The Daughter of the Black Book Priest E-Book

Unna Hvid

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Modern Tales of the North
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 76

Beschreibung

The Daughter of the Black Book Priest is a Lofoten tale about Agnete, who as a young girl inadvertently reveals something to her farther that gets her mother burnt alive. Her father spares Agnete, but when she a few years later happens to evoke "The Ugly One" by reading aloud from the Black Book, Agnete has to leave her home. She ends up on Værøy determined to never tell anyone about who she is or what her mother taught her. Nevertheless, she must fight puffin dogs and the pursuits of Monrad, Mr Oluf's eldest son, who brings feelings of entitlement with him home from Bergen, where he works. In the air over Værøy, the sea eagles circle, and in the small fishing village next to Mr Oluf's house lives a man with a special relationship to Utrøst, the island that sank into the sea. The Daughter of the Black Book Priest is the third independent story in the series Modern Tales of the North. The first volume is from the Faroe Islands and the second from Stavanger.

Leseprobe

Contents

FRØYA AND FOLKVANG

THE DAUGHTER OF THE BLACK BOOK PRIEST

TRAVELLING WITH RANDRINA

THE PUFFIN DOGS

ISAKS GOOD FORTUNE IN FISHING

MR MONRAD

THE DEATH OF MR OLUF

ASLE AND THE MOSKENES STREAM

LAND OF EAGLES

SOURCES OF INSPIRATION

FRØYA AND FOLKVANG

In the cosy dark cave-like room, the red stick figures known as petroglyphs are dancing on the walls, flickering in the glow of candles. Some of the red figures are tall and thin with outstretched arms and movement in the legs. They have horns instead of heads. On one hand they have five fingers, on the other only four. Other figures are smaller and denser with legs akimbo. It looks like they're running. Two large carved wooden figures stand at the entrance, commanding the room. One has short hair and a beard. His penis covers the entire torso. The other figure has long but artfully set hair and a piece of jewellery with a golden symbol on the chest. The room is warm, and it smells of something I know well. Cinnamon. It's cinnamon.

"Can I help you?" A woman stands in front of me with a gentle and questioning look. Her pale face contrasts with the dark room. Her hair is long, dark, and wavy with streaks of grey. Her eyes are green as summer grass and her energy is strong and clear as the air over the Vestfjord outside the door. She is dressed in jeans and various layers of thin wool in light blue shades. It's hard to place her by age, but she's over 40, I’d guess.

“Yeah, um, a coffee, and maybe you have time to tell me about those drawings on the walls? And the guy with the big Thorshammer over there,” I say with a nod to the wooden figure and a laugh. She laughs too:

"It's Frøj, but he's only there for the sake of balance. It is his twin sister, Frøya, the great Vanir goddess, we pay homage to here. Didn't you see the sign outside? You have come to Folkvang. If you want to know more, you can come back at three o'clock, when it's not so busy here.” She takes my coffee order and turns away.

I take out my computer and open my programs. I had intended to look over my notes from the interview with a researcher at Nordland Research, who is working on certifying Lofoten as a sustainable travel destination. We must find a greener way of travelling, she had said and added: The time of the weekend Northern-Lights tourist must come to an end. We cannot base our future tourist industry on the fossil-intensive consumer who flies here or arrives by cruise ship. We must focus on slow travel, and the journey must be part of the experience. She also tells me that the scenarios Lofoten faces in the not-too-distant future, include a snow-free winter, meter higher tidal waters, stronger storms that tear the beautifully renovated fishing huts, the rorbua, to pieces, increased rainfall, and loss of biodiversity. I can see the seriousness of the situation. That's why I'm here.

But still, something else has caught my attention now. I have a sip of my coffee and begin to Google Frøya and Folkvang.

Many cups of coffee and many notes later the woman sits down at my table:

"You wanted to know something about the drawings on the wall?" she asks before introducing herself as Bergljot.

"Yes," I reply, even though it's hard to tear myself away from the computer. Nevertheless, I gladly accept the fresh waffles she also puts in front of me. With jam. Their scent brings a smile to my face.

“These are cave paintings from Trenyken, one of the five large bird cliffs on Røst. It's a bit of a sacred place for many of us. There are some who say that Trenyken is the altarpiece for a large sacred space under Røst, and that it is Utrøst, the island that sank into the sea. The island with the original divine inhabitants of Lofoten. Or the island of the Hulde people. People do not completely agree on that,” she laughs. “On Trenyken there is a cave called Helvete, and it has paintings from the Bronze Age - the ones you see on the walls here in my cafe. Note that the big ones only have nine fingers, it is a particularly lucky trait to be born with nine fingers, you know. They also have horns - another sacred feature. Do you like them?"

"Yes, very much, they are amazing. Is it possible to go and see them?”

"No, they are protected, and so are the colonies of birds that breed there." She smiles again. "We have to take care of our nature; it is what we live off of."

“And what can you tell me about Frøya? I searched online for a bit. I had never heard that Frøya actually took half of the fallen warriors with her to Folkvang, while Odin took the other half to Valhalla."

"Yes," Bergljot laughs, "how can that be?" I laugh along with her. There is no need for an explanation.

"Frøya means Mistress. In both meanings of the word. Frøya is a ruler as well as a lover. But she has many nicknames, including Mardoll - the one who shines over the sea. She also has a golden suit of feathers, so she can become a falcon and fly high over the islands and keep an eye on all her lovers," Bergljot laughs again, so that her green eyes sparkle and the pale face comes alive. I find it difficult to take my eyes off her. "She was not just the goddess of love, but the goddess of sejd, or magic - the deep knowledge of life and death. It was she who taught both gods and humans to use sejd. Unfortunately, it was an art that frightened both the church and many ordinary people up here. Maybe because it was mostly women who practiced sejd. They were called witches, and many had to pay for it with their lives.” Bergljot looks at me in silence with eyes that examine me closely:

"Well, if you are interested, I have something you might like to read. But you must promise to take really good care of it. It is a tale that mothers have told to daughters for many generations in my family, and eventually my great-grandmother put it down on paper. She worked right here in this building. It was a hospital then. During the great seasonal fisheries, the fishermen lived in overcrowded rorbuer and, naturally, contracted typhus, diphtheria, or scarlet fever. Yes, and frostbite at sea. The hospital here was one of the first of its kind, and my greatgrandmother was known as a very capable nurse. People came to her from near and far, and not just the fishermen. It was a good thing that they had just stopped burning such women at the stake,” she adds through her winter-crisp laughter.

The snow makes a crunching sound under my boots as I walk down to my tourist rorbua with a pile of papers in a box under my arm. The sun has long since gone down the same place it rose a few hours ago, but the sky still has remnants of red, yellow, orange and violet, and the snow lights up the coloured wooden houses from below. Warm yellow light pours out from everywhere around me, as evidence of life in the small fishing village.

THE DAUGHTER OF THE BLACK BOOK PRIEST

One day I went for a walk on the beach with my father. As always, I walked a few steps behind him and tried to keep up with his pace. We usually walked in silence because my father was immersed in his own thoughts, unless he spoke to me in a way that made it difficult to participate in the conversation. Either he produced long explanations and teachings about something he thought was important, or he told long stories from bygone times. The latter I liked, but it annoyed me that there was never room to ask, let alone tell anything. At one point we saw a boat coming in towards the beach and I grabbed the opportunity:

"Dad, I can make that boat capsize!" I said, pointing to the water.

"No, I do not think you can," replied my father shaking his head.

"Yes, I can," I insisted, feeling a well-known rise of blood to my cheeks. "I can also get cows to give blood instead of milk!" I looked up proudly at my father, but the look I met was not what I expected.

My father was a priest and had a reputation for being one of the best at handling the Black Book. There were many of the priests in the old