About a mile and a half from Strengnäs lies a narrow valley, between
several wood-covered heights and the island upon which in olden times
Ingiald Illrada burned herself and all her attendants.
The valley is called Eldsund, and was formerly an open water way
connecting two of lake Mälar’s bays. Vessels went, then, unhindered
through there, and not many years ago a sunken vessel was found, buried
in the mud that had one time been at its bottom. Now there is nothing
but a small stream winding its way between grass-grown banks, and cows
and goats graze where the perch and the pike formerly had their
playground.
At one place this little stream spreads its banks until a small lake is
formed, which was once of quite respectable size, but is now almost
grown over with reeds. Many a poor man has there caught a fish for his
pot, that otherwise would have been empty enough.
A good while back there lived a lady on the estate not far from this
lake, perhaps as near as Näsbyholm, upon which, near the water-course,
lies the notable “cuckoo stone.”
This lady was very rich and still more proud, looking with contempt
upon all who had less money and lands than she, and were not of as
noble blood as she believed herself to be.
One day an old priest visited her. A priest in all respects, not one of
those accommodating fellows that could be sent to stir the fire, or one
who went with bent back away from home and was painfully straight at
home, but a priest who did not hide his thoughts under a chair.
While the priest and his hostess were one day walking along the lake
shore, she began, as was her habit, to boast of her riches; to tell how
much money she had at interest, and how many tax lists she had complete
and incomplete, whereupon the priest asked her how far she thought all
that went, or what, after all, it amounted to, for she could not take
her riches with her into the grave. At this the lady became angered,
and declared that she was so rich that if she should live even many
hundreds of years she need not want, and that it was as impossible that
she should become poor as it would be to recover her gold ring from the
depths of the lake—at the same time drawing a ring from her finger and
casting it far out into the water.
The priest maintained that as wonderful things as this had happened in
the world, and that it was not more impossible that her ring might be
recovered than that she might become poor.
Later in the day an old fisherman came to the house with fish to sell.
A number were bought, and the kitchen girl was given the task of
cleaning them.
When she cut open the largest pike, she saw something shining, and,
upon looking with greater care, she recognized her mistress’ most
valuable finger ring. In great haste she rushed to the lady, who sat
wrangling with the moderate priest because he could think it possible
her riches might be taken from her.
“Has my lady lost her ring?” asked the maid.
The lady ceased to talk, and cast a glance at the priest, who sat
quietly at the window looking out toward the lake.
“Here it is, any way,” said the maid, and laid the ring upon the table.
The lady grew pale, but the priest looked more serious than ever.
How it went with her and her riches thereafter, the story does not
relate, but the lake is called Goldring to this day.