A Scandinavian Tale

Every once and a while, when the moon is bright and the trees reach with their skeletal limbs in a fruitless attempt to take it, clattering like bones in the night, fingers, reaching - Every once and a while, when a night is still and silent like the depths of the earth, the bowels of a grave, the silence of the dead - Every once and a while, time itself blurs and twists into strings of fate, ways between worlds open to those who know them, and the Vættir walk the paths of mortals in an instant that happens only once a year, once in a lifetime, once only for those who dare venture beyond the veil.

But nonetheless, mortals still take the journey, that day between years, full of smokeless illusions and truthful visions. The future of your life is revealed in the cloak of the Goat, in the images of the constellations that scatter the sky of its lining.

Beware his truths, the ones that mislead. Beware his lies, the ones that succeed. Beware, you who dares to trespass the realm of the unknown, for the Goat is indifferent to your horrors.

It is a particular man whom this tale is about. His future was foretold in the folds of the Goat's cloak, in that star-spattered void. He was a man of the Earth, a hunter, a man who was unafraid to take the light from a beast's eyes, the meat from its body, the hide from its corpse. His hands were stained with the rust of flesh, devoured for his survival

Once, in this story of his, he lived in the far north, near the end of the world in a dense forest of leafless trees and whispering ghosts, where endless fields of snow lay like shining mounds of glistening dull light.

Deer roam in those parts, bucks of racks with as many points a rose thorns. Wolves prowl those lands, teeth as sharp as needles. Bears haunt those woods, blind and fearsome as ghosts of vengeance. Ice encases that land, blue and chilling, and glaciers peak between the fjords and valleys near the ocean - a great thing that rumbles and hisses with each freezing wave, a death and boon to many.

It is a beautiful land, a dangerous land, as empty as the bottom of an old well, as bountiful as the sea. If you don't treat your life there with the utmost care, you will die, frozen and alone, as many have before, and as many will.

This particular man lived in a cabin of timber and brick, under a roof of thatch. A smoke house sat within a clearing like an old man, and an outhouse stank in another. His father and grandfather had built the house together, but now he was the only occupant, alone.

His cabin, isolated as it was, was the only home within miles. The nearest village was half a day away, and it was tiny, with only a miller, some farmers and their families, and the goatsmaid who sold milk, cheese, and room in her barn with the goats, if she was willing to pity the rare traveler. He was in love with this goatsmaid, a beautiful woman by the name of Kjirsten, fair and lovely. Her red lips were the color of fresh blood, her hair as golden as the sun. Her fine eyebrows quirked at every amusement, and her laugh was the tinkling of tiny bells. Many had tried to woo her, and all had failed, but for some strange reason, the hunter was an object of interest to her. Every major occasion, as the festivities died down and the villagers grew more and more drunk on celebration and mead, they would hide in her barn and kiss until the sun rose. No one knew of their hidden relationship, save for their goats, who were the only witnesses of their love.

Now, the land was in deep winter at the time of our story - the snow was thicker deep than the roofs of some village buildings, and horse travel was near impossible. The New Year was approaching, along with a storm, and the people were preparing for a holiday inside the safety of their homes and near the warmth of their hearths, close to family and close to heart. They would tell tales of the feats of their ancestors, of heroes, and of gods. They would tell fables, superstitions, tall tales. Stories would be told of the Vættir, the children of Eve who hid from God because of their dirtiness, who are cursed to forever be bound to the earth. The huldra, the beautiful woman in the deep forest who lures men to their deaths. The myling, the remaining soul of an unbaptized child who forever asks for a burial. The fylgja, a shapeshifting dæmon who watches over young children and youths. All are of the earth, of the other side of the known, in the shadows of humanity. They lurk in the forests, in caves, in the hidden nooks of homes. They aren't good, and they aren't evil, but somewhere in between - between worlds, between realities, between above and below the earth and seas. Morally ambiguous is what they are, and care and caution must be used when dealing with them. They never lie, and they never tell the truth - everything is in question with them, their intentions, their feelings, their goals. Watch carefully what they tell you, always carry iron, and never, never tell them your real name.