It is generally understood that Trolls, when their territory is
encroached upon by mankind, withdraw to some more secluded place. So
when Eksjö was built, those that dwelt in that vicinity moved to
Skurugata, a defile between two high mountains whose perpendicular
sides rise so near to each other as to leave the bottom in continual
semi-darkness and gloom.
Here, it may be supposed, they were left in peace and tranquility. Not
so, however, for it is related that upon the occasion of the annual
meeting of troops at Ränneslätt, a whole battalion of Småland
grenadiers repeatedly marched through, with beating drums and blowing
horns, and that sometimes they fired a volley from their guns, which so
alarmed the Trolls that it is now a question whether any are still
remaining there.
In the neighborhood of the same mountain gulch is a very sacred
fountain where those living thereabouts, in former times are said to
have offered sacrifices to their patron saint. Whether this custom is
now continued is not known. As intelligence increases this and all
other peculiar customs will soon belong entirely to the province of
tradition. A few decades ago this was not so; then one could, according
to the narrations of old men and women, have had the pleasure of both
seeing and talking with the Trolls.
There was once a hunter named Pelle Katt, who, one day, went to
Skurugata for the purpose of shooting woodcock, but though it was the
mating season, when birds are ordinarily plenty and tame, the hunt was
unsuccessful. It was as though ordained. The puffy woodcock and his
hens kept out of the way of the murderous shot. Pelle was angry, and
suspecting that the Trolls had bewitched his gun, he swore and cursed
the Trolls generally, and especially those that lived in Skurugata,
whose mouth he was just passing, when a woman stepped out, small in
stature and peculiar in feature, bearing a little poodle dog in her
arms.
“I bring you greeting from my mistress; she says you are to shoot this
dog,” said she, approaching Pelle.
“Tie it there to that tree and it shall be done before it can get upon
its feet,” answered Pelle.
This was done, and the little woman disappeared between the mountains.
Pelle raised his gun and sent a charge of shot through the dog’s head.
But what a sight met his gaze when the smoke had disappeared! There lay
his own little child wrapped in a dog’s hide.
Pelle Katt’s habits were not the best. He was fond of drink,
quarrelsome and boisterous, and often in his drunken fits declared that
he feared neither God nor the devil.
Now, for the first time in his life, he was amazed and crestfallen.
“O God! What have I now done!” he cried.
His knees smote together and the sweat ran copiously from every pore.
“Here you have your reward,” said the Troll woman, who now reappeared
and threw a dollar piece to Pelle, so that it fell in his open hand, to
which it stuck fast, and hastily picking up the dead child bore it
away.
In a rage, Pelle threw the dollar piece after the vanishing figure, at
the same time calling out:
“I will take no pay from you for such a deed. Here you have your gift
again, you detestable Troll.”
A hoarse laugh answered from the mountain.
Pelle went home. The child was absent. His wife cried, but Pelle kept
still and went to the ale house. He had no money with which to buy
brandy in order to drown his sorrows, but after his old custom he stuck
his fingers in his vest pocket to feel if there might not be a penny
there. Behold! There was the dollar piece which he had recently cast
from him. He dropped it upon the ale house counter and received a drink
which truly made him forget his dead child, his wife, himself, heaven,
hell and all.
When he became sober the coin was again found in his pocket. He again
threw it away, and several times thereafter, but always found it in his
pocket when searching it for money. So he continued to drink more and
more daily, until, finally, he drank himself into that sleep that knows
no waking.
So goes the story of Pelle Katt and the Trolls in Skurugata.