Lögberg-Heimskringla - 09.10.1992, Blaðsíða 4

4 • Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 9. október 1992
A Fey Land: lcGland’s Mythica!
By Jane Bendetson, New York
Acertain place still casts spells of
wonder, enchantment, remin-
ders of a time when everyone
knew Giants and Hidden People,
Dwarfs and Trolls, Little People and
gods, when magic was unquestioned.
For a moment, I, too, felt, heard them
and would have seen if my eyes were a
more farseeing blue.
One soft gray, Icelandic day, I sat
beside a stream that tumbled far from
its waterfall source. Rocks created four
water cascades which chattered with
effervescent energy in different voices:
a violin, a cello, a whole string quartet,
while, high above, the great falls
crescendoed in symphonic grandeur.
Water music everywhere, conversa-
tions. Across the stream was a small
opening in the rocks where the Little
People lived. Undoubtedly they came
with the original Viking settlers. I’m
sure they knew I knew they were
there, because the music was filled
with wonder as time stopped.
Coming from Scandinavian ances-
tors, I’ve always known the Little
People: Tomten in Swedish, Nissen in
Norwegian and Danish. When I was a
child, I made them new clothes at
Christmas. Now, I make them a gin-
gerbread house for the foyer table so
they, and their carved effigies, will
have a special, sweet place to live dur-
ing the holidays. To leave out one
piece of the ritual might jeopardize
their good will and invite chaos for the
coming year. The Little People can be
very mischievous.
Magic abounds where mushrooms
and toadstools are as magnificent as
they are in Iceland. Rainbow colors
glow amidst the persistent gray: bril-
liant yellows and golds, sensual
browns and siennas, delicate off-
whites, small mushrooms, huge, all
shapes and sizes displayed among the
rocks and tundra. The Little People
use them as rain shelters and places to
gather. Once, I came upon a large
clear area of vivid green moss. In the
center, a perfect circle of scarlet mush-
rooms with white polka dots lay, a
stage for celebrations and games, festi-
vals and fairs, parliaments and parties.
I did not cross their land.
Tiny triangular shelters for eider
ducks perch on the islands in fjords
and bays, built to protect the precious
down that lines the nests from blowing
away as lightly as a dream. They are a
human enterprise. The instant the
ducks leave, the down is gathered to
be sold for quilts. From the shore, the
little houses may appear empty, but
they never are. The sea gulls bring the
Little People who glean the nests for
whatever careless humans overlook.
Of course, the dwellings are used for
other purposes as well — retreats for
lovers, picnic spots, daydreaming.
In this land, the supematural influ-
ences every part of human life, even
the seat of government. At Þingvellir
stones whorl like burls of prehistoric
trees and cliffs plunge in chasms to the
valley below. A savage place. The gods
themselves must have chosen it in 930
A.D. for the Alþing to assemble, that
first parliament north of the Alps.
Vikings never had a reputation for
pacifism, but long before more sophis-
19th century family listens to a reading by the hearth.
ticated countries like England and
France thought of equality, Iceland,
had a representative government. In
Nordic harshness, even violent men
became equal when faced with so hos-
tile a land; each had his own voice as
he went to the Speaker’s Rock, which
faces the hillside where the members
sat. High above, Óðinn, the all-
embracing god of poetry, ecstasy and
death, sat with Muninn and Huginn,
the birds of memory and thought,
weighing the actions of his people.
They gathered from around the coun-
try to settle disputes, arrange mar-
riages, enact laws, test themselves in
tournaments of strength under the
watchful eyes of Óðinn, Þór, Baldur,
Freyr, and the rest of the pantheon.
There a valley spreads around Þing-
vallavatn, the largest lake in the coun-
try, where, in Viking times, families
camped, celebrating their release after
the long night of winter. The ancient
Sagas, those tales of heroes and bat-
tles, treachery and revenge, live once
more. Although, long ago, a chieftain
threw his household gods into the
magnificent waterfall, Goðafoss, and
became a Christian as ordered, the
gods will always be here even though
the Alþing now meets in Reykjavík,
the capital. But the gods leave their
marks everywhere, not just at Þingvel-
lir.
Once when Óðinn rode in the
north, the imprint of his horse’s hoof
created the echoing rocks of
Hljóðaklettar. The valley is absolutely
flat, and the curve of the surrounding
cliffs is that of a hoof the size of an
animal Óðinn would have ridden
here. Nestled within the usually bar-
ren landscape, a vcrdant national park
surrounds a small lake where the
sounds of voices ricochet, accompa-
nied by waterfalls. Serene mystery per-
vades as ducks float from one side of
the lake to another with the Little
People aboard. But, perhaps, it is the
home of the Hidden People instead.
Some Icelanders claim Hidden
People and Elves are the same, while
others claim vast differences; but all
know they inhabit “enchanted places,”
which often impede progress. Roads
are diverted around them at the insis-
tence of the local residents, who will
not disrupt the ways of the Hidden
People. Sometimes, however, humans,
unaware of an “enchanted place,”
attempt to bulldoze through it. Then
machinery breaks and inexplicable
accidents occur. Work stops. Although
a psychic is ffequently called to veriíy
the finding, every Icelander knows a
home of the Hidden People is being
disturbed and engineers must find
another way. They do, accidents cease,
progress continues.
At night passersby hear hammering
on anvils near the Dwarfs’ castle not íar
from Hunkubakkar on the southern
shore. The Dwarfs foige intricate web-
bing, beautiful filigree as well as a chain
strong enough to hold the wolf Fenric,
made from the cat’s footfall, the beard
of a woman, the roots of the mountain,
the sinews of a bear, the breath of fish-
es, and the spittle of birds.
On a sunny day, a brilliant display
of Nordic summer, I visited
Hunkubakkar. Rising high above a
long tidal marsh, the castle dominated
the landscape. The design is truly
medieval, with keep, moat, turrets, and
portcullis, now worn by wind and
weather. I heard the sounds of work
and imagined the glorious creations
within. Then a tourist bus pulled up.
Others joined me on the headland
overlooking the castle and the sea.
Cameras came out, pictures were
taken. Without waming, rain drenched
all of us. When the last person was
back in the bus, the sun came out and
double rainbows arced over the moun-
tains into the bottle green sea.
Rain, however, was a somewhat
shabby display when compared to
other places. At Námaskarð, near Lake
Mývatn, the ground trembles, is stained
yellow and red as purple sulphur boils
and steams, thunders and roars. The
noise frightens, the power terrifies. It
evokes visions of Ragnarök, the Norse
end of the world, when the powers of
good, the gods, are defeated by the
powers of evil, the Giants. I walked on
such a thin crust over forces capable of
total devastation, forces beyond all
human control. Nearby, from a small
fissure, superficial by Icelandic stan-
dards, a bit of lava oozed. After all the
EDDAS AND SAGAS
- .446 pages -
... presents the history of
Icelandic literature from the
earliest times to the
Reformation.
Eddas and sagas were a high
point in the literary
achievement of the European
Middle Ages and are
Scandinavia’s most important
contribution to world
• literature.
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