those sharp, glinting eyes, it was as if he saw again the snake under the birch trees down on the hillside when it curled into a hoop and rolled away.

Then she reared up hissing, and a long tail whisked about behind her from underneath her skirts. “You won’t get away from me like that!” she shrieked. “I’ll have you dragged in shame from parish to parish!” And she called her father.

The drummer felt a grip on his jacket. He was lifted right off his legs and chucked into an empty cow-house, and the door was shut behind him.

There he stood and had nothing to look at but an old billy-goat through a crack in the door, who had odd yellow eyes and looked very much like the old fellow, and a sunbeam through a little hole, which crept higher and higher up the blank stable wall till late in the evening, when it went out altogether.

But towards night a voice outside said softly, “Boy! boy!” and in the moonlight he saw a little shadow cross the hole. “Hush! the old man is sleeping outside on the other side of the wall,” it said.

He recognised the voice: it was the golden-red one who had seemed so shy.

“All you need to do is say you know Snake-eyes has had a lover before, or they wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get her off their hands with a dowry. The homestead westward in the Blue Mountains is mine, so tell the old man that it was me, Brandi, you were after all the time. Hush, here he comes,” she whispered, and whisked away.

But a shadow again fell across the little knot-hole in the moonlight, and the duck-necked one peeped in at him. “Boy, are you awake? Snake-eyes will make a fool of you. She’s spiteful, and she stings. But the homestead westward in the Blue Mountains is mine, and when I play there the gates under the high mountains fly open and show the way to the nameless powers of nature. Just say it was I, Randi, you were running after, because you love her songs. Hush, the old man is stirring by the wall!” – and she was gone.

A little afterwards nearly every bit of the hole was darkened, and he recognised the dark one by her voice.

“Boy, boy!” she hissed. “I had to tie my skirts up behind today, so we couldn’t go dancing the Halling-fling. But the homestead in the Blue Mountains is lawfully mine, so tell the old man it was madcap Gyri you were running after today, because you love dancing jigs and hallings.” Then she clapped her hands and was frightened she might have awakened the old man. And she was gone.

But the lad sat inside there and watched the thin summer moon rise, and thought that never in his life had he been in such trouble. And from time to time he heard scraping and snorting against the wall outside, and knew it was the old fellow who lay there and kept watch over him.

“Are you there, boy?” said another voice at the peephole.

It was the sturdy girl who had planted herself so firmly on the rock.

“For three hundred years I have been blowing the langelur here in the summer evenings. Everything you see here is illusion and fairy glamour: many a man has been fooled by it, but I won’t see the other girls married before me. Rather than let one of them have you, I’ll set you free. Now listen! When the sun is hot and high the old man will get frightened and crawl into the shadows. Then’s your chance. Shove the door open hard and run, jump over the fence, and you’ll be rid of us.”

As soon as the sun began to burn, the drummer followed her advice. He cleared the fence in one good bound and fled, and in no time he was down in the valley again. He could hear the horn calling distantly in the mountains. But he slung his drum over his shoulder and set off to the manoeuvres at Moen. And never again did he beat his drum to call out the lasses from the farmsteads, for fear he should find himself westwards in the Blue Mountains before his time.

Picture credit:

Illustration by Laurence Housman

Harald Finehair and the Jøtun Dovri

Here is a story about the (possibly legendary) Norwegian King Harald Fairhair or Finehair, pictured above as a youth with his father Halfdan the Black, King of Vestfold, in an illustration from the Icelandic Flateyjarbók.  The story tells of Harald's relationship with a troll, or jøtun (interchangeable concepts, but a jøtun is always a giant) who gave his name to the mountain range called the Dovrefjell. If Harald actually existed, he is said in the Heimskringla to have become king at the age of 10 after his father’s death in 860, and was clearly a character to whom tall stories became attached: this one is from  Flateyjarbók and deals with an episode of his brief childhood. Really, it’s a fairy tale... The translation is by William Craigie in his book ‘Scandinavian Folk-Lore’, 1896.

 

 

While King Halfdan sat in peace at home in the Uplands, it befell that much treasure and valuable things disappeared from his treasury, and no one knew who was to blame. The King was greatly troubled, for he thought that this would not be the only visit of the thief. He then had things so arranged – with cunning devices and powerful spells – that whatever man entered to take the treasure would have to stay there till someone came to him. He guessed that the one who did the mischief would be both big and strong, so he ordered men to make ponderous fetters of the hardest steel, and twisted leaden bands.

            One early morning when they came to the treasury, they found there a huge troll, tall and stout. They fell on him in a body and put the fetters on him, but he was exceedingly strong; sixty-four men were needed before he could be secured with the fetters. Then they bound his hands firmly behind his back with the leaden bonds, and after than he became quieter. King Halfdan asked him his name; he said he was called Dofri, and lived in the fell that is named after him.

            The King asked whether he had stolen his gold; he admitted it and asked pardon, promising to repay it three-fold, but the King said he would never pardon him; he should stay there bound until the Thing could be summoned, and there he should be condemned to a shameful death. He said too that he would give him no food, and whoever did so should lose his life. Then the King went home, and Dovri remained in his bonds.

            Soon after this, Halfdan’s son Harald came home, and learned all these tidings, and what his father had said. He was then five years old. Going to where Dovri was sitting with a grim and gloomy look, Harald spoke to him and said, ‘Hard stead are you: will you accept your life from me?’ ‘I am not sure,’ said Dovri, ‘whether, after what your father said, I ought to bring you into so great danger.’ ‘What does that concern you?’ said Harald, and with that he drew his short sword, which was of the best steel, and cut the fetters and leaden bands off Dofri – who, as soon as he was freed, thanked Harald for giving him his life, and took himself off at once: he took no long time to tie his shoes, laid his tail on his back, and set off so that neither wind nor smoke of him was seen.

            When Halfdan discovered this, he was so angry that he drove Harald away, saying he could go and look for help from the troll Dovri. Harald wandered about for four days in the woods, and on the fifth, as he stood in a clearing, worn out with hunger and thirst, he saw a huge fellow coming along in whom he thought he knew the troll Dovri.

 

             ‘

          ‘You are in no good plight either, prince, as things are now,’ said Dovri, ‘and all this, one may say, you have fallen into on my account: will you go with me to my home?’          

           Harald agreed, and the jøtun, taking him up in his arms, carried him swiftly along till he came to a large cave. In entering, he stooped rather less than he intended and struck the boy’s head so hard on the rock that he was at once made unconscious. Dovri thought it would be a terrible accident if he had killed the boy, and was so deeply grieved that he sat down and cried over him. As he sat shaking his head and pulling wry faces Harald recovered, looked up at him and saw his mouth distorted, his cheeks swollen and the whites of his eyes turned up: - ‘It is a true saying, foster-father,’ said he, ‘that “few are fair that greet [cry]”, for now you seem to me very ugly. Be merry, for I am not hurt.’

            Dovri fostered Harald for five years, and loved him so much that he could oppose him in nothing. Dovri taught him much, both of learning and of feats of skill, and Harald increased greatly both in size and strength. There he stayed until the death of his father Halfdan, when Dovri sent him to succeed him as king. ‘I charge you,’ said he, ‘never to cut your hair or nails until you are sole king over Norway. I shall be present to assist you in all your battles, and that will be of service to you, for I shall do all the more harm in that I shall not easily be seen. Farewell now, and may everything turn out for your glory and good fortune, no less than if you had stayed with me.’

The Heimskringla lists Harald’s victories – over ‘Ringerik, Heddemark, Gudbrandsdal’ and other regions of Norway, on his way to becoming the first king over all of Norway, but it doesn’t mention Dovri the jøtun. It tells a different tale: Harald sets his heart on a young woman called Gyda, daughter of King Erik of Hordaland, but she sends him word that she will not take for husband a king with such a small kingdom as his to rule over:

Gyda spoke to the messengers and bade them bear her words to King Harald, that she would only become his wife when he had first for her sake laid under himself all Norway, and ruled over the kingdom as freely as King Erik of Sweden or King Gorm in Denmark, ‘for then for the first time,’ she said, ‘it seems to me that he can be called the king of a people.’

Inspired by her answer, Harald swore that as ‘the god that made me and rules all things shall be my witness, never shall my hair be cut or combed till I have possessed myself of all Norway – or else die.’ It took him ten years and he married a number of other women in the interim, but he succeeded and according to the tale, married ‘the great-minded maid’ Gyda too. After ‘subduing the whole country’, the story goes:

King Harald was feasting in Möre with Ragnvald the Jarl … there King Harald took a bath, and had his hair combed; and then Ragnvald the Bard cut off the hair, which had been uncut and uncombed for ten years. Hitherto he had been called Harald Tanglehair, but now Ragnvald gave him the nickname Harald Fine-hair and all who saw him said it was the truest name, for he had thick and beautiful hair.

When my viking trilogy ‘Troll Fell’, ‘Troll Mill’ and ‘Troll Blood’ came out, I used to tell school children this story of Harald’s vow not to cut or comb or wash his hair, and that he was nick-named ‘Tanglehair’ and finally earned a new tag that means something like ‘Splendid-Hair’ – for the Old Norse Harfargr does not imply any colour. The kids loved it; there were many screwed-up noses and cries of ‘Eeew!’ But back then I didn’t know the story of Dovri the jøtun, and his friendship with young Harald. It’s fascinating when two tales come up with such different explanations for the same thing, and it makes me think that maybe Harald really did exist – and really did perhaps swear such an oath. 

 

Picture credits

Halfdan and Harald - in the Icelandic Flateyjarbók

Skovtrold (Forest Troll) - Theodor Kittelsen, Wikimedia Commons 

The Ash-lad and the Troll - Theodor Kittelsen, Wikimedia Commons

The Troll who wondered how old he was - Theodore Kittelsen, Wikimedia Commons