The White City E-Book

Unna Hvid

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Modern Tales of the North
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 37

Beschreibung

"The light from the windows leaves the man's face in shadow, but as he leans forward and gives me his hand in greeting, I feel a jolt inside me. His body is scarred with burns everywhere I can see. The hands, the arms, the neck, the face, the head. The scars on his face look like old Celtic tatoos that wrap themselves around the eyes, across the forehead and down over the cheeks and chin. If it had not been so gruesome, it would have been beautiful." ""Why would I visit museums when I have the whole of history written in my face? Can't you read it?" Suddenly the scars begin to move under my fingers, they become like little snakes and dragons staring at me with small eyes. They twist around Ragnvald's face and round my hands, up my arms. They hiss softly,incitingly, almost melodically. Ragnvald's black eyes hold my gaze, and I sense a burning behind them and in the room around us. I am spellbound." The White City is a short story from Stavanger, Norway in both past and present. From the 12,400-year-old polar bear from Finnøy to the modern-day oil industry. Not forgetting "the ladies' man" of the Viking Age's, Harald Fairhair, who united Norway. The story is based on Stavanger's history and folklore and is inspired by sagas, folk tales, folk beliefs and museum exhibitions and publications. Maybe the story also explains the city name, Stavanger, and the white colour of the houses? "The White City" is the second volume in a planned series of modern folk tales from all the Nordic countries. Volume 1 with the title "The Salmon King" is from Gøtugjógv in the Faroe Islands. The series is published in English and Danish. The series is colourfully illustrated by Unna Hvid

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

RAGNVALD HARALDSSON

MAYDAY

HARALD FAIRHAIR

FIRE AND BLOODAXE

ROGA AND THE WHITE BEAR

A POLAR BEAR SLEEPING

SOURCES OF INSPIRATION

RAGNVALD HARALDSSON

I cycle along Øvre Strandgate in Old Stavanger. I concentrate, because the narrow streets are paved with large stones, and I am not used to the fast but heavy electric City bike. Here in the month of August, there are colourful flowerpots and rose beds, which give life to the white wooden houses and narrow alleys with a view down to the water in Vågen. Valberget rises like a stick on the other side, where the city guards once could look out from the tower for fire in the city.

I have just been to the Oil Museum on Kjeringholmen, and now I am on my way to visit an elderly couple in Old Stavanger, where the man has worked in the oil industry for many years. I find the right address and park the bike in front of the well-kept wooden house. Then I take the few steps up to the door and knock.

The woman who opens the door is dressed entirely in white material which, I think, is wool, although it seems fluffy and shiny. She is old but beautiful and elegant and her bright blue gaze is friendly. Her hair is long and chalky white, the way it only becomes if it has been very dark in the past. It moves slightly in the light breeze from the door. I immediately feel awkward and embarrassed by my casual attire and the heat of the bike ride, which manifests itself in red cheeks and clammy wet skin.

"Welcome," she says and introduces herself as Ingebjørn Herløg. She lets me know that her husband is waiting in the living room. Then she grabs hold of my sleeve and whispers to me: "My husband is looking forward to talking to you, but you should know that he is a very old man, and he gets easily confused. I'm going to try to help a little, but maybe you can just ignore it if not everything he says makes sense? He is a proud man.”

"Of course," I reply with a little smile, but I feel slightly disappointed. I had hoped for a good credible tale, not a lot of nonsense.

With a gesture she shows me the way. Indoors too, everything is white and made of natural materials. The only colours come from a pair of large, beautiful tapestries.

"Frida Hansen, a famous local artist," says Ingebjørn and smiles at my admiration of the tapestries.

The smell of coffee and freshly baked bread wafts closer. The coffee is on the table along with the bread in front of the armchair where the man is sitting. I am offered a seat on the sofa opposite. From here I can also look out into the small garden and down to Vågen and Strand-kaien.

The light from the windows leaves the man's face in shadow, but as he leans forward and gives me his hand in greeting, I feel a jolt inside me. His body is scarred with burns everywhere I can see. The hands, the arms, the neck, the face, the head.

"Ragnvald Haraldsson," he says, and his handshake is strong and firm despite his age, which is indefinable if only because of the scarred skin. His eyes are so dark that they are almost black, and there is a depth in them that makes my gaze move out to his curly ears and up to the scarred and hairless scalp. The scars on his face look like old Celtic tattoos that wrap themselves around the eyes, across the forehead and down over the cheeks and chin. If it had not been so gruesome, it would have been beautiful. But the smile is radiant with strong white teeth, where I might have expected a more yellow and worn-out old man’s grin. The roughnecks I have encountered in my life have looked weather-beaten, ravaged by sun and wind, tobacco, and lack of sleep. Maybe it's dentures, I think to myself.

"Thank you for having me," I begin the conversation, "I have been told that you were involved in the two accidents on the Ekofisk field in 1977 and 1980, is that right? I would very much like to hear your story about it if I may?” I try to decide if it is okay to ask if that is how he got his terrible burns.