Folktales From Norway

Folktales of Norway

It was often spoken of at the time, for this Siri had come here from the village. She was young and served at Kvam, and I remember her well from when she was at home in Gampeskjelplassen with her parents. When she lay in confinement the first time, a stranger woman came into the cabin and took the child—for she had recently delivered—and laid another in its place. Siri would up to have her child back again, and she tried with all her might, but she could not move from the spot, for she was paralyzed.

She wanted to scream for her aunt, who was outside, but she could not manage to open her mouth, and so frightened was she that she could not have been more frightened, even if they had stood over her with a knife. She did not know at all how to be rid of him, but then she decided to ask a woman who knew better, I would think, for she said that she should take the child and lay it on the rubbish heap and beat it with a decent birch switch, and she should do this three Thursday evenings in a row.

Yes, she did this, and the third Thursday evening, there came flying a woman over the barn roof, and the woman threw a child into a pile of sawdust, and took to herself her own. And how would it have happened that they should have switched it? They have no power, then—cross me, no then! But then there was a night she lay with the child before her in the bed, and her husband, he lay against the wall.

Just as they lay, he awoke, and there was a reddish light in the cabin, just as when one sits, raking through the embers. Yes, there was one sitting there, raking in the embers with the fire poker, too, for when the husband looked over there, there was an old man over by the hearth, raking in the embers, and he was so terrible that there was no end to it, and he had a long beard, too. When it was properly light, he began to reach and reach with his arms, after the child, but he could not come loose from the stool he sat on.

His arms, they grew so long, yes, so long that they reached out into the middle of the room, but from the hearth he could not come, and he could not reach the child. He sat like this for a long while, so the man was wholly terrified where he lay, and he knew not what he should do. Then he heard a noise by the window. It was the wife who stood there to receive it.

No, mother, it is rickets! I think there is some knocking on the wall. Oh God, Truls is coming back! She flew across and had the door open to take a look; but there was nothing to see but a tabby cat, which sat on the step, drying its wet paws after a spring hunt in an alder bush. Truls it was not, but on the wall in the sun sat a green woodpecker, pecking and hacking to awaken the sleepy insects from their winter hibernation. Just like that, it turned its head, as if it were looking for someone; but it expected nothing more than an April shower.

Last time he asked when you had been here, he grew so mad that there was no moderation, and then he said that I should have some shillings to go to the doctor with; he did not want to know about such nonsense and supernatural cures, for he is so well-learned. He does not believe in such, since he went around the village with the school master.

How was it when Gjertrud Kostebakken lay with death in her throat and in such pain of labour for the third day, do you think? He might just as well have not bothered, either, for when he came to those parts, the woman was dead. Go to the doctor for such a child with rickets, the devil would do so, yes. They cannot do anything for rickets, for their books say nothing about it; they have no helpful advice for the one who is sick, and they know it themselves, too, which is why they give neither powder, nor ill-tasting drinks, nor any such devilry for it.

No, there is no answer other than casting, but they do not know how to do it. Have we cast twice, then we can cast a third time, too, or it might go ill on the way. The child has rickets, but there are nine kinds of rickets in the world. Yes, yes, I have told you this, and you saw then that he had been subject to troll-rickets and water-rickets. For the first Thursday it was a man with two great horns and a long tail—that was troll-rickets.

Last time it was a mermaid—yes, you saw her just as she was depicted—that was water-rickets. But now it is Thursday again, and now we shall see what it will be when it is cast again. It is the third time that is decisive, you know. Then she took the snuff-horn and shook down into a casting spoon some of the lead she said she had collected with so much trouble. Over that was laid a slice of malt bread through which was bored a hole with a darning needle. When the slice of bread was removed, it was seen that the lead had formed into a couple of figures in the water.

The signing wife stared at them for a long time, and considered them, with her head on one side. Then she nodded and said:. First troll-rickets, then water-rickets, then corpse-rickets. One of them could have been enough! But when you came to the churchyard—was it before the cock crowed?

Look for yourself in the bowl there: But it depends on inherited silver. Do you have any inherited silver? She got what she wanted. A manikin was soon sewn together as a swaddled child. The signing wife arose, took the doll and her staff, and said:. The third Thursday from today I shall return—then we shall see. Then I will go north to Joramo. I have not been there for a long time, but they have sent word for me for a child who merely has troll-rickets; it is a small matter.

I shall drag him backwards beneath a strip of grass turf, and he shall return to folk. Preserve the cross, that is a long way away!

  • Broken Symmetry.
  • El prefacio de Francisco Vera (Spanish Edition).
  • Norwegian folk tales: More than fairytales.
  • Nature - Conduct of Life.
  • Folktales of Norway, Christiansen, Iversen.
  • Ozzy Osbourne Songbook: Guitar Play-Along Volume 70.

I never saw him, for he was dead and gone long before I was born, but my mother told me about him. He looked in his face like an old, weather-beaten fellow. In his eyes he was as red as a roach, and he stared in the dark like a tawny owl. He was constantly as hungry as a village dog; everything he saw he would eat, and he ate them nearly out of their house. The older he got, the meaner he grew, and there was no end to his screaming and crying; but never did they get him to speak a single word, even though he was old enough to. He was the most loathsome troll anyone had ever heard of, and they had such unspeakable trouble with him, both night and day.

They sought advice both here and there, too, and the woman was advised to do both this and that. She did not think that she had the heart to beat and strike him, however, before she was completely sure it was a changeling. But then there was one who taught her that she should say that the king was coming.

She should make up a warm fire in the hearth and break an egg. The shell she should put on the fire, and the stirring stick she should stick up the chimney. Yes, she did this. When the changeling saw it, he raised himself up in the cradle and glared at it. The woman went out and peeped through the keyhole. Then he crept out of the cradle on his hands, but his legs remained lying in it, and he stretched himself out, and he grew so long, so long that he reached across the cabin floor, right up to the hearth. Thursday evening, she took him out and beat him well and good on the rubbish heap, and then it cracked and sounded around her.

The second Thursday evening went the same way; but then she heard it say, as if beside her, and she understood it was her own child:. Then came a woman flying with a child, as if she were burned. The one referenced here appears to be Den Trondhjemske kongevei , which connects the two most important cities, Christiania now Oslo and Trondheim.

The Norwegian cunning folk were known as signefolk , where signe - denotes making the sign of the cross, a central feature of their cunning arts. The hulder-folk of Norway are a hidden folk, analogous to fairies in the lore of other regions. Instead of manipulating the wording, to retain the rhyming couplets of the original, I have chosen to maintain the lexical content of the rhyme. The Norwegian is as follows: Spring had fully arrived, down in the village, but as we came up the ridges, the snow lay deep in the sheltered hollows.

The evening was still comfortably mild, and the birds sang their spring songs in the woods. When we had reached the top, and had an unhindered view, the sun stood to go down, throwing its strong golden light up to the clear sky. But this sky did not rise above a happy and friendly landscape: We had not been here long after sundown before we heard a soughing flight and the heavy wingbeats of a bird buffeting its way in.

Two birds soon came soughing after, and landed without giving a sound. But then came one flying in with a heavier, even louder wingbeat, and when it landed, it began snapping its beak. Three more birds arrived, and for each one that landed, the old one began snapping its beak. Two of them made not a sound, but the third answered in the same tone. According to the brief sketch of him the captain had given me, when Per Sandaker had fallen a little behind for a bit, he was supposed to be strong in stories of troll birds, emissaries and subterraneans, and grew especially particular when he told of one or another of the eighteen bears he had shot in his time.

On the other hand, he kept quiet about the great number of times evil tongues had accused him of having missed. Reasonably enough, he feared that this rash and untimely question after so short an acquaintance should cause Per to become suspicious and quieten his tongue. Only after this manoeuvre has been performed does it sit up to gobble and drum. Such a display is unreasonable, and no one can come within shooting range.

Even more often, though, it uses another trick, which is much worse; it sits calmly, and gobbles and snaps, but before it drums, it moves over to another tree. Old Per has shot at it both with salt and with silver, but even though its feathers flew, it took no more notice of his sure rifle shot than of a blank. The next morning, it played just as lively, and as dissonant as before. And they were eager; they ran around him and stretched their necks and squatted down and made themselves attractive; but the bird sat on the stone slabs and puffed his chest out, strutting like a Spanish count.

But I thought it fun to watch him. But then there was a game!

BUY MY BOOK!

Mar 16, Harry Casey-Woodward rated it really liked it Shelves: Less well-known, but the subject of an enormous number of legends, are the more manlike yet sinister " huldre -folk" who live in houses and try to woo human girls. The echo repeated the noise manifold times between the hills, and our hearts swelled in pleasure at the sound of the ringing hunt in the morning sunshine. I never saw him, for he was dead and gone long before I was born, but my mother told me about him. Just like that, it turned its head, as if it were looking for someone; but it expected nothing more than an April shower. Seven long years I served for thee, the hill of glass I crossed for thee, the shirt of blood I washed for thee; Oh, won't thou wake and look at me?

The old one raised his tail in the air, and his beard stuck out like the teeth of a carder, and then he ground his beak so that the sound went straight through me. And the other, he replied—he was no less the fellow, believe me. But then the old one rushed at him, and when they struck their beaks and wings together, it sounded so loudly that it echoed through the forest. Then I took aim as quickly as I could.

Really, I thought, if you are so calm yet, then you shall be mine. I reloaded and was about to aim at him, but then he got up and flew off; but if he was more than ten paces from me then let me never shoot a bird more in my time. It was an old pine he perched on.

And then he began to display, display for real this time. When he began on the fourth movement, I was within range. He sat far down on a branch, in towards the pine trunk. Now you shall be mine, I thought, for I had cut up a silver florin and made a bullet. When I fired, he flew just as straight, even though the feathers flew off him. Nothing bites at that fellow! And such a bird, too! He is the most wondrous animal one may see. But I would like to kill it, to make an end of this loose display that it has so often dragged us by the nose with.

On several occasions I have gone after it, without discovering its display. I have also shot at it a couple of times, but at such range that there was little chance of hitting it. It really is, as Per says, a strange bird, the old capercaillie. I had dogs with me for coursing.

One afternoon as I stood in the kitchen ready to go out to try the evening hunting, one of the tenants came in. What kind of talk is that? Is there no proper dog here? I ran hither and thither—it was not difficult to find a spot—and I shot at it several times, but there was nothing but miss after miss. Finally it sat before me by a spruce bush forty paces away. I shot and went quite confidently forward to pick it up; but when I reached the spruce bush, there was no hare to see, there was nothing but a log and a rag. The following day, I cleaned my gun, for it was dirty and full of gunpowder residue.

As I was doing so, the tennant came. But now I shall give you some advice. It was early one morning. The dogs had hardly been loosed before the here was on its legs. I raised the gun to my cheek and fired. It fell on the spot, and it was a big jack, full of scars and scratches; it had no more than an ear and a half.

There were many who went after him and shot at him, but they never got the best of him before this infernal Sara-Anders came there. He shot him, for he is just everywhere, you understand. It was unfortunate we saw his snowshoe tracks, for he can never wait, like other folk, until the bird has finished its real lek.

But tell me, was it he who shot the troll hare inn towards Kristiania, like you told, once upon a time? No, it was a shooter from town, called Brande-Lars. He still lives in a small cabin beneath the hills just below Grefsen. I met him at Halland once, when he was hunting with some city folk. He was a strange figure, but an excellent shot. He nearly never missed when he was shooting hares, and he could take out fleeing birds, like the captain does. But then there was the hare the captain was talking about. He told me about it, and a lot more. There I loosed Rapp, and he drove him so that the hill squeaked and whistled.

I took my post on an old charcoal heap there. When he had taken a turn, then the hare came right past me. I shot, but I missed, and then it went off at full tilt. But I wanted to see it once more first. Well, he came for the third time, too, and I shot and missed, and both of the other dogs were there, but they did not give it their all. Well, I took him and hung him up by his hind legs from a crooked birch to gut him. And the dogs licked and slurped the blood off the ground.

So I took him with me, but wherever I went, I went wrong, and all the while, the blood flowed from him. I came back to the same crooked birch again, twice. This was certainly fun! But when something is wrong, then it is often very wrong! Well, I will let the dogs find the way, then; and so I did!

But then I came down to some outcrops of rock, and old mother was outside. She stood right in front of some young birches, up by a small birch holt, with a scarf on her head, wearing a leather tunic and black skirt, and she leaned against a walking-stick, and she looked like a wife from up in the country. There I loosed the dogs, and straightway they caught a scent. Rapp took off, and I stood listening for a while, wondering whether the others would join in, for they were going over to Linderudsetra again, and I was simply aghast.

Well, I could hear all three of them barking, and so I knew that it was a proper hare. It was the devil of a long run it made; but when he came about, he traipsed up the hill like a young foal, and when I saw him, he was almost the size of a small billy goat.

There they went out again, and then we went there in a noisy run up towards Linderudsetra again—for they had to go past there with him. At length they returned. So I shot it. Then I had three. You have certainly not been such a bad-looking fellow in your time, Per Sandaker! You could have been happy. You should tell us what you know; this city man is a fool for such stories. Away there are manifold old claims, and there is so much silver and wealth in the rocks that there is no end to it, they say.

But it is not easy to get any of it, for in the outcrop lives an old rock woman. She owns it altogether, and sits upon it like a dragon—so they say. She is much richer than the King of Kongsberg; for when they had mined so much silver at Kongsberg, once, then the king came out into the mine and said to the folk: For if you continue in such manner, I will become a poor man; you are turning me into a beggar.

No, move to my sister, Guri Knutan in Holleia; she is ten times richer than I am. I told him the legend of the King of Ekeberg and how he moved, and what he said in , that he would move to his brother at Kongsberg, because he could not stand all the shooting and parading there was there. But he was from the mark here. Early one morning around the time of St.

When she saw all these riches, it was as if she turned completely crazy; she got to her feet and flew home, for she would fetch a vessel and take it all home. But when she returned, it was gone, every single bit. There was not so much as a gleaming silver florin; she saw nothing but the clear water running over the stones. A while afterwards, when they began to dig copper mines in the Skein mark, there was such noise and blasting and rumbling all the time, constantly, so that there was no peace at any time.

Then she met a large man on a great black horse—he was following a whole train of moving goods and was driving some flocks of sheep and other livestock. If you had been satisfied with what you could carry in your skirt, then you could have had it? Else you may still come across some trolls. Once in a while the captain gave us a hunting story as best he could, which often contained the pointed reference to one or another of the bears Per had missed, and on each occasion the shooter made his gruff face assume the attitude of a holiday, and scratched himself behind his ear; sometimes he winked significantly with one eye and said: At midnight, we lay down to sleep by the fire on a couple of benches, and had a short rest.

When we awoke Per said that it was time to go to the lek. It was quite cold out, there was a frozen crust on the snow, so that it crunched underfoot. But the sky was almost like in the spring, clear and dark blue, with some whitish clouds that slowly sailed in from the south, forecasting that the cold nights would soon be gone. The moon stood low down by the brow of the day: The sun display will be nothing but beautiful. Just listen to the woodcock, so freshly she rattles and scuffs; she is expecting good weather.

  • The Human Adrenal Cortex: Pathology and Biology — An Integrated Approach?
  • Norwegian folk tales: More than fairytales | Norwegian Arts.
  • (3 BOOK BUNDLE) Beginners Handbook of Knitting Stitches and How to Knit Scarves and How to Knit Socks: Learn How to Knit Quick and Easy.
  • Shot in the Dark : A Dark Steel Novel.
  • Norwegian Folktales by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen;
  • 40 Weeks of Pregnancy?

There the snipe bleats, too. This will be good! The wild, piercing shriek of the heron cut through the other birds; it was as if they trembled in fear, for they fell suddenly silent every time it sounded—it was a silence that made the interruption doubly uncanny. Let us now stop a little here; we are not far from the birds to arrive last yesterday; if we go closer, we night easily scare them.

The captain gave me the choice between walking in the direction of where are had heard the bird displaying, or more northwards, where he thought the young birds sat. I chose the former; the captain went northwards. Per and I crept torwards the bird and sought with the utmost care to avoid scraping and breaking twigs. When we heard the bird screech, we stopped a moment, but during each following screech or drumming, immediately after that it had finished its gobbling, we ran two or three paces forwards. During the snapping and the gobbling, we naturally stood perfectly still.

When we in this manner had approached the tree in which it sat, at fouty or fifty paces, we heard a bird come flying noisily into the tree. The sound of bills and wings that clashed together, told us that the old one had paid his visit to the strange co-suitor at the crack of dawn. During the struggle, we ran a few paces forward, but soughing wingbeats bore witness to the flight of the stranger, and of an easy victory for the old one.

Now it was quiet for a while; but there cackled a hen, and immediately the bird began to play; it drummed and gobbled; but when we lifted our feet to run at it, it spread its wings and moved to another tree, There it again began its disappointing display. It does no good in the kingdoms of the world to go up against him; you may just as well go up against a flock of clouds. No, let us go a little farther northwards; there are more birds sitting there, and perhaps one of them dares lift its bill, even though they are afraid of this beast—would the devil had him!

But we did not hear a single bird displaying. We went out onto the moor towards the pine. Per did not much want to do so and gave voice to his dissent; he mumbled in fragmented sentences to himself: When we had come to the knoll on the other side of the frozen moor, and I saw the scant area the bird had to be felled on if it, as we thought it would, lighted in the pine top, I took the shot out of my gun and loaded it with a shotgun cartridge of steel wire.

Per watched this, shook his head and expressed his lack of confidence with a:. The outcrop we stood on lay as a small island in the midst of the great moor. Highest up on the island rose the mentioned pine, a matchless mast tree, full of woodpecker holes. On the east end of the knoll stood another pine, which had been just as mighty. But now it leaned over the moor; the storm had broken its top off, and only the two bottommost branches remained, almost naked, and like muscular giant's arms they stretched out towards the clear silver morning day.

The sun began to rise; it gilded the ridges of the hills and eventually lent its light out across the dark spurce ridges. On the other side of the moor a capercaillie displayed in the tops. Meanwhile, we stood hidden in a juniper scrub on the small knoll, expecting the bird at any moment; but the old one dwelt for a long time in his harem. Finally, as the rays of the sun gilded the pine tops, it came soughing upon heavy wing beats, and threw itself, not as we had expected into the tall tree above us, but into the topless pine that hung out over low moor.

It was in truth a magnificent bird, a proud champion, as it sat there on the naked branch against the sky, with its glossy light-green breast in the light from the sun. A hen came afterwards and cast itself down in the top above our heads. At the same moment the bird began to display; it extended its wattles, dragged its wings behind its feet, took some steps along the branch as it made waving movements with its neck, and began thereafter to display, spreading its tail out like a mighty wheel.

I stood with my finger on the hammer, and waited tensely for the decisive moment when it should spread its wings to fly, so that I would have a larger target to aim at—it was necessary at such a great distance. But the hen continued to cackle, the capercaillie played his display until the end, and had already to gobble in the new one, when a twig cracked beneath my foot. Awakened by the warning wing beats, the old one took off to escape.

But my gun was raised, and the mighty bird fell head first down on to the moor. Per ran to it and picked it up, and there a shadow of amazement passed across his face, soon replaced by a satisfied, admiring grin. He shook his head and said:. I know it by its bill: Look how green his breast is; it almost gleams! And so heavy and big he is! No, the captain will certainly be happy… Ho, ho, over here!

The captain soon appeared on the moor, accompanied by the boy, who had been with him, looking after the dogs. Each of them carried a capercaillie. Per lifted our prize in triumph, and called from a great distance:. Included also are the wonderfully evocative original illustrations of Erik Werenskiold and Theodor Kittelsen. Published August 12th by Pantheon Books first published To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Norwegian Folktales , please sign up. Lists with This Book. Sep 21, Chris rated it it was amazing Shelves: My edition of this book is yellow and worn.

It's a wonderful book. Totally unedited tales, including one where a man murders his wife. In fact, and this is horrible to say, that tale is rather funny. Puss in the Norwegian tale is a nice female cat. This ma My edition of this book is yellow and worn. This makes the tale closer to the the older Italian form, but without the rather cycnical ending that tale offers. It also makes me wonder why Puss is most often, at least today, a tom. Most of the women in the collection are princesses in need of rescuing, though some construct tests for their would be lovers.

Navigation menu

The tale transends the standard feel of death that many children have, and says more about pity and piety than most other tales. Though, I do have to wonder about the view of the princess in it, especially towards the end. All in all a charming collection. Sep 11, Adam rated it it was amazing Shelves: What the Grimm brothers did for central Europe, these two authors did for the Land of the Midnight Sun.

Norwegian Folktales

Grotesque, chilling, and far from civilized, these tales are the weird sort of formative influences that only the luckiest people encounter as children. And just as memorable are the book's fantastic illustrations. There are basically two genres of stories here, as noted in Pat Shaw's introduction: The old women usually kept to deep, mystic or eerie themes, while the men best related humorous, sometimes bawdy, stories. Personally, though, I most enjoyed the old wives tales, and some of the best of these are: Some of the stories are rather savage, and most of them are based on repetition resulting in copy-pasted passages , but it's all part of the charm.

Only one story left me puzzled - I couldn't find the moral of the story in the one about a woman who always did everything contrary, and against the flow. Incorrect information is given in the book description. Oris Forlag not Orlis Forlag is the publisher, not the author. I particularly liked White Bear King Valemon with its echoes of the English folkt Incorrect information is given in the book description.

I particularly liked White Bear King Valemon with its echoes of the English folktale The Black Bull of Norroway even though it doesn't have that most wonderful of laments: Seven long years I served for thee, the hill of glass I crossed for thee, the shirt of blood I washed for thee; Oh, won't thou wake and look at me?

The other satisfying story was Askeladden and the Good Helpers: And in this story they are assigned as helpers to an adventurous youngest son who, at home, doesn't do much other than play in the ashes. It was well worth the price and then some. This is a wonderful little hardback of 35 Norwegian Folk tales that are beautifully illustrated. Some of the stories are similar and there is quite a bit of Christian references through them. My favourite tale was 'The Ram and the Pig who went into the woods to live by themselves' which has some wonderful lines such as 'with chat and quack one builds neither house nor shack.

What you learn from folk tales is that you do not offer to share your meal the consequences can be dire and that being poor is never a barrier to finding a Princess as a wife. These are fun and enjoyable. Jun 01, Kaitlin rated it really liked it Shelves: A solid collection of folk tales from a region not often included in popular fairy tales. The language is sometimes a little stilted, but that could be due to the translator's desire to stick to a more literal translation.

I like seeing the similarities between these stories and more well known versions from other regions. The themes and common phrases used in Norwegian folk tales really jump out when you read so many back-to-back. For example, the Ash Lad is a common hero in these stories. Usual A solid collection of folk tales from a region not often included in popular fairy tales. Usually the youngest of three, the Ash Lad is the seemingly useless son who pokes around in the ashes and embers.

However, he's the one with a pure heart and quick wit who is able to defeat the Trolls and marry the princess in the end. View all 3 comments. Reading it as goodnight stories to my kids proved to be a succes. I enjoyed the stories very much. Some of the stories were quite funny. Apr 07, Lotte rated it it was amazing. Such a nice collection of Norwegian folktales. I enjoyed this little collection ver much. I'm very interested in fairy tales and how similar ones may be found all over the world.

Two of the tales in here, I had read as a child I suspect that you have all read the Town Mouse and the Country Mouse. The other tales I hadn't read, although some of them bear the same pattern as some of the Grimm brothers' collection of tales. Th I enjoyed this little collection ver much.

They were great fun to read and you can learn a little folklore along the way, mostly regarding trolls. If you like fairytales and folklore you won't be disappointed. Jan 03, Rebecca Grace rated it really liked it Shelves: The similarites and overlaps in the fairy tale traditions of different cultures are so interesting. My son, who had previously read the Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales, said, "Some are kind of the same, but the Norwegian fairy tales have trolls, and the youngest brother always wins, and he's always an Ash Lad.

Mar 30, J. Scandinavian folklore is markedly different in tone from the Franco-Germanic tradition that has been adopted by the English-speaking world; its tales of many-headed trolls finds more in common with the Russian stories of many-headed dragons than either tradition has with those of the countries in between. I loved reading about old Norwegian culture.

You can picture yourself on the farms and in the woods imagining trolls lurking around and thinking of the rich farmers as kings with beautiful princesses living there. Oct 31, Aldean rated it really liked it Shelves: I have read back and forth through this book so many times it is almost ridiculous. A marvelous collection of tales, some epic, some droll, almost all of them entertaining. There are tales here to while away many a winter's evening, as we often did throughout my childhood.

This little book is a true gem I bought during my trip in Norway past May. It's full of small stories which reminded me a lot of the Norwegian version of Grimm Brothers fairy tales. The stories aren't long and the book is so small, it makes a very quick read.