How often is the fate of kingdoms given into child hands, or even
committed to the care of Bird or Beast! A She-wolf nursed the Roman
Empire. A Wren pecking crumbs on a drum-head aroused the Orange army,
it is said, and ended the Stuart reign in Britain. Little wonder, then,
that to a noble Reindeer Buk should be committed the fate of Norway:
that the Troll on the wheel should have reason in his rhyme.
These were troublous times in Scandinavia. Evil men, traitors at heart,
were sowing dissension between the brothers Norway and Sweden. "Down
with the Union!" was becoming the popular cry.
Oh, unwise peoples! If only you could have been by Sveggum's wheel to
hear the Troll when he sang:
The Raven and the Lion
They held the Bear at bay;
But he picked the bones of both
When they quarrelled by the way.
Threats of civil war, of a fight for independence, were heard
throughout Norway. Meetings were held more or less secretly, and at
each of them was some one with well-filled pockets and glib tongue, to
enlarge on the country's wrongs, and promise assistance from an outside
irresistible power as soon as they showed that they meant to strike for
freedom. No one openly named the power. That was not necessary; it was
everywhere felt and understood. Men who were real patriots began to
believe in it. Their country was wronged. Here was one to set her
right. Men whose honor was beyond question became secret agents of this
power. The state was honeycombed and mined; society was a tangle of
plots. The king was helpless, though his only wish was for the people's
welfare. Honest and straightforward, what could he do against this
far-reaching machination? The very advisers by his side were corrupted
through mistaken patriotism. The idea that they were playing into the
hands of the foreigner certainly never entered into the minds of these
dupes--at least, not those of the rank and file. One or two, tried,
selected, and bought by the arch-enemy, knew the real object in view,
and the chief of these was Borgrevinck, a former lansman of Nordlands.
A man of unusual gifts, a member of the Storthing, a born leader, he
might have been prime minister long ago, but for the distrust inspired
by several unprincipled dealings. Soured by what he considered want of
appreciation, balked in his ambition, he was a ready tool when the
foreign agent sounded him. At first his patriotism had to be sopped,
but that necessity disappeared as the game went on, and perhaps he
alone, of the whole far-reaching conspiracy, was prepared to strike at
the Union for the benefit of the foreigner.
Plans were being perfected,--army officers being secretly misled and
won over by the specious talk of "their country's wrongs," and each
move made Borgrevinck more surely the head of it all,--when a quarrel
between himself and the "deliverer" occurred over the question of
recompense. Wealth untold they were willing to furnish; but regal
power, never. The quarrel became more acute. Borgrevinck continued to
attend all meetings, but was ever more careful to centre all power in
himself, and even prepared to turn round to the king's party if
necessary to further his ambition. The betrayal of his followers would
purchase his own safety. But proofs he must have, and he set about
getting signatures to a declaration of rights which was simply a veiled
confession of treason. Many of the leaders he had deluded into signing
this before the meeting at Laersdalsoren. Here they met in the early
winter, some twenty of the patriots, some of them men of position, all
of them men of brains and power. Here, in the close and stifling
parlor, they planned, discussed, and questioned. Great hopes were
expressed, great deeds were forecast, in that stove-hot room.
Outside, against the fence, in the winter night, was a Great White
Reindeer, harnessed to a sled, but lying down with his head doubled
back on his side as he slept, calm, unthoughtful, ox-like. Which seemed
likelier to decide the nation's fate, the earnest thinkers indoors, or
the ox-like sleeper without? Which seemed more vital to Israel, the
bearded council in King Saul's tent, or the light-hearted shepherd-boy
hurling stones across the brook at Bethlehem? At Laersdalsoren it was
as before: deluded by Borgrevinck's eloquent plausibility, all put
their heads in the noose, their lives and country in his hands, seeing
in this treacherous monster a very angel of self-sacrificing
patriotism. All? No, not all. Old Sveggum was there. He could neither
read nor write. That was his excuse for not signing. He could not read
a letter in a book, but he could read something of the hearts of men.
As the meeting broke up he whispered to Axel Tanberg: "Is his own name
on that paper?" And Axel, starting at the thought, said: "No." Then
said Sveggum: "I don't trust that man. They ought to know of this at
Nystuen." For there was to be the really important meeting. But how to
let them know was the riddle. Borgrevinck was going there at once with
his fast Horses.
Sveggum's eye twinkled as he nodded toward the Storbuk, standing tied
to the fence. Borgrevinck leaped into his sleigh and went off at speed,
for he was a man of energy. Sveggum took the bells from the harness,
untied the Reindeer, stepped into the pulk. He swung the single rein,
clucked to the Storbuk, and also turned his head toward Nystuen. The
fast Horses had a long start, but before they had climbed the eastward
hill Sveggum needs must slack, so as not to overtake them. He held back
till they came to the turn above the woods at Maristuen; then he quit
the road, and up the river flat he sped the Buk, a farther way, but the
only way to bring them there ahead.
Squeak, crack-squeak, crack-squeak, crack--at regular intervals from
the great spreading snow-shoes of the Storbuk, and the steady sough of
his breath was like the Nordland as she passes up the Hardanger Fjord.
High up, on the smooth road to the left, they could hear the jingle of
the horse-bells and the shouting of Borgrevinck's driver, who, under
orders, was speeding hard for Nystuen.
The highway was a short road and smooth, and the river valley was long
and rough; but when, in four hours, Borgrevinck got to Nystuen, there
in the throng was a face that he had just left at Laersdalsoren. He
appeared not to notice, though nothing ever escaped him.
At Nystuen none of the men would sign. Some one had warned them. This
was serious; might be fatal at such a critical point. As he thought it
over, his suspicions turned more and more to Sveggum, the old fool that
could not write his name at Laersdalsoren. But how did he get there
before himself with his speedy Horses?
There was a dance at Nystuen that night; the dance was necessary to
mask the meeting; and during that Borgrevinck learned of the swift
White Ren.
The Nystuen trip had failed, thanks to the speed of the White Buk.
Borgrevinck must get to Bergen before word of this, or all would be
lost. There was only one way, to be sure of getting there before any
one else. Possibly word had already gone from Laersdalsoren. But even
at that, Borgrevinck could get there and save himself, at the price of
all Norway, if need be, provided he went with the White Storbuk. He
would not be denied. He was not the man to give up a point, though it
took all the influence he could bring to bear, this time, to get old
Sveggum's leave.
The Storbuk was quietly sleeping in the corral when Sveggum came to
bring him. He rose leisurely, hind legs first, stretched one, then the
other, curling his tail tight on his back as he did so, shook the hay
from the great antlers as though they were a bunch of twigs, and slowly
followed Sveggum at the end of the tight halter. He was so sleepy and
slow that Borgrevinck impatiently gave him a kick, and got for response
a short snort from the Buk, and from Sveggum an earnest warning, both
of which were somewhat scornfully received. The tinkling bells on the
harness had been replaced, but Borgrevinck wanted them removed. He
wished to go in silence. Sveggum would not be left behind when his
favorite Ren went forth, so he was given a seat in the horse-sleigh
which was to follow, and the driver thereof received from his master a
secret hint to delay.
Then, with papers on his person to death-doom a multitude of misguided
men, with fiendish intentions in his heart as well as the power to
carry them out, and with the fate of Norway in his hands, Borgrevinck
was made secure in the sled, behind the White Storbuk, and sped at dawn
on his errand of desolation.
At the word from Sveggum the White Ren set off with a couple of bounds
that threw Borgrevinck back in the pulk. This angered him, but he
swallowed his wrath on seeing that it left the horse-sleigh behind. He
shook the line, shouted, and the Buk settled down to a long, swinging
trot. His broad hoofs clicked double at every stride. His nostrils, out
level, puffed steady blasts of steam in the frosty morning as he
settled to his pace. The pulk's prow cut two long shears of snow, that
swirled up over man and sled till all were white. And the great ox-eyes
of the King Ren blazed joyously in the delight of motion, and of
conquest too, as the sound of the horse-bells faded far behind.
Even masterful Borgrevinck could not but mark with pleasure the noble
creature that had balked him last night and now was lending its speed
to his purpose; for it was his intention to arrive hours before the
horse-sleigh, if possible.
Up the rising road they sped as though downhill, and the driver's
spirits rose with the exhilarating speed. The snow groaned ceaselessly
under the prow of the pulk, and the frosty creaking under the hoofs of
the flying Ren was like the gritting of mighty teeth. Then came the
level stretch from Nystuen's hill to Dalecarl's, and as they whirled by
in the early day, little Carl chanced to peep from a window, and got
sight of the Great White Ren in a white pulk with a white driver, just
as it is in the stories of the Giants, and clapped his hands, and
cried, "Good, good!"
But his grandfather, when he caught a glimpse of the white wonder that
went without even sound of bells, felt a cold chill in his scalp, and
went back to light a candle that he kept at the window till the sun was
high, for surely this was the Storbuk of Jotunheim.
But the Ren whirled on, and the driver shook the reins and thought only
of Bergen. He struck the White Steed with the loose end of the rope.
The Buk gave three great snorts and three great bounds, then faster
went, and as they passed by Dyrskaur, where the Giant sits on the edge,
his head was muffled in scud, which means that a storm is coming. The
Storbuk knew it. He sniffed, and eyed the sky with anxious look, and
even slacked a little; but Borgrevinck yelled at the speeding beast,
though going yet as none but he could go, and struck him once, twice,
and thrice, and harder yet. So the pulk was whirled along like a skiff
in a steamer's wake; but there was blood in the Storbuk's eye now; and
Borgrevinck was hard put to balance the sled. The miles flashed by like
roods till Sveggum's bridge appeared. The storm-wind now was blowing,
but there was the Troll. Whence came he now, none knew, but there he
was, hopping on the keystone and singing of
Norway's fate and Norway's luck,
Of the hiding Troll and the riding Buk.
Down the winding highway they came, curving inward as they swung around
the corner. At the voice on the bridge the Deer threw back his ears and
slackened his pace. Borgrevinck, not knowing whence it came, struck
savagely at the Ren. The red light gleamed in those ox-like eyes. He
snorted in anger and shook the great horns, but he did not stop to
avenge the blow. For him was a vaster vengeance still. He onward sped
as before, but from that time Borgrevinck had lost all control. The one
voice that the Ren would hear had been left behind. They whirled aside,
off the road, before the bridge was reached. The pulk turned over, but
righted itself, and Borgrevinck would have been thrown out and killed
but for the straps. It was not to be so; it seemed rather as though the
every curse of Norway had been gathered into the sled for a purpose.
Bruised and battered, he reappeared. The Troll from the bridge leaped
lightly to the Storbuk's head, and held on to the horns as he danced
and sang his ancient song, and a new song, too:
Ha! at last! Oh, lucky day,
Norway's curse to wipe away!
Borgrevinck was terrified and furious. He struck harder at the Storbuk
as he bounded over the rougher snow, and vainly tried to control him.
He lost his head in fear. He got out his knife, at last, to strike at
the wild Buk's hamstrings, but a blow from the hoof sent it flying from
his hand. Their speed on the road was slow to that they now made: no
longer striding at the trot, but bounding madly, great five-stride
bounds, the wretched Borgrevinck strapped in the sled, alone and
helpless through his own contriving, screaming, cursing, and praying.
The Storbuk with bloodshot eyes, madly steaming, careered up the rugged
ascent, up to the broken, stormy Hoifjeld; mounting the hills as a
Petrel mounts the rollers, skimming the flats as a Fulmar skims the
shore, he followed the trail where his mother had first led his
tottering steps, up from the Vand-dam nook. He followed the old
familiar route that he had followed for five years, where the
white-winged Rype flies aside, where the black rock mountains, shining
white, come near and block the sky, "where the Reindeer find their
mysterie."
On like the little snow-wreath that the storm-wind sends dancing before
the storm, on like a whirlwind over the shoulder of Suletind, over the
knees of Torholmenbrae--the Giants that sit at the gateway. Faster than
man or beast could follow, up--up--up--and on; and no one saw them go,
but a Raven that swooped behind, and flew as Raven never flew, and the
Troll, the same old Troll that sang by the Vand-dam, and now danced and
sang between the antlers:
Good luck, good luck for Norway
With the White Storbuk comes riding.
Over Tvindehoug they faded like flying scud on the moorlands, on to the
gloomy distance, away toward Jotunheim, the home of the Evil Spirits,
the Land of the Lasting Snow. Their every sign and trail was wiped away
by the drifting storm, and the end of them no man knows.
The Norse folk awoke as from a horrid nightmare. Their national ruin
was averted; there were no deaths, for there were no proofs; and the
talebearer's strife was ended.
The one earthly sign remaining from that drive is the string of silver
bells that Sveggum had taken from the Storbuk's neck--the victory
bells, each the record of a triumph won; and when the old man came to
understand, he sighed, and hung to the string a final bell, the largest
of them all.
Nothing more was ever seen or heard of the creature who so nearly sold
his country, or of the White Storbuk who balked him. Yet those who live
near Jotunheim say that on stormy nights, when the snow is flying and
the wind is raving in the woods, there sometimes passes, at frightful
speed, an enormous White Reindeer with fiery eyes, drawing a snow-white
pulk, in which is a screaming wretch in white, and on the head of the
Deer, balancing by the horns, is a brown-clad, white-bearded Troll,
bowing and grinning pleasantly at him, and singing
Of Norway's luck
And a White Storbuk--
the same, they say, as the one that with prophetic vision sang by
Sveggum's Vand-dam on a bygone day when the birches wore their
springtime hangers, and a great mild-eyed Varsimle' came alone, to go
away with a little white Renskalv walking slowly, demurely, by her side.