In Ingeltrop, a parish of North Wedbo, there once lived a farmer who
had a servant named Johan.
One day a traveler arrived from Myntorp Inn, and the farmer having been
notified that it was his turn to furnish a conveyance for him to the
next inn, Johan was sent to the pasture to catch a horse. A halter
thrown over his shoulder, he set out, whistling the latest love song.
Arriving at the pasture, it was soon clear to him that “Bronte” was in
no humor to submit to the halter, and though he now and then allowed
himself to be approached, no sooner was the attempt made to lay hold on
him than he was off, with head and heels in the air, to a safe
distance. Johan persevered, perspiration streaming from his forehead,
but in vain. Angered at last, he began to swear in a most ungodly
manner, still pursuing the horse until his progress was suddenly
checked by a high cliff, to the very base of which he had run before
discovering it. Naturally casting his glance upward, as he halted, he
saw, sitting upon a crag, a beautiful maiden, apparently combing her
hair.
“Are you there, my dear boy?” called the maiden.
Johan, not easily frightened, answered her cheerily:
“Yes, my sweetheart.”
“Come here, then,” called the maiden.
“I can’t,” replied Johan.
“Try, Johan.” And he did, to his astonishment finding a foothold on the
smooth cliff where before no unevenness was discoverable, and soon he
was at the maiden’s side. She looked at him with great, wondering eyes,
then, suddenly enveloping him in a mist, clouded his understanding so
that he was no longer master of his movements, and was, in fact,
transformed completely from the Johan he had been to a being like his
companion. He forgot horse, home, relatives and friends. Half
unconscious, he was conducted into the mountain, and was gone from the
sight and power of those who would seek him.
“Bronte” was in harness many good days thereafter, and the farmer
became the driver, for, as his sons were growing up, he did not wish to
hire another servant in Johan’s stead.
One day, many years after Johan’s disappearance, it was again the
farmer’s turn to furnish a horse to a traveler. Grumbling at the fate
of Johan, he went to the pasture.
“It was too bad for the boy,” said he to himself. “I wonder if he has
been caught by the Trolls?” At the same time he chanced to look upward
at the cliff where the servant had seen the Troll maiden, and there
stood Johan, but with lusterless eyes, staring into vacancy.
“Johan, my dear boy, is that you?” shouted the farmer. “Come down.”
“I can not,” answered Johan, with husky, unnatural voice.
Hereupon the farmer threw his cap to Johan, which the latter picked up
and put on his head.
“Come down,” cried the farmer, “before the Trolls come. In the name of
the saints, come down.”
“I can’t,” said Johan again.
Then the farmer threw his clothes up, garment after garment, and when
Johan had clothed himself in them he received power enough that he was
able to crawl down the cliff. His master took him by the hand, and
without looking back they hastened home, the farmer repeating:
“Pshaw! you cunning black Trolls! As a stone, I’ll quiet your wicked
tongues that they may neither evil think nor speak or do ought against
me.”
They arrived home, the one dressed the other naked. The traveler was
obliged to procure another horse, for in the house of the farmer the
joy was so great that none there had a thought of driving him. Johan
was never again the same man as before, but remained gloomy and rarely
spoke.
His master asked him many times what his occupation was in the
mountain, but upon this subject he was silent. It happened that Johan
was taken sick and called for a confessor, to whom, when he confessed
his sins, he related also his experience in the mountain. His chief
employment, he said, had been to steal food for the Trolls. For this
purpose the Trolls put a red hat upon him, when he could, in a very
short time, fly to Jönköping through locked doors and into the
merchants’ stores, where he took corn, salt, fish and whatever he
wished. From the Troll cap he received such power that he could take a
sack of rye under each arm and a barrel of fish upon his back, and fly
as lightly through the air as with no burden whatever.
“It was wrong of me and hard on the merchants,” said Johan, “but it was
the fault of the Trolls. If there were no Trolls in the world the
merchants would become rich, but now they must pay tribute, and so are
kept on the verge of bankruptcy.” And Johan was done.