Eyafialla mountains. As his pasture land was good, he kept many sheep.
These yielded him no small store of wool, and yet, it was no easy matter
for him to keep a coat on his back; for the wife whom he had lately
married, though young and healthy, was lazy to a degree, and gave
herself little concern about the affairs of the house. Her husband was
greatly dissatisfied, but could not induce her to mend her ways.
At the close of summer he gave her a large bundle of wool, and told her
to be sure to spin it and work it up into coarse wadmal during the
winter months. “Very well,” she said, “I’ll see about it bye and bye;”
but at the same time looked as if she would far rather have nothing to
do with it. She let it lie in a corner untouched, spite of the hints she
got every now and then, from her husband. It was mid-winter before she
fully made up her mind to set to work; and then she began to perplex
herself, as to how she could get so much wool worked up, before the
close of winter.
Just then, an ugly old woman came to the door, begging for alms.
“Can you do any work for me in return,” asked the peasant’s wife.
“Perhaps I can,” replied the old woman.
“But what kind of work would you have me to do?”
“I want you to make some coarse cloth for me, out of this wool.”
“Very well, let me have the wool then.”
And so, the peasant’s wife handed the large bag of wool to the old
woman, who, without more ado, tossed it up on her back, at the same time
saying,
“You may depend on my coming back with the cloth, the first day of
summer.”
“But what payment will you ask for your work when you bring the cloth,”
said the peasant’s wife.
“I won’t take any payment; but you must tell me what my name is, in
three guesses.”
The peasant’s wife, too lazy to spin and weave for herself, agreed to
this strange condition, and so the old woman departed.
As the winter months passed on, the peasant often asked what had become
of the wool.
“Give yourself no concern about it,” said the wife, “you’ll have it
back, all spun and woven, by the first day of summer.”
As he never could get any other answer, he at last ceased to talk about
the wool. All this time his wife was trying to find out the old woman’s
name, but all her efforts were unavailing. By the time the last month of
winter came round she became so anxious and uneasy that she could
neither eat nor sleep. Her husband was greatly distressed at the change
which had come over her, and begged her to let him know what ailed her.
Unable longer to keep the matter secret, she told him the whole.
He was very much startled at what he heard, and told her how very
imprudent she had been, as the old woman was, most certainly, a witch,
and would take her away if she failed in her bargain.
A day or two after this conversation, he had occasion to go up the
adjoining mountain. He was so bowed down with grief, at the thought of
losing his wife, that he scarcely knew what he was about; and so
wandered from the road, till he came to the bottom of a lofty cliff.
While he was considering how he could get into the right road again, he
thought he heard a sound as of a voice inside the hill. Following the
sound he discovered a hole in the face of the cliff. On peeping through
this hole, he saw a tall old woman sitting weaving with the loom between
her knees; and, as she beat the treadles, every now and then breaking
into a snatch of song,
“Ha! Ha! and Ho! Ho!
The good wife does not know
That Gilitrutt is my name.”
“Aha!” muttered the peasant to himself, “if she does not know now, she
will know bye and bye;” for he felt quite sure that was the same old hag
who had so imposed on his poor foolish wife.
All the way home, he kept repeating the word _Gilitrutt_, and, as soon
as he got in doors, he wrote it down on a piece of paper, that he might
not forget it. But he did not, at that time, give his wife the least
inkling of what had befallen him. The poor woman grew more and more
sorrowful, as the days passed on; and, when the closing day of winter
came, she was so woe-begone that she had not the heart even to put on
her clothes. In the course of the day, her husband enquired if she had
found out her visitor’s name yet.
“Alas, no! Would to God I could find it out! for I am like to die of
grief.”
“There is no occasion for that,” he replied cheerfully, “I’ve found out
the name for you; so you need not be afraid to meet the old hag.” With
that, he handed her the piece of paper, and at the same time told about
his adventure on the mountain. She took the paper, with a trembling
hand, for at first she feared that the news was too good to be true;
and, though her husband’s story comforted her not a little, she could
not get rid of a suspicion that the name might not be the true one.
She wanted her husband to stay indoors the next day, so as to be present
when the old woman called.
“No! no!” said he, “you kept your own counsel when you gave her the
wool, so, you must do without me when you take in the cloth, and pay her
the wages agreed on.”
He then left the house.
And now came the first day of summer. The peasant’s wife was in the
house alone, and lay a-bed, listening with a beating heart for the first
sound of the old hag’s footsteps. She had not long to wait; for, before
the morning passed, a trampling noise was heard, and in stalked the old
woman with a bundle on her back, and a scowl on her face. As soon as she
got within the room, she threw down the big bundle of cloth, and, in an
angry tone, called out,
“What is my name now? What’s my name?”
The peasant’s wife, who was almost dead with fear, said “Signy!”
“That my name! That my name! guess again, good wife.”
“Asa,” said she.
“That my name! That my name! No indeed. You must guess again; but
remember this is your last chance.”
“Are you not called Gilitrutt?” said the woman timorously.
This answer came like a thunderbolt on the old hag, who fell down with a
great noise on the floor, and lay there for sometime. She then got up,
and, without speaking a word, went her way out of the house, and was
never more seen in the country-side.
As for the peasant’s wife, she was full of joy at her deliverance, and,
ever after, was a changed woman. She became a pattern of industry and
good management, and henceforth always worked her own wool herself.
HILDUR THE FAIRY QUEEN.
Once on a time a farmer settled in a mountainous part of the country,
but the particular spot is not mentioned, nor has his name come to us;
but we do know that he was a bachelor, and had a housekeeper named
Hildur.
Who Hildur was, neither the farmer nor any of the neighbouring gossips
could find out: but as she took good care of the household and
discharged her duties faithfully, she was allowed to keep her own
secret. All the servants liked her, and the farmer thought himself very
fortunate in having fallen in with such a housekeeper. She was of a
quiet disposition, but always kind and obliging.
The farmer’s affairs were in a flourishing state: his sheep throve and
multiplied, and he had nothing to annoy him except this, that he had
great difficulty in getting shepherds to enter his service. The cause of
this was not that the farmer treated his shepherds badly, but that, one
after another, they were found dead in bed, on Christmas morning.
In olden times, it was the custom for the Icelanders, on Christmas Eve,
to meet together at midnight for public worship; and any one who
absented himself from church, on that occasion, was considered as much
to blame as if he were keeping away on Christmas day itself. Those
living up among the mountains, and who had long weary roads to go, had
often great difficulty in getting to church in time; especially those
who were not able to leave home before the Pleiades could be seen in the
south-eastern heavens.
In this farm, the shepherds did not usually get home from work before
that time, so that they generally missed the opportunity of attending
the Christmas Eve service. Hildur never went on those occasions, as she
preferred staying at home to watch the house—as is customary for some
one to do on Christmas Eve—and attend to the preparations for the
Christmas feast. She was always busily occupied in this way till the
night was far advanced, so that the church-goers were back from the
services and asleep in bed, before she retired for the night.
As often as Christmas morn came round, the farmer’s shepherd, whoever he
might be, was found dead in bed. This strange fatality was well known
over all the country side. No wonder, then, that shepherds were afraid
of entering the farmer’s service, even though offered better wages than
they could get elsewhere. No mark of violence was ever seen on the body
of the unfortunate shepherd, so that no blame could be attached either
to the farmer, or to any one in the house. At last the farmer declared
that he could not find it in his heart to engage shepherds, with the
prospect of certain death before them, and that he would, for the
future, leave his sheep to take care of themselves.
When things had reached this pass, there came to him, one day, an active
hardy man, who offered his services as shepherd.
“I am not so much in want of your services as to be willing to take
you.”
“Have you engaged a shepherd for next winter?” asked the stranger.
“No, I have not,” replied the farmer, “but surely you have heard how sad
has been the end of all that have been before you.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard all about it; but their fate will not hinder me from
taking care of your sheep, if you are only willing to engage me.”
At last, the farmer complied with his entreaties, and engaged him as
shepherd. He soon shewed that he was in every respect fitted for the
place. He was kind and obliging; and both able and willing to lend a
hand at any farm work, so that he soon became a favourite with
everybody.
Till Christmas-tide, nothing extraordinary happened. On Christmas Eve,
the farmer went to church as usual with his domestics. The housekeeper
alone stayed at home, and the shepherd was left in charge of the sheep.
Towards evening the shepherd came in from his work, and after partaking
of dinner, lay down to rest in bed. He took care, however, not to drop
asleep; for, though free from fear, he thought it only prudent to keep
awake. When the night was advanced he heard the church-goers come in,
and take some refreshment before going to bed. Up till this time, he had
not remarked anything unusual; but when the others had fallen asleep, he
felt languid and weary. He was afraid lest he should be overpowered with
sleep, and did his best to keep awake. A little while after, some one,
whom he believed to be the housekeeper Hildur, stealthily approached the
bed-side. Thinking he was asleep, she began to try to put something in
his mouth. He felt certain that it must be a magic-bridle, and so,
pretending to be quite unconscious of what was going on, he let himself
be quietly bridled.
As soon as the bridle was on, she led him out very easily; mounting on
his back, she rode away at a smart pace till they reached a yawning
chasm in the earth. Then she dismounted beside a stone, and letting go
her hold of the bridle, disappeared into the chasm. The shepherd did not
want to lose sight of her, and so tried to follow; but he soon found
that that was out of his power, so long as he had on the bridle. By dint
however of rubbing his head against the stone, he got rid of the bridle,
and leaving it behind, he threw himself into the chasm into which Hildur
had sprung.
As far as he could judge, he had not gone very deep down till he saw
Hildur again. She was then landed on a fine level meadow, along which
she was walking quickly. From what he saw he came to think that all was
not right with Hildur, and that she was not the woman she had seemed to
be in the farmer’s house. In order to keep her from seeing him as he
followed her over the plain, he took out of his pocket a stone which had
the wonderful property of making him invisible so long as he held it in
his hand. With this stone of darkness in his left-palm, he made after
her as fast as he could, and kept close behind her the rest of the way.
After walking some distance over the plain, there appeared in sight a
splendid palace of great size, towards which Hildur directed her steps.
A great crowd of people came out to meet her. Foremost among them was a
man dressed in purple and gold, who bade her welcome, at the same time
calling her his beloved wife, and embracing her very affectionately.
Those who attended him saluted her as their queen, and received her with
every mark of respect. By the king’s side were two children, of eight or
ten years of age, who ran joyfully into Hildur’s arms, and called her
mother.
On entering the palace, Hildur was very honourably received. She was
dressed in a royal robe, and had rings of gold put upon her hand. The
shepherd followed the crowd into the palace, and took up his place where
he could see all that was going on without running the risk of being
found out. The furniture was rich and gorgeous beyond conception, so
that he was completely dazzled with the sight.
In the principal saloon a table was set out and a feast prepared, the
splendour of which cannot be described.
Hildur then made her appearance, magnificently attired, and sat down on
the throne beside the king, while the other guests took their places on
each side.
At the close of the feast, the table was removed, and soon the guests
began to pass the time in dancing, or other amusements. The king and
queen paid no heed to what was going on, but sat alone, engaged in a
close conversation which seemed to the shepherd to be at once kind and
sorrowful.
While the king and queen were thus occupied, three children, younger
than those before mentioned, came forward, and their mother Hildur, who
received them kindly, took the youngest on her knee and fondled it. But,
as the child was restless and uneasy, she set it down again. She then
drew a ring from her finger, and gave it to the child as a plaything.
The child amused itself for some time with it, and then dropped it on
the floor. The shepherd, who was standing close by, at the time, hastily
snatched it up and put it into his pocket, without being observed by any
one. As soon as the ring was missed, a careful search was made for it,
but, to the great astonishment of everybody but the shepherd, it was
nowhere to be found.
As the night was now far advanced, the queen—Hildur—began to prepare for
her departure. Those present were sorry to see this, and begged her to
stay longer with them. The king also added his entreaties, but all
without effect. Before this time, the shepherd had noticed an
ill-looking woman, who sat all alone in a corner of the room. She was
the only one that had failed to give Hildur a joyful welcome to the
palace, or ask her to prolong her stay. As soon as the king saw that
Hildur was bent on going, he stepped up to this old woman, and said,
“Take back your words, mother! at my humble entreaty, so that my queen
may no longer be bound to absent herself from home, and from those
nearest and dearest to her.”
The old woman replied angrily, “All my words shall stand, I will by no
means retract them.”
With a sorrowful heart, he went back to the queen, and, folding his arms
around her, begged her in words of kindness not to leave him again.
“Alas,” said she, “I cannot stay here, in consequence of the spell by
which your mother has bound me, and who knows if I shall ever see you
more.”
She then told him she had killed so many men it could no longer be
concealed, and that she would certainly be punished, even though what
she had done was sore against her will.
While she was lamenting her unhappy lot, the shepherd, seeing how
matters stood, made the best of his way out of the palace, and went
straightway to the bottom of the chasm. He reached the top, with the
greatest ease. After that, he put the stone of darkness in his pocket,
and putting the bridle in his mouth again, waited patiently on Hildur.
It was not long before Hildur made her appearance, looking very
sorrowful. Taking a hold of the bridle, she mounted on his back and rode
quickly back to the farm.
On her arrival she laid the shepherd quietly in bed, and unbridled him,
and then slipped away to her own bed, where she lay down to sleep.
Although the shepherd had been all this time wide awake, he feigned
sleep so well that Hildur was quite deceived. After she had gone to bed,
he was no longer on his guard, but fell asleep, and as might be expected
slept till it was broad day. The farmer was astir early in the morning,
for he was anxious to know if this Christmas, like so many that was
gone, was to be a season of mourning in place of a season of rejoicing.
The most of the servants got up early too, but, while they were
dressing, he went quietly to the shepherd’s bed, and touching him with
his hand, found that he was alive and apparently well. This rejoiced the
heart of the farmer, who falling down on his knees, praised God loudly
for his great goodness. The shepherd, shortly after, got up in the best
of health. As soon as he was dressed, the people of the house gathered
about him, to ask if anything unusual had befallen him during the night.
“Nothing,” said he, “except that I had a very wonderful dream.”
“What kind of a dream?”
The shepherd began with the tale, as it is here told; how Hildur came to
his bed and bridled him; and every thing exactly, as far as he could
recollect. When he had done, all were silent except Hildur, who said,
“If you tell the truth, show us some token to prove what you say.”
The shepherd, noways daunted by this demand, shewed them the ring, which
he had picked up from the floor of the fairy palace during the night,
and said,
“Though I am not bound to bring forward proofs, I can easily do so, for
there is token sufficient that I have been with the fairies. Is not that
your ring, Queen Hildur?”
“To be sure it is,” replied Hildur “and may good fortune ever attend
you, for you have delivered me from the spell by which my cruel
mother-in-law bound me, and through which I have been compelled to do so
many bad deeds which my soul abhorred.”
Then queen Hildur told her story as follows. “I was a fairy maid of low
degree, but the present fairy king fell in love with me. The marriage
was so displeasing to his mother, that she became furious with rage and
told him that he would have to part with me soon, and that, after that,
we could enjoy each other’s society only at rare intervals and for a
short time together. But me she bound with such a spell, that I was
forced to become a servant in the world of woe, and, every Christmas
Eve, to kill a man. I was to bridle him when asleep, and ride on his
back along the same road that I took with the shepherd last night in
going to meet the king. This I was to do till I was convicted of murder
and put to death, unless, before that, I should fall in with a man so
courageous as to dare to go with me to the world of Fairies, and then be
able to show plain proofs that he had been there and seen what was done.
Now, it is clear that all the other shepherds of this farmer have
suffered death for my sake, but, as it was not in my power to prevent
it, I hope their deaths will not be laid to my charge. This
stout-hearted man is the first who dared to venture into the dark road
that leads to Fairyland. I shall yet reward him for delivering me from
the spell of my cruel mother-in-law. I thank you all for your kindness
to me, during the years I have been among you. But I must stay here no
longer, for I long for my proper home.”
After these words Queen Hildur disappeared, and since then, she has
never once been seen in the world of mankind.
Of the shepherd, it is told, that he married and settled down on a farm,
in the following spring. He was generously treated by the farmer, who,
when they parted, stocked his farm free of all cost to him. Ere long he
became noted as one of the best farmers of the neighbourhood, and was
often called upon for his advice and assistance in matters of
difficulty. He was beloved by all, and successful beyond all his
expectations in whatever he undertook. None of his neighbours could
boast of such thriving flocks and herds as his. But his wonderful good
fortune did not make him proud, for, as he often said, he owed all his
success to Hildur the Fairy Queen.
A CLERGYMAN’S DAUGHTER MARRIED TO A FAIRY MAN.
In a certain district of Iceland, there lived a clergyman who had a
daughter in the early bloom of womanhood. One day, when the conversation
turned on the subject of elves or fairies, the young woman happened to
say,
“I should like to be married to a fairy man, if he were only a brave
one.”
Her father was very angry at her words, and gave her a good scolding and
a box on the ear besides. Shortly afterwards, a child about the
parsonage saw a man ride up to the door of the house, and then dismount.
Watching his opportunity, the man stepped indoors, and soon reappeared,
leading the clergyman’s daughter by the hand. Before he could be
prevented, he mounted on horseback and rode off with her. Her sorrowful
parents searched for her throughout all the neighbouring country, but
nowhere could she be found.
It is told, that three winters after this time, a shepherd who had been
long in the clergyman’s service, and had loved his daughter dearly, one
day lost his way and all the sheep. After wandering about for hours, he
found himself at the door of a farm house he had never before seen. The
farmer, a fine manly looking fellow, came out, and after listening to
his story offered him a bed for the night. He accepted the offer gladly,
but at the same time lamented over the loss of the sheep.
“Don’t bother yourself about them to-night,” said the farmer, “be sure
they will turn up again;” and with that he led him to a room up stairs.
There he saw an old man and woman, and two children who were playing on
the floor. But, besides these, he saw the clergyman’s lost daughter who
was now the wife of the man who had asked him in.
The shepherd was entertained with the best that was in the house; and
when bed-time came, was shown to a private sleeping room. The
clergyman’s daughter then went to him, and handing him a leather bag,
asked him faithfully to deliver to her mother some valuables she had put
in it. She also bade him tell her mother that though her husband was a
fairy man, he did not hinder her from saying her prayers every night. On
the shepherd asking her if ever she went to church, she said she was
there just as often as himself, and that she always sat under the
pulpit, with her husband, beside the altar.
“How does it come that nobody ever sees you in church?”
“Oh, the reason is,” she replied, “that we always leave the church
before the blessing. But don’t tell anybody what I have now mentioned.
Only deliver the leather bag to my mother; for if you blab what I’ve
told you, be sure you will be an unfortunate man.”
He gave her a promise of secrecy; on that, she left the room. On getting
up in the morning, he was glad to learn that his lost sheep had turned
up. The farmer, who had fed them on hay during the night, delivered them
up to him, and put him on the right road. He got home with the sheep in
safety, and after a very short journey; but he never could tell which
way he came. As for the promise of secrecy, he paid no attention to it;
but on the contrary gave a full and exact account of everything he had
seen and heard.
Now, the clergyman, who was anxious to find his daughter, bethought
himself of a plan, and that was, to pronounce the blessing before she
could have time to get out of church. So he went round among his
parishioners, and told them not to be shocked if they should hear him
the next Sunday pronounce the blessing at an earlier stage of the
service than usual. When next Sunday came, his daughter occupied her
customary seat, though not visible to any one in the church. In the
middle of the service the clergyman stopped and pronounced the blessing.
His daughter, thus caught unawares, was obliged to discover herself. He
did what he could to induce her to stay, but all in vain.
“If you try to force me,” said she, “the consequences will be very
serious; and besides, it would not be right in me to leave a husband who
has always treated me so kindly.”
Of the shepherd, it is told, that he was from that day unfortunate in
all that he had to do with. But one cannot be sorry for him, as he
brought his troubles on his own head through his want of truthfulness.
THE CLERGYMAN’S DAUGHTER IN PRESTSBAKKI.