Notes - In the Land of Fire and Ice
"In the Land of Fire and Ice" is set in the fishing village of Dalvik, Icleand. It explores Scandinavian heritage through the eyes of Freda Samuelsson, the daughter of cargo pilot Obadiah Samuelsson. THe collection investigates Viking folklore, Yuletide traditions, and everyday life for a typical family in Iceland. "In the Land of Fire and Ice" was written for parents of children ages 7-10.
Four for Þorrablót
Yuletide brought presents and cheer to every Icelander. However, Yuletide was not the end of Yuletide. In fact, Yuletide did not truly end for another month. Thirteen weeks of winter had passed by the end of January. Icelanders celebrated the short days with a festival named “Þorrablót” (Thorrablot).
The Samuelsson’s gathered at the dinner table, ready for Thorrablot. Dark rye bread, putrefied shark fin, liver sausage, blood pudding, wind-dried fish, and roasted sheep’s head were gathered on the table. The were all part of the mid-winter smorgasbord.
After Obadiah Samuelsson led his family in prayer, all but one person proceeded to fill their plates. Freda stared into her bowl, which was shaped like one of the wooden troughs Vikings used for eating their food.
“Freda?” asked father, “Why aren’t you eating?”
“Everything smells horrible,” she replied.
“But it tastes good.”
“Not all of it,” countered Stefan, “I don’t like the blood sausage.”
“Have some dried haddock,” said mother.
She placed the filet in the center of Freda’s trough and poured a tall glass of Skyr for her daughter. Freda flaked the meat from the bone, careful to avoid the crispy skin.
“See? It’s not all bad,” said father.
Freda did enjoy the dried haddock, helping herself to a second filet. Father cut into the sheep’s head. It was brown, like a piece of liver and flat, like a piece of steak. Still, Freda could easily see the shape of the head, jaws, ears, and eyes.
“Why don’t you try some svid?” offered father. He cut a portion of the jaw from the sheep’s head, placing it in Freda’s bowl. Freda grimaced.
“Just try it,” said father.
Freda cut the meat into the tiniest of slivers before placing it into her mouth. She chewed carefully. It was fresh and tender, like a slice of roast beef. Freda cut a bigger piece and ate it, too. She washed it down with a gulp of Skyr before motioning to her father.
“See?” He happily cut a larger piece of svid. This portion included the lips just outside of the cheek. Slowly, but surely, Freda cleaned her plate again.
“I think it’s time to try some Hákarl,” suggested her father as he stabbed a piece of putrefied shark meat and plopped it into her bowl.
“Yech,” said Freda as the smell of the rotten meat filled her nose.
“It tastes better than it smells,” said her brother.
“I hope so,” replied Freda.
‘Just hold your nose until you get used to it.”
Freda pinched her nose as she grabbed her fork. She picked up the piece, which was much too large to put into her mouth.
“Let me cut it,” said her mother.
Freda picked up a smaller piece, still holding her nose. As she chewed on the rotten shark, it tasted like nothing more than strong fish. She continued chewing as she pinched her nose. Stefan motioned to Freda to let loose of her nose.
“Don’t do it,” warned her mother.
Freda unpinched her nose. The acidic smell of rotten shark filled her mouth and nose. Freda spat out the Hákarl and ran for the restroom.
Everything she ate went from her stomach to the bottom of the toilet bowl. Her mother rushed in behind her, carrying a cold cup of Skyr.
“Here, drink this,” offered Mrs. Samuelsson.
“That was perfectly awful,” said Freda.
“Just keep drinking. I don’t know why your father insisted on making you go through that.”
Mr. Samuelsson, who was standing just behind Mrs. Samuelsson, cleared his throat.
“I just think every Icelander should be proud of their heritage and that includes Viking food.”
“I’m okay,” said Freda. She bravely wiped her chin and returned to the dining room table.
“Freda,” pleaded her mother.
Freda, however, had something to prove to both her father and brother. She stabbed a new piece of Hákarl and dumped it into the center of the trough. Without holding her nose, she cut into the meat and ate it, piece by piece. It was probably not her braveness as much the fact that the smell of rotten fish had already filled her nose, making her numb to any additional odors.
After she was finished, she wiped her mouth and set her napkin in the center of her trough.
“See?” she said to her brother, “I can eat it, too.”
Obadiah Samuelsson folded his arms and leaned far back in his chair. Freda glanced over to him. He gave her a wink and a smile. Freda let out a tiny sigh.
“Let’s get going before they light the bonfire,” said Mrs. Samuelsson.
Freda put on the wool coat that Mr. Steinnar. She tugged on her warmest toboggan, too. It was orange and pink and white with a bright red tassel at the top. Freda carefully pulled it over her ears. The tail of the cap trailed halfway down her back.
“Is everyone ready?” asked Mrs. Samuelsson.
“Aren’t we going to do dishes?” asked Freda.
“We’ll do them later.”
In no time at all, the Samuelsson’s took the Arctic Truck to the pier, where a large crowd of people had already gathered. There were street vendors all along the pier. They lined the thin strand of beach, too.
“I think I’m still hungry,” said Freda.
“What would you like?” asked her mother.
“I’m not sure.”
“Here’s a couple of krona for each of you,” said Mrs. Samuelsson to her children, “Use it to buy something for yourself.
Freda turned toward the crowd, but not before her mother stopped her.
“Stefan, make sure your sister doesn’t disappear into the crowd.”
“I will,” promised Stefan.
“And Freda, you make sure your brother doesn’t wander off with his friends.”
“Oh, Mom…” groaned Stefan.
“We’ll see you at the truck just after the fireworks.”
Mrs. Samuelsson wagged her finger at Stefan. That finger meant that what mother said was what mother meant. Stefan grabbed Freda by the hand and led her to the beach.
“Where are we going?” she shouted through the din of the crowd.
“Just follow me,” said Stefan.
They wandered along the beach, careful to avoid blankets spread on the sand. Another pier sat fifty meters or so from the first pier. Stefan searched the pier from end to end.
“What are we looking for?” asked Freda.
“My friends,” replied Stefan.
They continued back and forth along the pier for quite some while. Finally, Stefan found one of his friends, Barth, working at one of the food stands.
“I never thought I’d find you,” said Stefan.
“I know,” said Barth, “it’s been this crowded all night long.”
“When will you be finished?”
Barth took off his apron. “I can leave anytime,”
“Let’s get back onto the beach,” said Stefan.
“We just came from the beach,” groaned Freda.
“But that’s where they’re going to have the bonfire.”
“Can’t we get something to eat first?”
“Do you like Harðfiskur?” asked Barth.
“I don’t know.”
Barth stacked the filets of dried haddock into a paper basket.
“This should be enough for all of us,” said Barth.
Freda carried the Harðfiskur in one hand while holding onto Stefan’s jacket with the other. Barth quickly cut through the crowd as Stefan followed. Freda gripped Stefan’s jacket tightly, sure not to lose him.
As they neared the beach, there was a clearing. In the middle of the clearing, forklifts were carefully stacking wooden pallets.
“That must be fifty meters high!” exclaimed Freda.
“Look at that guy standing on the top,” stated Barth, “He’s about two meters tall, right?”
Freda nodded.
“The wood pile is about five times his height. That means its no more than ten meters high.”
“That’s still a long way up,” said Freda.
“Someone has to help place the pallets on top of the fire stack.”
“When are they going to light it? I can hardly feel my nose.”
“Don’t worry,” said Stefan, “When they light it, you won’t be complaining about the cold at all,”
Freda jumped up and down, trying to keep warm. All the while, she picked at the dried haddock while wearing her mittens. Suddenly, the man on the top of the firestack held his bullhorn overhead and pressed a button. It squelched. The crowd went silent.
“On behalf of the city of Dalvik, I’d like to welcome you to Thorrablot.”
The crowd clapped and cheered.
“Who is ready for a bonfire?” he asked the crowd. The crowd cheered loudly.
“That’s what I want to hear!” he shouted into the bullhorn.
He stepped onto a pallet that was sitting on the arms of a forklift. The forklift operator carefully backed the forklift over plywood arranged along the beach. He lowered the announcer to the plywood.
“On the count of three, I’ll fire an arrow into the heart of the fire stack,” said the announcer. He sat his bullhorn down and picked up an arrow. The tip was wrapped with towels. The announcer dipped the towels into a bucket of kerosene. The forklift operator came over and lit the tip. The announcer drew back the bow.
“One! Two! Three!” he let loose the bow. The arrow curved through the air, landing on top of the firestack. At first, there was only a little flame. Quickly, though, the fire engulfed the pallets.
“It’s getting warmer!” said Freda excitedly.
“Just wait,” said Barth.
And so she did. Within minutes, the crowd moved away from the giant bonfire. Its heat could be felt as far away as each of the piers. Freda pulled her brother toward the pier where her father and mother were waiting.
“We’ll be fine,” said her brother.
And they were. After the fire grew to full strength, it died down again. As pallets burned, bulldozers and forklifts maneuvered the pile, making sure it did not topple.
Beyond the pier, a stream of bright white light soared into the sky. It exploded into a bright red firework.
“Let’s find our parents now,” said Stefan.
“I want to watch the fireworks,” groaned Freda.
“We can watch them from the pier.”
They said goodbye to Barth and returned to the fishing pier. Quickly, they found their parents sitting on a bench near Mr. Samuelsson’s seaplane. Mr. Samuelsson was eating a cup of putrefied shark.
“Do you want a piece?” he offered Freda. Freda didn’t respond.
“I’ll take some,” said Stefan. He poked his fingers into the Styrofoam cup, pulling out a piece of brown shark meat.
“Freda? Do you want some?”
Freda leaned over and sniffed. She recoiled as the horrible odor hit her nose. Still, she bravely dug a piece of rotten meat out of the cup and tried to eat it.
“Obadiah, can’t you see your little girl is only doing this to impress you.”
“Impress me?” said Mr. Samuelsson.
Mrs. Samuelsson nodded.
“Is that true?”
Freda nodded sheepishly. Mr. Samuelsson held his hand in front of Freda. She dropped the piece of shark meat into his hand. He quickly popped the meat into his mouth and gobbled every bit.
“You don’t have to be a great fisherman or score goals in hockey or even eat Viking food,” said Mr. Samuelsson, “You just have to do what you love with all your heart.”
Freda gave her father a giant bearhug.
“Alright, you don’t have to squeeze all the air out of me.”
After the last of the fireworks had exploded, the people of Dalvik returned to their cars and headed home. The Samuelsson’s got into their truck and headed home, too.
Freda sat in the back of the truck and imagined being an ancient Nordic Viking, sailing from Norway to Iceland and then from Iceland to Greenland. She wondered what a great adventure that would be. Then, she thought of rotten fish and boiled sheep-s head.
She was glad she lived in a world where she could buy her Skyr at the store and her fish sandwiches sometimes came in tiny fast food boxes. Still, other times, she was just happy to eat whatever her mother cooked. She thought that the Vikings would’ve been happy to have her mother as a cook.
Luckily, Freda had her mother all to herself. Well, including her dad and brother, Mrs. Samuelsson happily had four mouths to feed. And for Mrs. Samuelsson, that would always be fine.
The Samuelsson’s gathered at the dinner table, ready for Thorrablot. Dark rye bread, putrefied shark fin, liver sausage, blood pudding, wind-dried fish, and roasted sheep’s head were gathered on the table. The were all part of the mid-winter smorgasbord.
After Obadiah Samuelsson led his family in prayer, all but one person proceeded to fill their plates. Freda stared into her bowl, which was shaped like one of the wooden troughs Vikings used for eating their food.
“Freda?” asked father, “Why aren’t you eating?”
“Everything smells horrible,” she replied.
“But it tastes good.”
“Not all of it,” countered Stefan, “I don’t like the blood sausage.”
“Have some dried haddock,” said mother.
She placed the filet in the center of Freda’s trough and poured a tall glass of Skyr for her daughter. Freda flaked the meat from the bone, careful to avoid the crispy skin.
“See? It’s not all bad,” said father.
Freda did enjoy the dried haddock, helping herself to a second filet. Father cut into the sheep’s head. It was brown, like a piece of liver and flat, like a piece of steak. Still, Freda could easily see the shape of the head, jaws, ears, and eyes.
“Why don’t you try some svid?” offered father. He cut a portion of the jaw from the sheep’s head, placing it in Freda’s bowl. Freda grimaced.
“Just try it,” said father.
Freda cut the meat into the tiniest of slivers before placing it into her mouth. She chewed carefully. It was fresh and tender, like a slice of roast beef. Freda cut a bigger piece and ate it, too. She washed it down with a gulp of Skyr before motioning to her father.
“See?” He happily cut a larger piece of svid. This portion included the lips just outside of the cheek. Slowly, but surely, Freda cleaned her plate again.
“I think it’s time to try some Hákarl,” suggested her father as he stabbed a piece of putrefied shark meat and plopped it into her bowl.
“Yech,” said Freda as the smell of the rotten meat filled her nose.
“It tastes better than it smells,” said her brother.
“I hope so,” replied Freda.
‘Just hold your nose until you get used to it.”
Freda pinched her nose as she grabbed her fork. She picked up the piece, which was much too large to put into her mouth.
“Let me cut it,” said her mother.
Freda picked up a smaller piece, still holding her nose. As she chewed on the rotten shark, it tasted like nothing more than strong fish. She continued chewing as she pinched her nose. Stefan motioned to Freda to let loose of her nose.
“Don’t do it,” warned her mother.
Freda unpinched her nose. The acidic smell of rotten shark filled her mouth and nose. Freda spat out the Hákarl and ran for the restroom.
Everything she ate went from her stomach to the bottom of the toilet bowl. Her mother rushed in behind her, carrying a cold cup of Skyr.
“Here, drink this,” offered Mrs. Samuelsson.
“That was perfectly awful,” said Freda.
“Just keep drinking. I don’t know why your father insisted on making you go through that.”
Mr. Samuelsson, who was standing just behind Mrs. Samuelsson, cleared his throat.
“I just think every Icelander should be proud of their heritage and that includes Viking food.”
“I’m okay,” said Freda. She bravely wiped her chin and returned to the dining room table.
“Freda,” pleaded her mother.
Freda, however, had something to prove to both her father and brother. She stabbed a new piece of Hákarl and dumped it into the center of the trough. Without holding her nose, she cut into the meat and ate it, piece by piece. It was probably not her braveness as much the fact that the smell of rotten fish had already filled her nose, making her numb to any additional odors.
After she was finished, she wiped her mouth and set her napkin in the center of her trough.
“See?” she said to her brother, “I can eat it, too.”
Obadiah Samuelsson folded his arms and leaned far back in his chair. Freda glanced over to him. He gave her a wink and a smile. Freda let out a tiny sigh.
“Let’s get going before they light the bonfire,” said Mrs. Samuelsson.
Freda put on the wool coat that Mr. Steinnar. She tugged on her warmest toboggan, too. It was orange and pink and white with a bright red tassel at the top. Freda carefully pulled it over her ears. The tail of the cap trailed halfway down her back.
“Is everyone ready?” asked Mrs. Samuelsson.
“Aren’t we going to do dishes?” asked Freda.
“We’ll do them later.”
In no time at all, the Samuelsson’s took the Arctic Truck to the pier, where a large crowd of people had already gathered. There were street vendors all along the pier. They lined the thin strand of beach, too.
“I think I’m still hungry,” said Freda.
“What would you like?” asked her mother.
“I’m not sure.”
“Here’s a couple of krona for each of you,” said Mrs. Samuelsson to her children, “Use it to buy something for yourself.
Freda turned toward the crowd, but not before her mother stopped her.
“Stefan, make sure your sister doesn’t disappear into the crowd.”
“I will,” promised Stefan.
“And Freda, you make sure your brother doesn’t wander off with his friends.”
“Oh, Mom…” groaned Stefan.
“We’ll see you at the truck just after the fireworks.”
Mrs. Samuelsson wagged her finger at Stefan. That finger meant that what mother said was what mother meant. Stefan grabbed Freda by the hand and led her to the beach.
“Where are we going?” she shouted through the din of the crowd.
“Just follow me,” said Stefan.
They wandered along the beach, careful to avoid blankets spread on the sand. Another pier sat fifty meters or so from the first pier. Stefan searched the pier from end to end.
“What are we looking for?” asked Freda.
“My friends,” replied Stefan.
They continued back and forth along the pier for quite some while. Finally, Stefan found one of his friends, Barth, working at one of the food stands.
“I never thought I’d find you,” said Stefan.
“I know,” said Barth, “it’s been this crowded all night long.”
“When will you be finished?”
Barth took off his apron. “I can leave anytime,”
“Let’s get back onto the beach,” said Stefan.
“We just came from the beach,” groaned Freda.
“But that’s where they’re going to have the bonfire.”
“Can’t we get something to eat first?”
“Do you like Harðfiskur?” asked Barth.
“I don’t know.”
Barth stacked the filets of dried haddock into a paper basket.
“This should be enough for all of us,” said Barth.
Freda carried the Harðfiskur in one hand while holding onto Stefan’s jacket with the other. Barth quickly cut through the crowd as Stefan followed. Freda gripped Stefan’s jacket tightly, sure not to lose him.
As they neared the beach, there was a clearing. In the middle of the clearing, forklifts were carefully stacking wooden pallets.
“That must be fifty meters high!” exclaimed Freda.
“Look at that guy standing on the top,” stated Barth, “He’s about two meters tall, right?”
Freda nodded.
“The wood pile is about five times his height. That means its no more than ten meters high.”
“That’s still a long way up,” said Freda.
“Someone has to help place the pallets on top of the fire stack.”
“When are they going to light it? I can hardly feel my nose.”
“Don’t worry,” said Stefan, “When they light it, you won’t be complaining about the cold at all,”
Freda jumped up and down, trying to keep warm. All the while, she picked at the dried haddock while wearing her mittens. Suddenly, the man on the top of the firestack held his bullhorn overhead and pressed a button. It squelched. The crowd went silent.
“On behalf of the city of Dalvik, I’d like to welcome you to Thorrablot.”
The crowd clapped and cheered.
“Who is ready for a bonfire?” he asked the crowd. The crowd cheered loudly.
“That’s what I want to hear!” he shouted into the bullhorn.
He stepped onto a pallet that was sitting on the arms of a forklift. The forklift operator carefully backed the forklift over plywood arranged along the beach. He lowered the announcer to the plywood.
“On the count of three, I’ll fire an arrow into the heart of the fire stack,” said the announcer. He sat his bullhorn down and picked up an arrow. The tip was wrapped with towels. The announcer dipped the towels into a bucket of kerosene. The forklift operator came over and lit the tip. The announcer drew back the bow.
“One! Two! Three!” he let loose the bow. The arrow curved through the air, landing on top of the firestack. At first, there was only a little flame. Quickly, though, the fire engulfed the pallets.
“It’s getting warmer!” said Freda excitedly.
“Just wait,” said Barth.
And so she did. Within minutes, the crowd moved away from the giant bonfire. Its heat could be felt as far away as each of the piers. Freda pulled her brother toward the pier where her father and mother were waiting.
“We’ll be fine,” said her brother.
And they were. After the fire grew to full strength, it died down again. As pallets burned, bulldozers and forklifts maneuvered the pile, making sure it did not topple.
Beyond the pier, a stream of bright white light soared into the sky. It exploded into a bright red firework.
“Let’s find our parents now,” said Stefan.
“I want to watch the fireworks,” groaned Freda.
“We can watch them from the pier.”
They said goodbye to Barth and returned to the fishing pier. Quickly, they found their parents sitting on a bench near Mr. Samuelsson’s seaplane. Mr. Samuelsson was eating a cup of putrefied shark.
“Do you want a piece?” he offered Freda. Freda didn’t respond.
“I’ll take some,” said Stefan. He poked his fingers into the Styrofoam cup, pulling out a piece of brown shark meat.
“Freda? Do you want some?”
Freda leaned over and sniffed. She recoiled as the horrible odor hit her nose. Still, she bravely dug a piece of rotten meat out of the cup and tried to eat it.
“Obadiah, can’t you see your little girl is only doing this to impress you.”
“Impress me?” said Mr. Samuelsson.
Mrs. Samuelsson nodded.
“Is that true?”
Freda nodded sheepishly. Mr. Samuelsson held his hand in front of Freda. She dropped the piece of shark meat into his hand. He quickly popped the meat into his mouth and gobbled every bit.
“You don’t have to be a great fisherman or score goals in hockey or even eat Viking food,” said Mr. Samuelsson, “You just have to do what you love with all your heart.”
Freda gave her father a giant bearhug.
“Alright, you don’t have to squeeze all the air out of me.”
After the last of the fireworks had exploded, the people of Dalvik returned to their cars and headed home. The Samuelsson’s got into their truck and headed home, too.
Freda sat in the back of the truck and imagined being an ancient Nordic Viking, sailing from Norway to Iceland and then from Iceland to Greenland. She wondered what a great adventure that would be. Then, she thought of rotten fish and boiled sheep-s head.
She was glad she lived in a world where she could buy her Skyr at the store and her fish sandwiches sometimes came in tiny fast food boxes. Still, other times, she was just happy to eat whatever her mother cooked. She thought that the Vikings would’ve been happy to have her mother as a cook.
Luckily, Freda had her mother all to herself. Well, including her dad and brother, Mrs. Samuelsson happily had four mouths to feed. And for Mrs. Samuelsson, that would always be fine.
Elves in the Eaves
Everywhere one looked, they saw winter growing, night-by-night. Icicles grew longer. Snowdrifts grew higher. Even store windows grew more and more crowded with the gifts of the season.
Yuletide (also known as Christmas) would soon be here, too. Freda did not know which she loved more about Yuletide, Christmas presents, or her mother’s bedtime stories. On one hand, Christmas presents were good things to be played with, eaten, or worn. On the other, bedtime stories fueled her imagination. Tonight, it would be a bedtime story.
“There are thirteen crafty lads,” began her mother.
“Why are there thirteen crafty lads?” interrupted Freda.
“I don’t know,” replied her mother, “there just are.”
“Then there is the mother,” said Freda.
“Yes, there is the mother,” replied her mother, who began her story again, “There are twelve crafty lads…”
“Why is mother so important?” Freda interrupted again.
“She’s the mother, of course.”
“Of course,” repeated Freda.
“There are thirteen crafty lads. For most of the year, they live in the mountains. They live with their father, Leppaluoi, and their mother, Gryla. They also lived with their pet, the Yule cat.”
“I do not like the Yule cat,” said Freda.
“I know,” her mother replied before continuing the story.
“Gryla and Leppaluoi are ogres. The Yule cat is almost as mean. The thirteen crafty lads, however, are quite mischievous. Every Yuletide, they come down from the mountains and play tricks on the townspeople.”
Fred pulled her blanket over her head.
“Do you want me to stop?” asked mother.
Freda shook her head as she remained under her blanket.
“On each night of the Yuletide, the Yule lads visit all the houses of Iceland, looking for unlocked doors and windows. If they find an unlocked window, they sneak into the houses. However, if they find a children’s shoe sitting in the windowsill, they cannot help but fill the shoe. If the child is bad, they leave a potato. But, if the child has been good, they leave trinkets and candies for that child to discover the next morning.”
“Why don’t they steal the shoes?” asked Freda.
“What would a gnome need with a girl’s or boys shoe?”
“I am not sure,” replied Freda.
“Maybe you can think about that while you sleep tonight,” said mother. After her mother closed the bedroom door, Freda snuck over to the window. She adjusted her little black shoe, making sure the first Yule lad would be sure to see it.
Freda opened her door just enough to let in a sliver of light from the front room. She figured it would make sure the first crafty lad did not sneak into her house.
Freda slept well, only to be awakened by her brother.
“He must’ve made a mistake,” said Stefan.
“Who?” asked Freda.
“Stekkjastaur.”
Stefan dug through the contents of Freda’s little black shoe. It was filled with caramels, all wrapped in colorful tin foil, and a paddleball.
“Did you get a potato or something?”
“No, I got caramels and tape for my hockey stick.”
“Then get your hands off my shoe,” said Freda.
“C’mon,” he ordered, “Get up.”
Freda pushed her brother out of her room and got ready for breakfast.
“Did either of my children get a potato in their shoe?” asked father.
“No,” replied Freda.
“That’s good,” he replied, “Stekkjastaur must have been too busy with the sheep to check his naughty and nice list.”
“Obadiah,” scolded mother.
Stekkjastaur, also known as ‘sheep-botherer’, was the first of the crafty lads. He was famous for chasing sheep through the barnyard. Often, a farmer could hear the alarm of his sheep bleating late at night. Stekkjastaur was much too quick to be caught, even with his two peg legs.
The next morning, a farmer would often find tiny peg-prints all over his barnyard. Today, Freda searched the barnyard. Just like every other year, there were peg-prints just outside the barn.
“It looks like Stekkjastaur’s been here,” said father.
A pair of muddy stilts leaned against the inside of the barn. Neither Freda nor Stefan thought the least about it. Instead, they went to school and swapped their caramels with friends, receiving candy bars and homemade cookies for their trades. When they came home,
On the second night, Freda’s mother told the story of Giljagaur, the Gully Gawk. He was the Yule lad famous for lurking in the gullies. He watched the barns, waiting for farmer’s to go to bed. Late at night, he would sneak into the barn and steal milk.
“Can we leave a tall glass of milk for Giljagaur?” asked Freda.
“I already have,” said mother as she pointed to the glass on the windowsill next to her little black shoe.
“Good,” replied Freda. Freda hoped the crafty lad would leave the cows alone. She also hoped it would encourage him to leave more gifts.
Late that night, she heard stirring outside. She went to her window. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, but Freda saw no other movement. She went back to bed and listened intently to the sounds outside.
One cowbell rang. After a few moments, a second bell rang. A third cowbell rang, too. Freda rose from her bed and looked at the neighbor’s farm. All of their cows were in the field. That was unusual for this time of night.
The next morning, it was the main topic of conversation.
“Did anyone hear the neighbor’s cows?”
“I did not,” said her father.
“You might’ve been hearing things,” said mother.
“I saw it for myself.”
“How?”
“I looked out my window.”
“Must be Giljagaur.”
“My milk was gone this morning. That’s proof.”
“I suppose it is,” said her father. He opened the newspaper and began reading.
Freda started to say something, but decided against it. Instead, she just ate her breakfast.
The third night brought Stúfur, the stubby gnome. Freda ate her sweet potato pie, sure to leave the crusts. Pie crusts were Stúfur’s favorite. He left her more candies and a hair brush.
On the fourth night, it was time for the spoon-licker to arrive. Þvörusleikir (Thorvorusleikur) helped himself to all the spoons in the sink, saving Mrs. Samuelsson’s soup lade for last. It was covered in clam chowder, which was Thorvorusleikur’s favorite soup of all.
On the fifth night, they were visited by Pottaskefil, the pot-scraper. On night six, they were visited by Askasleikir, the bowl-licker. On night seven, it was the door-slammer, known as Hurdaskeilir. On night eight, Skyrgamur, the Skyr-gobbler drank all of the Skyr in the Samuelsson’s refrigerator.
On night nine, Freda sneaked to the barn. She was hoping to see Bjúgnakrækir. He was the sausage-swiper.
Freda went to the barn, where her father hung the freshly-made sausages. As she neared the barn doors, she heard hay rustling inside.
“Is that you, Bjúgnakrækir?”
The noises inside stopped.
Freda tiptoed toward the barn. She swung the door open with one quick tug. The hay rustled. A low growl came from the shadows. It was just next to Chief’s horse pen. The horse neighed softly, a little spooked by strangers in her barn late at night.
“Come out, whoever you are,” said Freda bravely. She reached around in the darkness, grabbing a flaghlight. She turned it on and shined it upward, looking for the sausage-stealer. She only found sausages rattling around. The growling came again. She shined her flashlight into the corner. The sheepdog from next door crouced in the corner, with a string of sausages gripped firmly in his teeth.
“It’s alright boy,” whispered Freda.
The dog growled as Freda got closer. Finally, he darted to one side and then another. In a flash, he escaped out the barn door. She heard him running through the field and scurrying under the fence down the hill.
“Are you okay, Chief?” she said as she patted her horse on the nose. The horse whinnied and stomped its hooves. Freda combed out his hair and returned to her bed after the horse had settled down.
When she got back to her bed, she brushed her hair, thinking it might do just the same for herself. As soon as she laid down, she fell directly to sleep.
Luckily, night ten was much calmer. Gluggagaergir, the window-peeper was to arrive. Freda pulled her curtains tight and fell quickly and quietly asleep. On night eleven, Gattathefur sniffed at the doors, but it was long after everyone was asleep, so nobody heard him, either. He left a package of Yule candles and a brand new pair of stockings. Freda would wear those on night twelve - Thorlakur’s day.
Yuletide (also known as Christmas) would soon be here, too. Freda did not know which she loved more about Yuletide, Christmas presents, or her mother’s bedtime stories. On one hand, Christmas presents were good things to be played with, eaten, or worn. On the other, bedtime stories fueled her imagination. Tonight, it would be a bedtime story.
“There are thirteen crafty lads,” began her mother.
“Why are there thirteen crafty lads?” interrupted Freda.
“I don’t know,” replied her mother, “there just are.”
“Then there is the mother,” said Freda.
“Yes, there is the mother,” replied her mother, who began her story again, “There are twelve crafty lads…”
“Why is mother so important?” Freda interrupted again.
“She’s the mother, of course.”
“Of course,” repeated Freda.
“There are thirteen crafty lads. For most of the year, they live in the mountains. They live with their father, Leppaluoi, and their mother, Gryla. They also lived with their pet, the Yule cat.”
“I do not like the Yule cat,” said Freda.
“I know,” her mother replied before continuing the story.
“Gryla and Leppaluoi are ogres. The Yule cat is almost as mean. The thirteen crafty lads, however, are quite mischievous. Every Yuletide, they come down from the mountains and play tricks on the townspeople.”
Fred pulled her blanket over her head.
“Do you want me to stop?” asked mother.
Freda shook her head as she remained under her blanket.
“On each night of the Yuletide, the Yule lads visit all the houses of Iceland, looking for unlocked doors and windows. If they find an unlocked window, they sneak into the houses. However, if they find a children’s shoe sitting in the windowsill, they cannot help but fill the shoe. If the child is bad, they leave a potato. But, if the child has been good, they leave trinkets and candies for that child to discover the next morning.”
“Why don’t they steal the shoes?” asked Freda.
“What would a gnome need with a girl’s or boys shoe?”
“I am not sure,” replied Freda.
“Maybe you can think about that while you sleep tonight,” said mother. After her mother closed the bedroom door, Freda snuck over to the window. She adjusted her little black shoe, making sure the first Yule lad would be sure to see it.
Freda opened her door just enough to let in a sliver of light from the front room. She figured it would make sure the first crafty lad did not sneak into her house.
Freda slept well, only to be awakened by her brother.
“He must’ve made a mistake,” said Stefan.
“Who?” asked Freda.
“Stekkjastaur.”
Stefan dug through the contents of Freda’s little black shoe. It was filled with caramels, all wrapped in colorful tin foil, and a paddleball.
“Did you get a potato or something?”
“No, I got caramels and tape for my hockey stick.”
“Then get your hands off my shoe,” said Freda.
“C’mon,” he ordered, “Get up.”
Freda pushed her brother out of her room and got ready for breakfast.
“Did either of my children get a potato in their shoe?” asked father.
“No,” replied Freda.
“That’s good,” he replied, “Stekkjastaur must have been too busy with the sheep to check his naughty and nice list.”
“Obadiah,” scolded mother.
Stekkjastaur, also known as ‘sheep-botherer’, was the first of the crafty lads. He was famous for chasing sheep through the barnyard. Often, a farmer could hear the alarm of his sheep bleating late at night. Stekkjastaur was much too quick to be caught, even with his two peg legs.
The next morning, a farmer would often find tiny peg-prints all over his barnyard. Today, Freda searched the barnyard. Just like every other year, there were peg-prints just outside the barn.
“It looks like Stekkjastaur’s been here,” said father.
A pair of muddy stilts leaned against the inside of the barn. Neither Freda nor Stefan thought the least about it. Instead, they went to school and swapped their caramels with friends, receiving candy bars and homemade cookies for their trades. When they came home,
On the second night, Freda’s mother told the story of Giljagaur, the Gully Gawk. He was the Yule lad famous for lurking in the gullies. He watched the barns, waiting for farmer’s to go to bed. Late at night, he would sneak into the barn and steal milk.
“Can we leave a tall glass of milk for Giljagaur?” asked Freda.
“I already have,” said mother as she pointed to the glass on the windowsill next to her little black shoe.
“Good,” replied Freda. Freda hoped the crafty lad would leave the cows alone. She also hoped it would encourage him to leave more gifts.
Late that night, she heard stirring outside. She went to her window. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, but Freda saw no other movement. She went back to bed and listened intently to the sounds outside.
One cowbell rang. After a few moments, a second bell rang. A third cowbell rang, too. Freda rose from her bed and looked at the neighbor’s farm. All of their cows were in the field. That was unusual for this time of night.
The next morning, it was the main topic of conversation.
“Did anyone hear the neighbor’s cows?”
“I did not,” said her father.
“You might’ve been hearing things,” said mother.
“I saw it for myself.”
“How?”
“I looked out my window.”
“Must be Giljagaur.”
“My milk was gone this morning. That’s proof.”
“I suppose it is,” said her father. He opened the newspaper and began reading.
Freda started to say something, but decided against it. Instead, she just ate her breakfast.
The third night brought Stúfur, the stubby gnome. Freda ate her sweet potato pie, sure to leave the crusts. Pie crusts were Stúfur’s favorite. He left her more candies and a hair brush.
On the fourth night, it was time for the spoon-licker to arrive. Þvörusleikir (Thorvorusleikur) helped himself to all the spoons in the sink, saving Mrs. Samuelsson’s soup lade for last. It was covered in clam chowder, which was Thorvorusleikur’s favorite soup of all.
On the fifth night, they were visited by Pottaskefil, the pot-scraper. On night six, they were visited by Askasleikir, the bowl-licker. On night seven, it was the door-slammer, known as Hurdaskeilir. On night eight, Skyrgamur, the Skyr-gobbler drank all of the Skyr in the Samuelsson’s refrigerator.
On night nine, Freda sneaked to the barn. She was hoping to see Bjúgnakrækir. He was the sausage-swiper.
Freda went to the barn, where her father hung the freshly-made sausages. As she neared the barn doors, she heard hay rustling inside.
“Is that you, Bjúgnakrækir?”
The noises inside stopped.
Freda tiptoed toward the barn. She swung the door open with one quick tug. The hay rustled. A low growl came from the shadows. It was just next to Chief’s horse pen. The horse neighed softly, a little spooked by strangers in her barn late at night.
“Come out, whoever you are,” said Freda bravely. She reached around in the darkness, grabbing a flaghlight. She turned it on and shined it upward, looking for the sausage-stealer. She only found sausages rattling around. The growling came again. She shined her flashlight into the corner. The sheepdog from next door crouced in the corner, with a string of sausages gripped firmly in his teeth.
“It’s alright boy,” whispered Freda.
The dog growled as Freda got closer. Finally, he darted to one side and then another. In a flash, he escaped out the barn door. She heard him running through the field and scurrying under the fence down the hill.
“Are you okay, Chief?” she said as she patted her horse on the nose. The horse whinnied and stomped its hooves. Freda combed out his hair and returned to her bed after the horse had settled down.
When she got back to her bed, she brushed her hair, thinking it might do just the same for herself. As soon as she laid down, she fell directly to sleep.
Luckily, night ten was much calmer. Gluggagaergir, the window-peeper was to arrive. Freda pulled her curtains tight and fell quickly and quietly asleep. On night eleven, Gattathefur sniffed at the doors, but it was long after everyone was asleep, so nobody heard him, either. He left a package of Yule candles and a brand new pair of stockings. Freda would wear those on night twelve - Thorlakur’s day.
Three to Eat Bread Pudding
A good Icelander loves good Salmon. They also love good herring and good pike, too. Unfortunately, those are the good fish. There are some fish, in Freda’s humble opinion, that are in no way good. Chief among them is boiled skate.
Not to confuse you, but boiled skate is not a cooked leather shoe with a steel blade running along the bottom and dirty shoelaces running along the top. Boiled skate is one of those rare treats only reserved for Scandinavians, especially Icelanders.
To the untrained eye, a skate looks like a winged rat. To the trained eye, it is a ray common in the Arctic Ocean. Since it was very common, many Icelanders ate it, including the Samuelsson family.
But this is all getting ahead of ourselves. Before Freda ate skate, she went skating. This is the skating you know, which includes leather shoes, steel blades, and an ice pond.
“Wait up, Stefan,” said Freda.
“I’m right here,” he answered.
Stefan loved playing hockey. Freda loved hockey, too, but she was a girl, even if she was a tomboy. Secretly, she loved watching her brother playing hockey. Instead, she usually skated figure eights and did spins with her girl friends at the opposite end of the pond from the boys.
Freda pulled tightly on the laces. One broke, but she fixed it with a knot, then tied her laces again. She had done this several times with the laces on both skates. Her mother had always said, ‘saving money makes money.’ Freda just wished she could have a new pair of laces.
She skated across the ice, joining her brother and his friends.
“Why are you down here?” asked Stefan.
“Girls are boring,” said Freda.
“We won’t let you play hockey. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll just watch,” she replied.
“As long as you don’t ask to play.”
A large group of boys with hockey sticks, helmets, and pads gathered in between two hockey goals. There was no referee, so the face-off was decided with a coin flip. Stefan’s team won the toss. One of the boys on Stefan’s team started from Center Ice, as if it were a futbol match.
Skaters slid across the ice. Skates scratched along the surface. The sound of skates on ice and sticks passing the puck back and forth was nearly as loud as the boys calling out to each other.
“Pass it, pass it!” said one.
“Get him!” said another.
“I’m open.”
“There’s a sniper on your right.”
“I got him!”
Stefan was a defenseman. It meant he helped to protect the goal, along with the goalie. He was also one of the least likely people to score a goal. That did not mean he didn’t help.
The puck moved quickly from one boy’s stick to anothers. The sticks clapped as they received the puck. Stefan finally got the puck.
He immediately pulled his stick back behind his head. He wound up and let loose with a slap shot. The stick kissed the puck with a mighty smack. The puck flew through the air towards the goal. The goalie twisted his hand and caught the puck in his glove. With a flick, he sent the puck to the ground and hit it with his stick towards one of his teammates.
The opposing team drove down the ice. Stefan skated his hardest, backchecking towards his own team’s goal.
“Robbie’s got it,” said one of Stefan’s teammates.
Stefan turned around, skating backwards as he retreated towards the goal. There was one pass, then another, and then another. Soon, Robbie had the puck in front of the goal. Stefan was right in front of the goal, too.
Robbie juggled the puck from side to side, catching it on his stick. He faked left, then moved right. Stefan followed the fake. Robbie made a quick wrist shot, flipping the puck towards the goal. Anton, the goalie for Stefan’s team laid down, looking like a Icelandic hockey butterfly, trying to stop the shot. It bounced in and out of Anton’s glove. Then, it bounced right into the net.
“One goal for Robbie’s team,” Freda said to herself.
Stefan’s team started with the puck at Center Ice again. Stegan’s team scored next. Then, Robbie’s team scored. Then, there were more goals after that.
After awhile, the boys decided it was time to quit. Stefan skated towards his little sister.
“You’re finished already?”
“We’ve been out there over two hours.”
“You have?”
Her brother nodded.
“I wanted to skate.”
“You had your chance.”
Freda skated next to her brother, carrying his hockey stick. She tapped it on the ice, pretending she was moving a hockey puck back and forth.
“I still have to change out of these cold, sweaty clothes. You can skate while I change,” said Stefan.
So, Freda skated, with her brother’s hockey stick in her hands. At times, she treated it like a hockey stick. At other times, she treated it as her skating partner, holding it upright, so the blade of the stick was the head. She spun pirouettes, holding Mr. Koho (That was the name on the hockey stick) at her side.
Soon, a shrill whistle interrupted her dance. Stefan waved at Freda, motioning her to return to the car. She skated across the pond in a zig-zag motion, slowly making her way to the car. After she did, she tossed Mr. Koho in the back seat and unlaced her skates.
“Did you have fun?” asked Stefan.
Freda nodded. Her cheeks were flushed. She was short of breath.
“That’s good,” he said.
They returned home, where dinner waited. It was the other kind of skate.
It was another test for Freda when her mother fixed traditional Icelandic food.
Most of it was very different from the fast foods and chain restaurants she thoroughly enjoyed.
Instead, there were things like salted fish, fried fish tails, fermented shark, sheep liver, blood pudding, and boiled skate.
“Ugh,” groaned Freda.
“Sometimes, I wonder,” said her father.
“What do you wonder?”
“How you can be an Icelander, yet have no taste for Icelandic food?”
“Be kind to your daughter, Obadiah,” scolded mother.
“I just think she shouldn’t be so judgmental until she tries it.”
“Okay,” replied Freda, “I’ll try it.”
Freda reached for the platter of boiled skate with her fork. Her father pushed it away.
“I thought you wanted me to try it.”
“Not until we say prayers.”
So father led the family in a prayer. After he finished, Freda picked up her fork and tried again. The skate squirmed as she poked it with a fork. Freda recoiled in fright.
“It’s moving!” she exclaimed.
Stefan laughed.
“It’s perfectly dead,” said her father. He jabbed his fork into the body of the skate and moved it onto her plate, where it flopped. It still looked like a winged rat to Freda.
“What do you expect, dad? She’s a little girl.”
Those very words from Stefan put a fire of determination into Freda. She cut a wedge out of one of the skate’s wings and tossed it into her mouth. As she chewed, it tasted like fish-flavored bubble gum. It wasn’t very pleasant, but it wasn’t hardly as awful as she had imagined.
“There you go,” boasted Mrs. Samuelsson, proud of her daughter.
After she finished eating both wings, she stopped.
“You’re finished?” questioned her father.
Freda glanced over to him, but didn’t say a word.
“She doesn’t have to eat the rest,” aid mother.
“It’ll go to waste,” he replied.
“Then you can eat it.”
Mr. Samuelsson reached across the table and started working on the remainder of the winged fish. Meanwhile, Mrs. Samuelsson went to the kitchen. She returned with a pan of bread pudding.
“I love bread pudding,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
“Ah, ah, ah,” scolded Mrs. Samuelsson, “not until you finish your skate.”
Mr. Samuelsson sighed. Mrs. Samuelsson plated three pieces of bread pudding and ate it with her children.
Freda loved her mother’s bread pudding. She loved it most of all now, when it cancelled out the bitter taste of boiled skate.
Mother had prepared it by cutting sweet bread into large cubes and placing them in the bottom of the bowl. She mixed eggs, brown sugar, honey, and milk in another bowl, then poured it over the sweet bread. The spongy sweet bread soaked up all of the milk sauce, making it moist. Afterwards, Mrs. Samuelsson baked the bread pudding in the oven until a golden brown crust formed on top.
“This is so tasty,” said Freda.
“Thanks, dear,”
“Mmm,” was all Stefan said as he stuffed his face.
Freda’s favorite part of bread pudding was the crispy crust. Unfortunately, it was everyone else’s favorite, too. Stefan and Freda fought over the edge pieces. Meanwhile, Mr. Samuelsson could only watch as each piece disappeared. Finally, Stefan reached for the last piece.
“Leave that for your father.”
“He’s not finished with his skate,” said Stefan.
“That’s very impolite of you. He’s almost finished.”
“May we be excused then?”
Mother nodded.
The children cleaned the table and washed their dishes. Mr. Samuelsson and his plate were the only thing left besides the bowl with one piece of bread pudding.
“I’m finished,” he said as he showed the plate to his wife. The only thing left were skin and bones. He scraped it into the trash and put the plate into the sink.
“Are you going to bring back a fresh plate?” asked Mrs. Samuelsson.
“I don’t need it,” he replied.
“You’re not going to eat directly from the bowl.”
“Yes I am,” he said.
Mrs. Samuelsson scoffed at Mr. Samuelsson then went into the living room. As she watched television with her children, Mr. Samuelsson finished the bread pudding. He even slurped from the glass bowl after he finished the last of the bread. The sweet milk was almost as good as a cup of hraeringur.
He washed the remainder of the dishes and put them away.
“Was it good?” asked Mrs. Samuelsson.
“The best.”
The Samuelssons sat in the living room, watching television, while the spirits of winter stirred outside. Luckily, they had the comfort of both fireplace and family to keep them safe and warm.
Not to confuse you, but boiled skate is not a cooked leather shoe with a steel blade running along the bottom and dirty shoelaces running along the top. Boiled skate is one of those rare treats only reserved for Scandinavians, especially Icelanders.
To the untrained eye, a skate looks like a winged rat. To the trained eye, it is a ray common in the Arctic Ocean. Since it was very common, many Icelanders ate it, including the Samuelsson family.
But this is all getting ahead of ourselves. Before Freda ate skate, she went skating. This is the skating you know, which includes leather shoes, steel blades, and an ice pond.
“Wait up, Stefan,” said Freda.
“I’m right here,” he answered.
Stefan loved playing hockey. Freda loved hockey, too, but she was a girl, even if she was a tomboy. Secretly, she loved watching her brother playing hockey. Instead, she usually skated figure eights and did spins with her girl friends at the opposite end of the pond from the boys.
Freda pulled tightly on the laces. One broke, but she fixed it with a knot, then tied her laces again. She had done this several times with the laces on both skates. Her mother had always said, ‘saving money makes money.’ Freda just wished she could have a new pair of laces.
She skated across the ice, joining her brother and his friends.
“Why are you down here?” asked Stefan.
“Girls are boring,” said Freda.
“We won’t let you play hockey. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll just watch,” she replied.
“As long as you don’t ask to play.”
A large group of boys with hockey sticks, helmets, and pads gathered in between two hockey goals. There was no referee, so the face-off was decided with a coin flip. Stefan’s team won the toss. One of the boys on Stefan’s team started from Center Ice, as if it were a futbol match.
Skaters slid across the ice. Skates scratched along the surface. The sound of skates on ice and sticks passing the puck back and forth was nearly as loud as the boys calling out to each other.
“Pass it, pass it!” said one.
“Get him!” said another.
“I’m open.”
“There’s a sniper on your right.”
“I got him!”
Stefan was a defenseman. It meant he helped to protect the goal, along with the goalie. He was also one of the least likely people to score a goal. That did not mean he didn’t help.
The puck moved quickly from one boy’s stick to anothers. The sticks clapped as they received the puck. Stefan finally got the puck.
He immediately pulled his stick back behind his head. He wound up and let loose with a slap shot. The stick kissed the puck with a mighty smack. The puck flew through the air towards the goal. The goalie twisted his hand and caught the puck in his glove. With a flick, he sent the puck to the ground and hit it with his stick towards one of his teammates.
The opposing team drove down the ice. Stefan skated his hardest, backchecking towards his own team’s goal.
“Robbie’s got it,” said one of Stefan’s teammates.
Stefan turned around, skating backwards as he retreated towards the goal. There was one pass, then another, and then another. Soon, Robbie had the puck in front of the goal. Stefan was right in front of the goal, too.
Robbie juggled the puck from side to side, catching it on his stick. He faked left, then moved right. Stefan followed the fake. Robbie made a quick wrist shot, flipping the puck towards the goal. Anton, the goalie for Stefan’s team laid down, looking like a Icelandic hockey butterfly, trying to stop the shot. It bounced in and out of Anton’s glove. Then, it bounced right into the net.
“One goal for Robbie’s team,” Freda said to herself.
Stefan’s team started with the puck at Center Ice again. Stegan’s team scored next. Then, Robbie’s team scored. Then, there were more goals after that.
After awhile, the boys decided it was time to quit. Stefan skated towards his little sister.
“You’re finished already?”
“We’ve been out there over two hours.”
“You have?”
Her brother nodded.
“I wanted to skate.”
“You had your chance.”
Freda skated next to her brother, carrying his hockey stick. She tapped it on the ice, pretending she was moving a hockey puck back and forth.
“I still have to change out of these cold, sweaty clothes. You can skate while I change,” said Stefan.
So, Freda skated, with her brother’s hockey stick in her hands. At times, she treated it like a hockey stick. At other times, she treated it as her skating partner, holding it upright, so the blade of the stick was the head. She spun pirouettes, holding Mr. Koho (That was the name on the hockey stick) at her side.
Soon, a shrill whistle interrupted her dance. Stefan waved at Freda, motioning her to return to the car. She skated across the pond in a zig-zag motion, slowly making her way to the car. After she did, she tossed Mr. Koho in the back seat and unlaced her skates.
“Did you have fun?” asked Stefan.
Freda nodded. Her cheeks were flushed. She was short of breath.
“That’s good,” he said.
They returned home, where dinner waited. It was the other kind of skate.
It was another test for Freda when her mother fixed traditional Icelandic food.
Most of it was very different from the fast foods and chain restaurants she thoroughly enjoyed.
Instead, there were things like salted fish, fried fish tails, fermented shark, sheep liver, blood pudding, and boiled skate.
“Ugh,” groaned Freda.
“Sometimes, I wonder,” said her father.
“What do you wonder?”
“How you can be an Icelander, yet have no taste for Icelandic food?”
“Be kind to your daughter, Obadiah,” scolded mother.
“I just think she shouldn’t be so judgmental until she tries it.”
“Okay,” replied Freda, “I’ll try it.”
Freda reached for the platter of boiled skate with her fork. Her father pushed it away.
“I thought you wanted me to try it.”
“Not until we say prayers.”
So father led the family in a prayer. After he finished, Freda picked up her fork and tried again. The skate squirmed as she poked it with a fork. Freda recoiled in fright.
“It’s moving!” she exclaimed.
Stefan laughed.
“It’s perfectly dead,” said her father. He jabbed his fork into the body of the skate and moved it onto her plate, where it flopped. It still looked like a winged rat to Freda.
“What do you expect, dad? She’s a little girl.”
Those very words from Stefan put a fire of determination into Freda. She cut a wedge out of one of the skate’s wings and tossed it into her mouth. As she chewed, it tasted like fish-flavored bubble gum. It wasn’t very pleasant, but it wasn’t hardly as awful as she had imagined.
“There you go,” boasted Mrs. Samuelsson, proud of her daughter.
After she finished eating both wings, she stopped.
“You’re finished?” questioned her father.
Freda glanced over to him, but didn’t say a word.
“She doesn’t have to eat the rest,” aid mother.
“It’ll go to waste,” he replied.
“Then you can eat it.”
Mr. Samuelsson reached across the table and started working on the remainder of the winged fish. Meanwhile, Mrs. Samuelsson went to the kitchen. She returned with a pan of bread pudding.
“I love bread pudding,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
“Ah, ah, ah,” scolded Mrs. Samuelsson, “not until you finish your skate.”
Mr. Samuelsson sighed. Mrs. Samuelsson plated three pieces of bread pudding and ate it with her children.
Freda loved her mother’s bread pudding. She loved it most of all now, when it cancelled out the bitter taste of boiled skate.
Mother had prepared it by cutting sweet bread into large cubes and placing them in the bottom of the bowl. She mixed eggs, brown sugar, honey, and milk in another bowl, then poured it over the sweet bread. The spongy sweet bread soaked up all of the milk sauce, making it moist. Afterwards, Mrs. Samuelsson baked the bread pudding in the oven until a golden brown crust formed on top.
“This is so tasty,” said Freda.
“Thanks, dear,”
“Mmm,” was all Stefan said as he stuffed his face.
Freda’s favorite part of bread pudding was the crispy crust. Unfortunately, it was everyone else’s favorite, too. Stefan and Freda fought over the edge pieces. Meanwhile, Mr. Samuelsson could only watch as each piece disappeared. Finally, Stefan reached for the last piece.
“Leave that for your father.”
“He’s not finished with his skate,” said Stefan.
“That’s very impolite of you. He’s almost finished.”
“May we be excused then?”
Mother nodded.
The children cleaned the table and washed their dishes. Mr. Samuelsson and his plate were the only thing left besides the bowl with one piece of bread pudding.
“I’m finished,” he said as he showed the plate to his wife. The only thing left were skin and bones. He scraped it into the trash and put the plate into the sink.
“Are you going to bring back a fresh plate?” asked Mrs. Samuelsson.
“I don’t need it,” he replied.
“You’re not going to eat directly from the bowl.”
“Yes I am,” he said.
Mrs. Samuelsson scoffed at Mr. Samuelsson then went into the living room. As she watched television with her children, Mr. Samuelsson finished the bread pudding. He even slurped from the glass bowl after he finished the last of the bread. The sweet milk was almost as good as a cup of hraeringur.
He washed the remainder of the dishes and put them away.
“Was it good?” asked Mrs. Samuelsson.
“The best.”
The Samuelssons sat in the living room, watching television, while the spirits of winter stirred outside. Luckily, they had the comfort of both fireplace and family to keep them safe and warm.
Two for the Shore
Not even the first rays of sunlight broke across the horizon when Freda was stirred from sleep. All was dark and quiet. The sounds of dockworkers and heavy machinery moved through the cold, crisp morning air.
Fish-filled crates boomed as they dropped to the concrete. Forklifts whined whenever they backed through the piles of crates. Buzzers signaled a warning to anyone in their way.
In the next room, three adults were also carrying on a conversation. Freda, ever curious about the goings on of adults, eagerly listened to every word.
“Maybe it’s time to wake Freda,” said her father.
“Let her sleep just a little more,” replied Mrs. Steinnar.
“We’ve got lots to do today,” replied her father.
“It’s nothing that cannot wait a little while longer,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“The fishmongers start early. If I want to make the people back home happy, we’d better get going.”
Someone sipped from his or her cup. Freda figured it was her father, drinking a mug of Skyr and coffee. The mug tapped against the wooden dining table. The wooden chair scratched against the concrete floor. Finally, the soles of hiking boots clopped against the floor.
“Freda, wake up,” said a voice.
“I’m up,” she replied.
The room was dull gray. The day outside was dull and gray just beyond the shadowy figure cast by her father.
“It’s time we get going.”
Freda rushed to the bathroom and got ready. In a few moments, she was dressed as everyone waited in the front room. When she emerged from the bedroom, she noticed he was drinking Skyr and coffee, just as she had imagined.
“I fixed some eggs for breakfast,” offered Mrs. Steinnar.
“May I have a cup of Skyr and coffee?” asked Freda.
“I don’t think you’ll like it,” said her father.
“It smells so good,” replied Freda.
“Take a sip of mine first.”
Freda took a sip of her father’s coffee. She had always imagined that coffee would taste like a good chocolate bar. Instead, the coffee tasted like coffee, strong and bitter. Even with the Skyr, all Freda could taste was coffee. Her face curled in disgust.
“I’ll pour you a tall glass of goat’s milk,” said Mrs. Steinnar.
Freda nodded.
“It’s a drink you have to grow to like,” said her father.
As Freda gulped her goat’s milk, it helped to get rid of the awful taste of coffee in her mouth. As she sipped, she also realized the last three words her father said, “grow to like.”
“I think a little bit of coffee would help it taste better,” she said.
Her father cast a suspicious gaze her direction.
“What? I kind of like it.”
Mrs. Steinnar grabbed the coffee pot and held it over the cup of milk.
“Just say when.”
She poured a small portion into Freda’s cup and hesitated.
“More, please,” said Freda. She motioned with one finger, as if she was encouraging a mouse to come out of a hole and eat a piece of cheese hiding in the cup.
Mrs. Steinnar added another small portion. Freda motioned again.
“More.”
“Freda, that’s plenty,” reprimanded her father.
“I would like some more, please,” said Freda in her most pleasant voice. Mrs. Steinnar obliged, filling the cup with coffee.
Freda took three sips. Each time, she kept her grimace to herself. After she’d cleared space in the cup, she added a dollop of Skyr and and several sppons of sugar. After a taste test, she was good to go.
“Ahhh, perfect!” she said.
She drank it all and then clopped her cup just as her father did. She had shown him she was ready to be adult. He chuckled under his breath. Freda frowned.
“Time to go,” he said.
She fetched her pack and followed him to Mr. Steinnar’s truck. The ride was quick and short. Mr. Steinnar slowly veered through the traffic at the dock, stoping just outside Mr. Samuelsson’s seaplane.
“Thanks, Magnus,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
Thank you, Mr. Steinnar,” added Freda.
“No problem at all, my dear friends.”
“I’ll see you soon,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
“Very soon,” replied Mr. Steinnar.
As Mr. Steinnar left, the dock foreman approached them.
“Is this your seaplane?” asked the foreman.
“It sure is.”
“Then you’re just the person I wanted to see.”
“What can I do for you?”
“One of the planes came into Reyjkjavik late last night. The truckload carrying your salmon just arrived.”
“How long until we’re ready?”
“Two hours, maybe three.”
“I guess that will have to do,” replied Mr. Samuelsson.
“We’ll get your seaplane ready as fast as we can.”
The foreman shook Obadiah’s hand. After that, Obadiah turned to his daughter.
“Let’s go to the beach,” he said.
“The beach?”
Obadiah pointed out an outcropping of rock just beyond the docks. A sheer cliff stood 50 meters high. At the bottom of the cliff, a narrow strip of dark brown sand.
“Okay then,” said Freda as she took her father by the hand. The calluses on his palm made her think of sand on her feet. She thought it would be nice to walk barefoot along the beach.
They climbed down the steps at the far end of the pier and across a small landing flanking the water. After another set of steps, they were standing on the beach.
“I think I’ll take off my galoshes.”
“It’s too cold,” said her father.
“May I for just a little while?”
Obadiah looked down at his daugher, who was already loosening the laces on her galoshes. He did not know how to say no to his only daughter.
“Just a little while,” he agreed.
She took of her galoshes and knotted the laces together. She hung tucked her socks inside and hung them about her neck.
“Now I’m ready,” she said.
She walked out onto the sand, which was bitterly cold. However, Freda did not complain, because it would mean her father was right.
“Are you cold?” asked father.
“Not at all.”
The cold water washed between her toes, leaving a circule of foam wherever she left a footprint. As the tide pulled away from the shore, it erased each old footprint.
“Why is the sand black?” Freda asked her father.
“See those cliffs?”
Freda nodded.
“The sand is just a bunch of old rocks the water has scrubbed into a fine black powder.”
“You’re joking, right?”
Obadiah shook his head. “Not at all. Those volcanoes in central Iceland created this island, through hundreds, maybe thousands of eruptions. The rock flows down the volcanoes and meets the sea. The sea cools the lava, just like a cold day chills the ice. Soon, the rock becomes solid. Some rocks, just like the ones further along the shore, break into smaller pieces. Water erodes the rocks and breaks them into tinier and tinier pieces until they are as fine as dust.”
He scooped up a handful of sand and let it sift out of his hand. Freda did the same. The gritty sand filtered through her fingers. She could feel the roughness of the sand, like thousands of tiny rocks.
Mr. Samuelsson crouched down and untied his boots. He leaned on his daughter as he removed one sock and then the other, all the while balancing on his boots. Afterwards, he tied his laces together and looped them over his neck, just as his daughter had done.
“It’s very cold,” he stated.
“I know,” she said.
“But it feels good.”
Freda smiled as she took her father by the hand. They walked to the end of the beach, where the cliff cut into the sea. Freda looked up.
“Do you think Vikings had to climb these cliffs?”
“Why do you say that?” asked her father.
“I imagine pirates climbing up the rock face to get to the top.”
“I think it would be much easier if they just plowed their ships into the beach and got out.”
“I suppose you’re right, but I still like the idea of Vikings climbing the rocks.”
“I don’t know of many Icelandic rock climbers,” said her father.
“Maybe I should be the first.”
Freda hopped from rock to rock along the edge of the cliff. Soon, she jumped onto the knoll of grass and weeds that ran along the edge of the beach.
“Come on,” she called to her father.
“I’ll stay here.”
“You could be the second rock climber.”
Freda moved back onto the rocks, working her way back to the pier. Her father walked to the pier just ahead of her. He waited at the bottom of the steps as she finished playing on the rocks. As she reached the pier, she hopped down onto the beach and then up to the pier.
“That was fun. You should’ve tried it, too.”
“I had plenty of fun just watching you,” he said.
They put on their socks and boots before heading up the stairs. When they arrived at the seaplane, it was loaded and ready to go.
Mr. Samuelsson signed his name on the dockworker’s clipboard and got into the seaplane’s cabin. Just like before, he turned a key and the dockworker flipped the propeller. After a few tries, the old seaplane rumbled to life.
Mr. Samuelsson headed out of the bay and into the air. Freda looked out her window at the cliffs below. Across the horizon, she saw the jagged protrusions carving their shape against the shore.
Mr. Samuelsson followed the shoreline the whole way to Dalvik. As he landed the seaplane, a jet of water sprayed across the window. Freda looked at the shore of Dalvik. It was plain and flat. The grassy fields came right up to the water’s edge. Freda wished Dalvik had cliffs or rocks to climb upon. Instead, they just had farmland.
At the dock, Mr. Samuelsson gave Freda the keys to the compact before turning his attention to the fishmonger. Freda unpacked her things and took them to the compact.
She leaned back in her seat and waited for him. After half an hour, he knocked on her window. She jumped in fright.
“You asleep?”
“Not at all.”
“Then let’s get home and eat some dinner.”
“What do you think mom will cook us?”
“Atlantic Salmon,” said Mr. Samuelsson as he pointed to a small container in his hand.
“I hope she makes salmon burgers,” said Freda.
“I’m pretty sure she’ll make whatever your heart desires.”
Freda held the small container on her lap. The smell of fresh salmon was one of her favorite smells. The only thing better was the smell of fresh grilled salmon. Freda knew that her father was right this time.
“Whatever I wish for…” she thought to herself.
She drifted in and out of sleep until they arrived home. Sure enough, her mother made her a salmon burger. Freda said it was the best salmon burger she’d ever eaten. Mr. Samuelsson thought maybe it was her empty stomach talking.
Then again, maybe they were the best salmon burgers ever. After they ate all the salmon, everyone slipped into bed with full stomachs and full hearts, too.
Fish-filled crates boomed as they dropped to the concrete. Forklifts whined whenever they backed through the piles of crates. Buzzers signaled a warning to anyone in their way.
In the next room, three adults were also carrying on a conversation. Freda, ever curious about the goings on of adults, eagerly listened to every word.
“Maybe it’s time to wake Freda,” said her father.
“Let her sleep just a little more,” replied Mrs. Steinnar.
“We’ve got lots to do today,” replied her father.
“It’s nothing that cannot wait a little while longer,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“The fishmongers start early. If I want to make the people back home happy, we’d better get going.”
Someone sipped from his or her cup. Freda figured it was her father, drinking a mug of Skyr and coffee. The mug tapped against the wooden dining table. The wooden chair scratched against the concrete floor. Finally, the soles of hiking boots clopped against the floor.
“Freda, wake up,” said a voice.
“I’m up,” she replied.
The room was dull gray. The day outside was dull and gray just beyond the shadowy figure cast by her father.
“It’s time we get going.”
Freda rushed to the bathroom and got ready. In a few moments, she was dressed as everyone waited in the front room. When she emerged from the bedroom, she noticed he was drinking Skyr and coffee, just as she had imagined.
“I fixed some eggs for breakfast,” offered Mrs. Steinnar.
“May I have a cup of Skyr and coffee?” asked Freda.
“I don’t think you’ll like it,” said her father.
“It smells so good,” replied Freda.
“Take a sip of mine first.”
Freda took a sip of her father’s coffee. She had always imagined that coffee would taste like a good chocolate bar. Instead, the coffee tasted like coffee, strong and bitter. Even with the Skyr, all Freda could taste was coffee. Her face curled in disgust.
“I’ll pour you a tall glass of goat’s milk,” said Mrs. Steinnar.
Freda nodded.
“It’s a drink you have to grow to like,” said her father.
As Freda gulped her goat’s milk, it helped to get rid of the awful taste of coffee in her mouth. As she sipped, she also realized the last three words her father said, “grow to like.”
“I think a little bit of coffee would help it taste better,” she said.
Her father cast a suspicious gaze her direction.
“What? I kind of like it.”
Mrs. Steinnar grabbed the coffee pot and held it over the cup of milk.
“Just say when.”
She poured a small portion into Freda’s cup and hesitated.
“More, please,” said Freda. She motioned with one finger, as if she was encouraging a mouse to come out of a hole and eat a piece of cheese hiding in the cup.
Mrs. Steinnar added another small portion. Freda motioned again.
“More.”
“Freda, that’s plenty,” reprimanded her father.
“I would like some more, please,” said Freda in her most pleasant voice. Mrs. Steinnar obliged, filling the cup with coffee.
Freda took three sips. Each time, she kept her grimace to herself. After she’d cleared space in the cup, she added a dollop of Skyr and and several sppons of sugar. After a taste test, she was good to go.
“Ahhh, perfect!” she said.
She drank it all and then clopped her cup just as her father did. She had shown him she was ready to be adult. He chuckled under his breath. Freda frowned.
“Time to go,” he said.
She fetched her pack and followed him to Mr. Steinnar’s truck. The ride was quick and short. Mr. Steinnar slowly veered through the traffic at the dock, stoping just outside Mr. Samuelsson’s seaplane.
“Thanks, Magnus,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
Thank you, Mr. Steinnar,” added Freda.
“No problem at all, my dear friends.”
“I’ll see you soon,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
“Very soon,” replied Mr. Steinnar.
As Mr. Steinnar left, the dock foreman approached them.
“Is this your seaplane?” asked the foreman.
“It sure is.”
“Then you’re just the person I wanted to see.”
“What can I do for you?”
“One of the planes came into Reyjkjavik late last night. The truckload carrying your salmon just arrived.”
“How long until we’re ready?”
“Two hours, maybe three.”
“I guess that will have to do,” replied Mr. Samuelsson.
“We’ll get your seaplane ready as fast as we can.”
The foreman shook Obadiah’s hand. After that, Obadiah turned to his daughter.
“Let’s go to the beach,” he said.
“The beach?”
Obadiah pointed out an outcropping of rock just beyond the docks. A sheer cliff stood 50 meters high. At the bottom of the cliff, a narrow strip of dark brown sand.
“Okay then,” said Freda as she took her father by the hand. The calluses on his palm made her think of sand on her feet. She thought it would be nice to walk barefoot along the beach.
They climbed down the steps at the far end of the pier and across a small landing flanking the water. After another set of steps, they were standing on the beach.
“I think I’ll take off my galoshes.”
“It’s too cold,” said her father.
“May I for just a little while?”
Obadiah looked down at his daugher, who was already loosening the laces on her galoshes. He did not know how to say no to his only daughter.
“Just a little while,” he agreed.
She took of her galoshes and knotted the laces together. She hung tucked her socks inside and hung them about her neck.
“Now I’m ready,” she said.
She walked out onto the sand, which was bitterly cold. However, Freda did not complain, because it would mean her father was right.
“Are you cold?” asked father.
“Not at all.”
The cold water washed between her toes, leaving a circule of foam wherever she left a footprint. As the tide pulled away from the shore, it erased each old footprint.
“Why is the sand black?” Freda asked her father.
“See those cliffs?”
Freda nodded.
“The sand is just a bunch of old rocks the water has scrubbed into a fine black powder.”
“You’re joking, right?”
Obadiah shook his head. “Not at all. Those volcanoes in central Iceland created this island, through hundreds, maybe thousands of eruptions. The rock flows down the volcanoes and meets the sea. The sea cools the lava, just like a cold day chills the ice. Soon, the rock becomes solid. Some rocks, just like the ones further along the shore, break into smaller pieces. Water erodes the rocks and breaks them into tinier and tinier pieces until they are as fine as dust.”
He scooped up a handful of sand and let it sift out of his hand. Freda did the same. The gritty sand filtered through her fingers. She could feel the roughness of the sand, like thousands of tiny rocks.
Mr. Samuelsson crouched down and untied his boots. He leaned on his daughter as he removed one sock and then the other, all the while balancing on his boots. Afterwards, he tied his laces together and looped them over his neck, just as his daughter had done.
“It’s very cold,” he stated.
“I know,” she said.
“But it feels good.”
Freda smiled as she took her father by the hand. They walked to the end of the beach, where the cliff cut into the sea. Freda looked up.
“Do you think Vikings had to climb these cliffs?”
“Why do you say that?” asked her father.
“I imagine pirates climbing up the rock face to get to the top.”
“I think it would be much easier if they just plowed their ships into the beach and got out.”
“I suppose you’re right, but I still like the idea of Vikings climbing the rocks.”
“I don’t know of many Icelandic rock climbers,” said her father.
“Maybe I should be the first.”
Freda hopped from rock to rock along the edge of the cliff. Soon, she jumped onto the knoll of grass and weeds that ran along the edge of the beach.
“Come on,” she called to her father.
“I’ll stay here.”
“You could be the second rock climber.”
Freda moved back onto the rocks, working her way back to the pier. Her father walked to the pier just ahead of her. He waited at the bottom of the steps as she finished playing on the rocks. As she reached the pier, she hopped down onto the beach and then up to the pier.
“That was fun. You should’ve tried it, too.”
“I had plenty of fun just watching you,” he said.
They put on their socks and boots before heading up the stairs. When they arrived at the seaplane, it was loaded and ready to go.
Mr. Samuelsson signed his name on the dockworker’s clipboard and got into the seaplane’s cabin. Just like before, he turned a key and the dockworker flipped the propeller. After a few tries, the old seaplane rumbled to life.
Mr. Samuelsson headed out of the bay and into the air. Freda looked out her window at the cliffs below. Across the horizon, she saw the jagged protrusions carving their shape against the shore.
Mr. Samuelsson followed the shoreline the whole way to Dalvik. As he landed the seaplane, a jet of water sprayed across the window. Freda looked at the shore of Dalvik. It was plain and flat. The grassy fields came right up to the water’s edge. Freda wished Dalvik had cliffs or rocks to climb upon. Instead, they just had farmland.
At the dock, Mr. Samuelsson gave Freda the keys to the compact before turning his attention to the fishmonger. Freda unpacked her things and took them to the compact.
She leaned back in her seat and waited for him. After half an hour, he knocked on her window. She jumped in fright.
“You asleep?”
“Not at all.”
“Then let’s get home and eat some dinner.”
“What do you think mom will cook us?”
“Atlantic Salmon,” said Mr. Samuelsson as he pointed to a small container in his hand.
“I hope she makes salmon burgers,” said Freda.
“I’m pretty sure she’ll make whatever your heart desires.”
Freda held the small container on her lap. The smell of fresh salmon was one of her favorite smells. The only thing better was the smell of fresh grilled salmon. Freda knew that her father was right this time.
“Whatever I wish for…” she thought to herself.
She drifted in and out of sleep until they arrived home. Sure enough, her mother made her a salmon burger. Freda said it was the best salmon burger she’d ever eaten. Mr. Samuelsson thought maybe it was her empty stomach talking.
Then again, maybe they were the best salmon burgers ever. After they ate all the salmon, everyone slipped into bed with full stomachs and full hearts, too.
A Tale Weaver, too
Freda pulled on her pack and followed the two old friends through the docks. They squeezed into the front seat of Mr. Steinnar’s truck, like a tin of sardines. Every time Mr. Steinnar turned the oversized steering wheel, he bumped into Freda.
“Sorry about that. I’m trying my best, but there just isn’t any room.”
“That’s okay. It’s better than sitting in the back.”
“You’re right about that,” said Mr. Steinnar.
Freda heard the wind whipping against the outside of the pickup truck. That alone made her shiver. She was glad she had three thick layers of wool to keep herself warm. She was also glad that she was sandwiched between her father and Mr. Steinnar. That kept her warm, too.
They traveled a short way out into the countryside. Homes dotted the landscape, each one a little farther apart than the last. Freda looked out the window, searching for any turf houses, but she did not see one.
“There’s my home,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“Where?” asked Freda.
“The third one up the hill.”
The turf houses were exactly as Mr. Steinnar had described. Four houses were lined up, side-by-side, tucked into a mound of earth. Only the front walls of the houses poked out from the slow rolling hill. The hill, which also acted as the roof, was covered in thick, green moss.
“I’ve never been inside a turf house before,” exclaimed Freda.
“Here’s your chance,” said Mr. Steinnar.
Freda ran towards the house. As Mr. Steinnar opened the front door, Freda rushed inside.
“It’s nothing like I’d pictured it,” said Freda.
“It’s a little cramped,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“But it’s plenty cozy,” said a voice from the kitchen.
A small woman, with blonde hair and a full figure poked her head around the corner.
“You must be Freda,” greeted the woman. She hugged Freda so tightly that Freda could barely breathe. Still, Freda returned the hug. To Freda, the old lady smelled like fried chicken.
“Freda, this is my wife, Helge.”
“Hello, Mrs. Steinnar.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Freda. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m starved. What are we having?”
“Crispy puffin and leek soup.”
Freda gasped.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mrs. Steinnar.
“I can’t eat puffins!”
“Freda,” scolded her father.
“Daddy,” pleaded Freda, “they’re just too cute.”
“Freda, you’ve eaten puffins plenty of times before, but your mother and I just didn’t tell you.”
“I did?”
“We may have told you it was some other type of bird.”
“I’ll see what else we can make for you,” offered Mr. Steinnar.
“We’re your guests, Helge. We’ll eat what you have taken the time and trouble to make.”
Freda worried about dinner as she took her backpack up to the guest room and unpacked. She thought about faking a tummy ache to get out of eating, but she knew that would not work. She washed her hands and went downstairs.
“This chair is reserved especially for you,” offered Mrs. Steinnar.
Freda sat at the end of the table nearest to the fireplace. She faced away from the kitchen, unable to see what Mrs. Steinnar was doing. Meanwhile, her father sat directly across from her while Mr. and Mrs. Steinnar sat across from one another, on either side of Freda.
Everyone folded their hands as Mr. Steinnar began the prayer.
“Come, Lord, and bless these gifts,
of food, family, and friendship,
bestowed by Thee.”
“Amen,” everyone said in unison.
“Short and sweet, just like us Lutherans like it,” said Mr. Steinnar.
Mrs. Steinnar reached for a small platter in the center of the table. It was pre-prepared by Mrs. Steinnar, with a little help from her father. She had de-boned all of the puffin, preparing it just fried chicken. Freda took a bite while everyone watched.
“Well?” said Mrs. Steinnar.
“It’s…good,” replied Freda.
Relieved, everyone began to enjoy dinner together. Freda sipped her leek soup, which warmed her from the inside. The heat from the hearth warmed her backside. It warmed her so much that she had to take off both of her jackets.
“It’s getting very hot in here,” said Freda.
“The good thing about turf houses is they always keep you warm,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“Why do they do that?”
“The dirt packed on top of the roof is like a coat.”
“Why don’t they just make dirt houses?”
“When it rains,” explained Mr. Steinnar, “the water will wash away all the dirt. The roots of grass will keep the dirt in place.”
“Ah,” said Freda as she shook her head knowingly.
“It’s very small, though,” said Freda.
“A long time ago, the people of Iceland lived in great, big longhouses. It was hard to heat those open spaces, so they built turf houses, just like they did in old Norway.”
“They have turf houses in Norway, too?”
“They have them all over Scandinavia,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“It seems like we share everything with the Norwegians,” said Freda.
Mr. Steinnar pulled his hands inward, tucking them beneath his suspenders. He flexed his thumbs backward and off they came with a snap. He leaned back into this chair and grinned for a few moments before leaning towards Freda.
“We come from a long line of noble Vikings, who sailed across the North Sea. Every time I go hunting or fishing, I think about the great hunters and fishers who went before me.”
As he spoke, his voice echoed through the tiny house.
“In fact, I was the one who caught your dinner. I caught it with a mighty net as it flew above me in the sky.”
“Oh, Magnus, quit telling that girl a tall tale,” said Mrs. Steinnar.
“It was a feat of great strength. You are lucky to be eating anything at all.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Snorri himself,” chuckled her father.
“Snorri, the first king of Iceland?”
“Snorri Sturluson wasn’t a king. He was a lawspeaker,” corrected her father.
“What’s a lawspeaker?”
“He’s the man who recited laws whenever there was a question about something.”
“That seems a little silly to me,” said Freda.
“It was a very important thing. In fact, Iceland only had one lawspeaker. There was a group of men called the commonwealth. They assembled at a place called Law Rock.”
“It was an actual rock?”
“It was more like a high ledge, where all the people who gathered could see and hear the lawspeaker. He’d help the assembly make decisions.”
“He was like a judge?”
“The assembly made the judgments. The lawspeaker merely recited the laws.”
“That seems silly again.”
“Snorri Sturluson was probably the most important person in all of Iceland.”
“For standing on a rock and reciting laws?”
“You cannot forget that he was a tale-weaver, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wrote the Prose Edda.”
“The story about the giants?”
“The Prose Edda was much more than a story about giants. It was an epic saga about snow giants, and the days of the gods and goddesses, and great wars between ancient kingdoms. Snorri also told Icelanders about their heritage.”
“More stories from Norway?”
“From all of Scandinavia. As Snorri once said, ‘So they put to sea and had Iceland in their mind’s eye.’”
“What does that mean?” asked Freda.
“It means that Iceland was our destiny.”
“All right,” interrupted Mrs. Steinnar, “I think it’s time you better be headed off to bed.
Freda let out a groan.
“She’s right,” added Freda’s father, “we’d better all be getting off to bed. Tomorrow is to be a very long day.”
Freda scampered off to bed, where her father tucked her in and wished her a good night, full of sweet dreams. Freda was her daddy’s girl, who now had a new appreciation of being an Icelander.
The idea of visiting the docks and seeing the Ocean again made Freda very happy and that was quite a sweet dream indeed.
“Sorry about that. I’m trying my best, but there just isn’t any room.”
“That’s okay. It’s better than sitting in the back.”
“You’re right about that,” said Mr. Steinnar.
Freda heard the wind whipping against the outside of the pickup truck. That alone made her shiver. She was glad she had three thick layers of wool to keep herself warm. She was also glad that she was sandwiched between her father and Mr. Steinnar. That kept her warm, too.
They traveled a short way out into the countryside. Homes dotted the landscape, each one a little farther apart than the last. Freda looked out the window, searching for any turf houses, but she did not see one.
“There’s my home,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“Where?” asked Freda.
“The third one up the hill.”
The turf houses were exactly as Mr. Steinnar had described. Four houses were lined up, side-by-side, tucked into a mound of earth. Only the front walls of the houses poked out from the slow rolling hill. The hill, which also acted as the roof, was covered in thick, green moss.
“I’ve never been inside a turf house before,” exclaimed Freda.
“Here’s your chance,” said Mr. Steinnar.
Freda ran towards the house. As Mr. Steinnar opened the front door, Freda rushed inside.
“It’s nothing like I’d pictured it,” said Freda.
“It’s a little cramped,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“But it’s plenty cozy,” said a voice from the kitchen.
A small woman, with blonde hair and a full figure poked her head around the corner.
“You must be Freda,” greeted the woman. She hugged Freda so tightly that Freda could barely breathe. Still, Freda returned the hug. To Freda, the old lady smelled like fried chicken.
“Freda, this is my wife, Helge.”
“Hello, Mrs. Steinnar.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Freda. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m starved. What are we having?”
“Crispy puffin and leek soup.”
Freda gasped.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mrs. Steinnar.
“I can’t eat puffins!”
“Freda,” scolded her father.
“Daddy,” pleaded Freda, “they’re just too cute.”
“Freda, you’ve eaten puffins plenty of times before, but your mother and I just didn’t tell you.”
“I did?”
“We may have told you it was some other type of bird.”
“I’ll see what else we can make for you,” offered Mr. Steinnar.
“We’re your guests, Helge. We’ll eat what you have taken the time and trouble to make.”
Freda worried about dinner as she took her backpack up to the guest room and unpacked. She thought about faking a tummy ache to get out of eating, but she knew that would not work. She washed her hands and went downstairs.
“This chair is reserved especially for you,” offered Mrs. Steinnar.
Freda sat at the end of the table nearest to the fireplace. She faced away from the kitchen, unable to see what Mrs. Steinnar was doing. Meanwhile, her father sat directly across from her while Mr. and Mrs. Steinnar sat across from one another, on either side of Freda.
Everyone folded their hands as Mr. Steinnar began the prayer.
“Come, Lord, and bless these gifts,
of food, family, and friendship,
bestowed by Thee.”
“Amen,” everyone said in unison.
“Short and sweet, just like us Lutherans like it,” said Mr. Steinnar.
Mrs. Steinnar reached for a small platter in the center of the table. It was pre-prepared by Mrs. Steinnar, with a little help from her father. She had de-boned all of the puffin, preparing it just fried chicken. Freda took a bite while everyone watched.
“Well?” said Mrs. Steinnar.
“It’s…good,” replied Freda.
Relieved, everyone began to enjoy dinner together. Freda sipped her leek soup, which warmed her from the inside. The heat from the hearth warmed her backside. It warmed her so much that she had to take off both of her jackets.
“It’s getting very hot in here,” said Freda.
“The good thing about turf houses is they always keep you warm,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“Why do they do that?”
“The dirt packed on top of the roof is like a coat.”
“Why don’t they just make dirt houses?”
“When it rains,” explained Mr. Steinnar, “the water will wash away all the dirt. The roots of grass will keep the dirt in place.”
“Ah,” said Freda as she shook her head knowingly.
“It’s very small, though,” said Freda.
“A long time ago, the people of Iceland lived in great, big longhouses. It was hard to heat those open spaces, so they built turf houses, just like they did in old Norway.”
“They have turf houses in Norway, too?”
“They have them all over Scandinavia,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“It seems like we share everything with the Norwegians,” said Freda.
Mr. Steinnar pulled his hands inward, tucking them beneath his suspenders. He flexed his thumbs backward and off they came with a snap. He leaned back into this chair and grinned for a few moments before leaning towards Freda.
“We come from a long line of noble Vikings, who sailed across the North Sea. Every time I go hunting or fishing, I think about the great hunters and fishers who went before me.”
As he spoke, his voice echoed through the tiny house.
“In fact, I was the one who caught your dinner. I caught it with a mighty net as it flew above me in the sky.”
“Oh, Magnus, quit telling that girl a tall tale,” said Mrs. Steinnar.
“It was a feat of great strength. You are lucky to be eating anything at all.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Snorri himself,” chuckled her father.
“Snorri, the first king of Iceland?”
“Snorri Sturluson wasn’t a king. He was a lawspeaker,” corrected her father.
“What’s a lawspeaker?”
“He’s the man who recited laws whenever there was a question about something.”
“That seems a little silly to me,” said Freda.
“It was a very important thing. In fact, Iceland only had one lawspeaker. There was a group of men called the commonwealth. They assembled at a place called Law Rock.”
“It was an actual rock?”
“It was more like a high ledge, where all the people who gathered could see and hear the lawspeaker. He’d help the assembly make decisions.”
“He was like a judge?”
“The assembly made the judgments. The lawspeaker merely recited the laws.”
“That seems silly again.”
“Snorri Sturluson was probably the most important person in all of Iceland.”
“For standing on a rock and reciting laws?”
“You cannot forget that he was a tale-weaver, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wrote the Prose Edda.”
“The story about the giants?”
“The Prose Edda was much more than a story about giants. It was an epic saga about snow giants, and the days of the gods and goddesses, and great wars between ancient kingdoms. Snorri also told Icelanders about their heritage.”
“More stories from Norway?”
“From all of Scandinavia. As Snorri once said, ‘So they put to sea and had Iceland in their mind’s eye.’”
“What does that mean?” asked Freda.
“It means that Iceland was our destiny.”
“All right,” interrupted Mrs. Steinnar, “I think it’s time you better be headed off to bed.
Freda let out a groan.
“She’s right,” added Freda’s father, “we’d better all be getting off to bed. Tomorrow is to be a very long day.”
Freda scampered off to bed, where her father tucked her in and wished her a good night, full of sweet dreams. Freda was her daddy’s girl, who now had a new appreciation of being an Icelander.
The idea of visiting the docks and seeing the Ocean again made Freda very happy and that was quite a sweet dream indeed.
One for the Birds
As the days went by, Mr. Samuelsson did not give much thought to taking his daughter along for trips of any sort.
Freda, however, thought about it constantly.
Early one morning, she sat across from her mother. Her mother was eating a bowl of Skyr.
“May I make a bowl of hraeringur?” asked Freda.
“If you clean up after yourself.”
The most common way of enjoying Skyr was the exact way Freda always ate it: stirred. In fact, the word ‘hraeringur’ was the Icelandic word for ‘stirred’. She mixed the Skyr with an equal portion of porridge, which she heated in the microwave. Freda then added molasses and raspberries to her hræringur.
Freda loved the smooth, creamy texture of the hraeringur. It was Icelandic Ice cream. Freda dug her spoon to the bottom of her bowl, churning the ingredients with every bite. The spoon chopped the berries, turning the normally white hraeringur to a dark pink color.
Coincidentally, hraeingur was the Icelandic word for ‘stirred’. Most Icelandic folk stirred something into their Skyr, whether it was porridge or fruit or sweeteners, like sugar and molasses.
“Mama?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Would you ask daddy if he could take me with him to Ólafsfjörður?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” prompted her mother.
“I don’t think he wants me tagging along with him.”
“You will never know unless you ask.”
Just then, she heard her father, ‘clunk-clunk-clunking’ down the stairs in his steel-toed boots.
“Góðan daginn,” said father, which was Icelandic for ‘Good morning.’ It sounded like goden-doggin.
“Góðan daginn, Daddy,” replied Freda.
Mr. Samuelsson sat down between his wife and daughter, helping himself to a bowl of Skyr. Just like Mrs. Samuelsson, he ate his plain.
At that moment, Mrs. Samuelsson motioned towards Freda, coaxing her to speak. Freda, however, would not.
“What are you two doing?” asked father.
“I was wondering if you could take me with you to Ólafsfjörður today.”
“Don’t you have school?”
“Not today.”
“Then I don’t think it would be any problem at all.”
“See?” said mother, “All you had to do was ask.”
Freda was relieved that she got to go with her father. Her older brother Stefan had accompanied him on several trips since Freda went ice fishing. Freda had grown very jealous of Stefan, but did not say a word to anyone.
“You’d better hurry up and finish your hraeringur, because you’ll have to pack an overnight bag.”
“We’re staying overnight?”
“I have to deliver haddock to the fishmongers and pick up salmon from the fishermen. Then, we’ll bring the salmon back to Dalvik.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Freda.
“It sure is, now hurry along.”
Freda hurriedly stuffed her backpack. She added items of clothing in sets of two, for both tomorrow and tonight. She scampered downstairs as soon as she felt she’d packed everything. She entered the kitchen, only to find her mother sitting alone, sipping a cup of tea.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s waiting for you in the compact.”
“We’re not taking the Arctic Truck?”
“Stefan needs it to run some errands.”
“And the hatchback wagon?”
“I’ll be running some errands, too. I’m going to the Andersson’s to pick up some groceries.”
Freda nodded.
“Your father is waiting outside.”
Freda joined her father in the compact. Although it was cramped, it was better than nothing. The compact belonged to Stefan, but all the adults shared the vehicles equally. Since there was no mass transit in Iceland, everyone relied on his or her own means of transportation, whether it was an Arctic Truck, an SUV, a snowmobile, or even Stefan’s compact.
Mr. Samuelsson drove to the docks and parked his car behind an old warehouse. Although she hadn’t been to Dalvik’s shipyard in a long time, she was very familiar with everything around her.
Dockworkers busily loaded and unloaded cargo ships and seaplanes. Forklifts raced between the docks to the warehouses, carrying giant crates. Most were filled with fresh fish.
Freda grabbed her backpack and followed her father through the warehouse. This place was familiar to Freda, too. It was where one of her daddy’s business associates, Mr. Thorvald, worked. Mr. Thorvald ran the Dalvik Fish Market. He was a fishmonger. He sold fish to restaurants, grocers, and exporters. His fish sometimes traveled half way around the world. He also sold fresh fish to the people of Dalvik. His market was the most popular in town.
“Arni! How are you doing this morning?”
“Oba! I’m doing just fine. How about you?” shouted Mr. Thorvaldson.
“I’m a little groggy, but I brought my co-pilot,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
“It’s been a long time, Freda,” said Mr. Thorvaldson, “How old are you now?”
“I’ll be ten in just a few months.”
“You’re growing into quite a beautiful lady.”
Freda blushed as the two men chuckled. She turned her attention to the Fish Market as they turned their attention to business.
The people who worked at the Fish Market were called fishmongers, too. As they pried open crates full of fish, the sound of nails bending in wood and crowbars clanging on the concrete floor of the warehouse filled the air. The men grabbed the fish, which were as nearly as big as Freda herself, and tossed them to other men. The men caught the fish in their hands and tossed them onward to another man. It was the fastest way to get the fish from the loading area, where forklifts unloaded the crates to the stocking area where other fishmongers sold the fresh fish to the public.
Freda loved the smells and noises of the Fish Market.
“Come on, Freda,” said her father, interrupting her thoughts.
“Already?”
“The plane’s waiting. All it needs is you and me.”
Freda followed her father to the docks. His seaplane sat between two piers. On one side, men were loading crates into another seaplane. On the other side, the cabin door was unfolded. Its steps leaned over the water, ready to accept two passengers.
Mr. Samuelsson lifted his daughter onto the steps.
“Up you go,” he said.
They eased into the pilot’s cabin, buckling themselves into their seats. A dockworker ame up and handed Mr. Samuelsson a clipboard. Mr. Samuelsson signed it and returned it to the dockworker.
The man went to the front of the seaplane and signaled to Mr. Samuelsson. The dockworker jerked on the propeller, giving it a turn. The seaplane sputtered and coughed before whirring to life.
The dockworker checked to see the dock was clear before he twirled a finger above his head. Mr. Samuelsson backed the seaplane into the bay and turned it around.
As the seaplane sped through the bay, Freda stared out the open cabin door.
Heavy waves undulated like a black linen sheet being flipped over an empty bed. Every so often, bitter winds whipped through the cabin door. Freda tucked her chin under the neckband of her jacket. After that didn’t work, she curled her body in her seat, avoiding direct contact with any wind at all.
“There’s a mummy bag in the back, if you want to bundle up,” offered her father.
Freda glanced into the back of the cabin at the two sleeping bags rolled, tied, and stuffed into the corner. A whip of wind hit her in the face as soon as she jumped from her seat. She tried untying one of the mummy bags with her mittens on, but soon realized that would not work at all.
She tugged off both mittens and worked feverishly on the knotted rope. What seemed like minutes was only seconds as she unfastened the mummy bag. She kicked off her boots and jumped into the bag. After she was safe inside, she hopped back to her seat and sat beside her father, tucked into her mummy bag like a moth in the comfort of its cocoon.
Seagulls and terns took their places as the seaplane took for the air.
The seaplane turned northwest as it rose over the bay. Soon, Dalvik vanished behind them. Ólafsfjörður lay just an hour or two ahead.
Even with her wool coat and mummy bag, Freda’s face remained frozen cold. She was happy when the seaplane’s engine slowed. It skimmed over the surface, landing in a far away bay.
“Puffins!” exclaimed Freda.
The little black, white, and orange birds took flight as Mr. Samuelsson’s plane touched down in Ólafsfjörður Bay. Unlike the seagulls, the puffins were quite a quiet flock. They did not squawk like the birds of Dalvik. They also kept together, whether they were wading in the bay or flying overhead.
“I hope Mr. Steinnar is here,” said her father.
“I can hardly wait to see him again,” said Freda.
As the seaplane navigated its way through the traffic of seaplanes and fishing boats, Freda watched the puffins gathered at the far end of the pier. Like the seagulls and terns, the puffins scavenged for free fish. Some even swam into the way of Mr. Samuelsson’s seaplane.
“Get out of here!” shouted Mr. Samuelsson.
The birds could not hear him over the rumble of the seaplane’s engine. Mr. Samuelsson slowed the seaplane to an idle, steering through the flock of puffins.
Mr. Steinnar was on shore, waiting for the Samuelsson’s seaplane to arrive. He waved to Freda and she waved back. Mr. Samuelsson shut off the engine as the plane floated the last few meters toward the dock.
Dockworkers grabbed the seaplane by the wings and carefully steered it to the mooring posts. They tied off the guide lines and unfolded the cabin door. Freda stepped out, helped to the docks by Mr. Steinnar.
“How was the trip?” he asked.
“Very chilly,” she replied.
“My house is cozy and warm,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“I remember,” she said.
“We’re not going to the haberdashery. I own another house where I live when I’m not working. It’s a turf house, so you know it’ll be warm.”
“Is it very far?”
“Not at all.”
They left the seaplane behind so the dockworkers could reload it with a fresh batch of fish to take to Dalvik. Freda had seen turf houses before, but had never had the chance to stay inside one. Freda wondered what the houses under the ground would be like.
Soon, she would get a chance to visit one and see for herself.
Freda, however, thought about it constantly.
Early one morning, she sat across from her mother. Her mother was eating a bowl of Skyr.
“May I make a bowl of hraeringur?” asked Freda.
“If you clean up after yourself.”
The most common way of enjoying Skyr was the exact way Freda always ate it: stirred. In fact, the word ‘hraeringur’ was the Icelandic word for ‘stirred’. She mixed the Skyr with an equal portion of porridge, which she heated in the microwave. Freda then added molasses and raspberries to her hræringur.
Freda loved the smooth, creamy texture of the hraeringur. It was Icelandic Ice cream. Freda dug her spoon to the bottom of her bowl, churning the ingredients with every bite. The spoon chopped the berries, turning the normally white hraeringur to a dark pink color.
Coincidentally, hraeingur was the Icelandic word for ‘stirred’. Most Icelandic folk stirred something into their Skyr, whether it was porridge or fruit or sweeteners, like sugar and molasses.
“Mama?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Would you ask daddy if he could take me with him to Ólafsfjörður?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” prompted her mother.
“I don’t think he wants me tagging along with him.”
“You will never know unless you ask.”
Just then, she heard her father, ‘clunk-clunk-clunking’ down the stairs in his steel-toed boots.
“Góðan daginn,” said father, which was Icelandic for ‘Good morning.’ It sounded like goden-doggin.
“Góðan daginn, Daddy,” replied Freda.
Mr. Samuelsson sat down between his wife and daughter, helping himself to a bowl of Skyr. Just like Mrs. Samuelsson, he ate his plain.
At that moment, Mrs. Samuelsson motioned towards Freda, coaxing her to speak. Freda, however, would not.
“What are you two doing?” asked father.
“I was wondering if you could take me with you to Ólafsfjörður today.”
“Don’t you have school?”
“Not today.”
“Then I don’t think it would be any problem at all.”
“See?” said mother, “All you had to do was ask.”
Freda was relieved that she got to go with her father. Her older brother Stefan had accompanied him on several trips since Freda went ice fishing. Freda had grown very jealous of Stefan, but did not say a word to anyone.
“You’d better hurry up and finish your hraeringur, because you’ll have to pack an overnight bag.”
“We’re staying overnight?”
“I have to deliver haddock to the fishmongers and pick up salmon from the fishermen. Then, we’ll bring the salmon back to Dalvik.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Freda.
“It sure is, now hurry along.”
Freda hurriedly stuffed her backpack. She added items of clothing in sets of two, for both tomorrow and tonight. She scampered downstairs as soon as she felt she’d packed everything. She entered the kitchen, only to find her mother sitting alone, sipping a cup of tea.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s waiting for you in the compact.”
“We’re not taking the Arctic Truck?”
“Stefan needs it to run some errands.”
“And the hatchback wagon?”
“I’ll be running some errands, too. I’m going to the Andersson’s to pick up some groceries.”
Freda nodded.
“Your father is waiting outside.”
Freda joined her father in the compact. Although it was cramped, it was better than nothing. The compact belonged to Stefan, but all the adults shared the vehicles equally. Since there was no mass transit in Iceland, everyone relied on his or her own means of transportation, whether it was an Arctic Truck, an SUV, a snowmobile, or even Stefan’s compact.
Mr. Samuelsson drove to the docks and parked his car behind an old warehouse. Although she hadn’t been to Dalvik’s shipyard in a long time, she was very familiar with everything around her.
Dockworkers busily loaded and unloaded cargo ships and seaplanes. Forklifts raced between the docks to the warehouses, carrying giant crates. Most were filled with fresh fish.
Freda grabbed her backpack and followed her father through the warehouse. This place was familiar to Freda, too. It was where one of her daddy’s business associates, Mr. Thorvald, worked. Mr. Thorvald ran the Dalvik Fish Market. He was a fishmonger. He sold fish to restaurants, grocers, and exporters. His fish sometimes traveled half way around the world. He also sold fresh fish to the people of Dalvik. His market was the most popular in town.
“Arni! How are you doing this morning?”
“Oba! I’m doing just fine. How about you?” shouted Mr. Thorvaldson.
“I’m a little groggy, but I brought my co-pilot,” said Mr. Samuelsson.
“It’s been a long time, Freda,” said Mr. Thorvaldson, “How old are you now?”
“I’ll be ten in just a few months.”
“You’re growing into quite a beautiful lady.”
Freda blushed as the two men chuckled. She turned her attention to the Fish Market as they turned their attention to business.
The people who worked at the Fish Market were called fishmongers, too. As they pried open crates full of fish, the sound of nails bending in wood and crowbars clanging on the concrete floor of the warehouse filled the air. The men grabbed the fish, which were as nearly as big as Freda herself, and tossed them to other men. The men caught the fish in their hands and tossed them onward to another man. It was the fastest way to get the fish from the loading area, where forklifts unloaded the crates to the stocking area where other fishmongers sold the fresh fish to the public.
Freda loved the smells and noises of the Fish Market.
“Come on, Freda,” said her father, interrupting her thoughts.
“Already?”
“The plane’s waiting. All it needs is you and me.”
Freda followed her father to the docks. His seaplane sat between two piers. On one side, men were loading crates into another seaplane. On the other side, the cabin door was unfolded. Its steps leaned over the water, ready to accept two passengers.
Mr. Samuelsson lifted his daughter onto the steps.
“Up you go,” he said.
They eased into the pilot’s cabin, buckling themselves into their seats. A dockworker ame up and handed Mr. Samuelsson a clipboard. Mr. Samuelsson signed it and returned it to the dockworker.
The man went to the front of the seaplane and signaled to Mr. Samuelsson. The dockworker jerked on the propeller, giving it a turn. The seaplane sputtered and coughed before whirring to life.
The dockworker checked to see the dock was clear before he twirled a finger above his head. Mr. Samuelsson backed the seaplane into the bay and turned it around.
As the seaplane sped through the bay, Freda stared out the open cabin door.
Heavy waves undulated like a black linen sheet being flipped over an empty bed. Every so often, bitter winds whipped through the cabin door. Freda tucked her chin under the neckband of her jacket. After that didn’t work, she curled her body in her seat, avoiding direct contact with any wind at all.
“There’s a mummy bag in the back, if you want to bundle up,” offered her father.
Freda glanced into the back of the cabin at the two sleeping bags rolled, tied, and stuffed into the corner. A whip of wind hit her in the face as soon as she jumped from her seat. She tried untying one of the mummy bags with her mittens on, but soon realized that would not work at all.
She tugged off both mittens and worked feverishly on the knotted rope. What seemed like minutes was only seconds as she unfastened the mummy bag. She kicked off her boots and jumped into the bag. After she was safe inside, she hopped back to her seat and sat beside her father, tucked into her mummy bag like a moth in the comfort of its cocoon.
Seagulls and terns took their places as the seaplane took for the air.
The seaplane turned northwest as it rose over the bay. Soon, Dalvik vanished behind them. Ólafsfjörður lay just an hour or two ahead.
Even with her wool coat and mummy bag, Freda’s face remained frozen cold. She was happy when the seaplane’s engine slowed. It skimmed over the surface, landing in a far away bay.
“Puffins!” exclaimed Freda.
The little black, white, and orange birds took flight as Mr. Samuelsson’s plane touched down in Ólafsfjörður Bay. Unlike the seagulls, the puffins were quite a quiet flock. They did not squawk like the birds of Dalvik. They also kept together, whether they were wading in the bay or flying overhead.
“I hope Mr. Steinnar is here,” said her father.
“I can hardly wait to see him again,” said Freda.
As the seaplane navigated its way through the traffic of seaplanes and fishing boats, Freda watched the puffins gathered at the far end of the pier. Like the seagulls and terns, the puffins scavenged for free fish. Some even swam into the way of Mr. Samuelsson’s seaplane.
“Get out of here!” shouted Mr. Samuelsson.
The birds could not hear him over the rumble of the seaplane’s engine. Mr. Samuelsson slowed the seaplane to an idle, steering through the flock of puffins.
Mr. Steinnar was on shore, waiting for the Samuelsson’s seaplane to arrive. He waved to Freda and she waved back. Mr. Samuelsson shut off the engine as the plane floated the last few meters toward the dock.
Dockworkers grabbed the seaplane by the wings and carefully steered it to the mooring posts. They tied off the guide lines and unfolded the cabin door. Freda stepped out, helped to the docks by Mr. Steinnar.
“How was the trip?” he asked.
“Very chilly,” she replied.
“My house is cozy and warm,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“I remember,” she said.
“We’re not going to the haberdashery. I own another house where I live when I’m not working. It’s a turf house, so you know it’ll be warm.”
“Is it very far?”
“Not at all.”
They left the seaplane behind so the dockworkers could reload it with a fresh batch of fish to take to Dalvik. Freda had seen turf houses before, but had never had the chance to stay inside one. Freda wondered what the houses under the ground would be like.
Soon, she would get a chance to visit one and see for herself.
Kings and Queens
It was a veritable Smörgåsbord laid out on the table – a buffet of all kinds of fine Scandinavian foods. Not only had Mrs. Samuelsson prepared fish chowder, but also there was a jar of pickled herring, a platter of smashed potatoes, and healthy servings of baked halibut and grilled tomatoes.
As the Samuelsson children gathered at the small dining room table, their mother checked them over before everyone took their seat. She clenched her hands just beneath her chin and began a prayer.
“Come, Lord Jesus, be our Guest,
And bless what you have bestowed.”
“Amen,” everyone said in unison.
Hands and arms simultaneously went in their own determined directions as everyone reached for their favorite food. Freda watched as the one thing she wanted, the fish chowder, was passed from brother to father to mother.
“What’s wrong, dear?” asked Mrs. Samuelsson.
“May I please have the fish chowder?”
“I’m terribly sorry. Hand me your bowl so I can fill it with chowder.”
As soon as Freda’s mother returned the full bowl, Freda began eating. The fish in the fish chowder was halibut. Freda could tell for two reasons. First, whenever her mother purchased halibut, she would have the fishmonger slice it into thin snake-shaped filets. When she came home, she’d chop each filet in half and boil the pieces until they puffed into tiny rectangular cubes. Secondly, her mother always purchased North Shore halibut, which always left an oily-fishy aftertaste. No matter how her mother cooked North shore halibut, you always knew it was a fish.
“Ma, why did you cook halibut when you put it in the chowder, too?”
“I made the baked halibut first. I decided to use the leftovers to make chowder at the last moment.”
It did not matter, because everyone would eat whatever Mrs. Samuelsson cooked.
Freda grabbed a piece of cold toast and crumbled it into her chowder before finishing her first bowl. She began her second bowl by adding cold crumbled toast. The bread soaked up the liquid, making the chowder even thicker than before.
“Did you catch any fish today?” asked Stefan.
“No we did not,” replied Freda.
“Your father and I never came home empty handed,” boasted Stefan.
“That’s not true,” Mrs. Samuelsson said defensively.
“There have been times,” added Mr. Samuelsson, “when we’ve spent an entire weekend in the ice shake and not returned with anything but wind-burnt cheeks.”
“That’s not the way I remember it,” replied Stefan.
Freda let out an exhaustive sigh.
Freda hated competing with her older brother, but her brother seemed to take great joy in proving who was the favorite son.
“Don’t you worry about it,” said mother, “you’ll bring something home next time.”
“Gretl, quit spoiling that child. She can stand up for herself,” said Freda’s father. He gave his young girl a wink as he plucked a pickled herring out of the jar.
“Does anyone else want one?”
“I’ll take one,” said Stefan.
“Me too,” added Freda.
Mr. Samuelsson fished the herring out of the tiny pickling jar and took one for himself, too. He then plopped a scoop of smashed potatoes on his plate, topping it with a healthy dollop of butter. He then slathered fish chowder over the top, as if it were gravy. Meanwhile, Freda reached for the grilled tomatoes.
“Ma, did you get these from the grocery store, too?”
“Actually, I got those from Mrs. Anderson. She has a hot house, you know.”
“I wish we had a garden, too.”
“We’d have to build a hothouse before we could have a garden,” said her father.
“I’ve seem outdoor gardens,” argued Freda.
“Those are for potatoes and carrots. It is very hard to grow tomatoes outdoors,” said her father.
“It’s just something the Danish people do,” said mother.
“What do you mean?”
“Of all the Vikings that settled in Iceland, the only ones that ever really farmed were the people from Denmark. I guess it’s because the rest of us were too busy being Vikings.”
“Next time you see her will you please thank her for me?” asked Freda.
“I think Mrs. Anderson would appreciate that very much.”
Freda did as her father did, eating one last serving of smashed potatoes, covered in butter. Her potatoes, however, were not topped with fish chowder.
“Daddy, would you like to play chess after dinner?”
“That sounds like a perfect idea,” replied her father.
Freda could always rely on her father for a game of after-dinner chess. He believed that a good game of chess kept the mind as sharp as a tack.
After she put her dishes in the washer, she went to the living room where her father waited. He was waiting in the middle of the living room, seated in a metal folding chair. Freda moved a small round lamp stand in front of her father. She sat up the chessboard and put the pieces in their places before fetching a second folding chair for herself. As she did, her father adjusted each piece was centered in its square. He plucked a white pawn and a black pawn from the board and held them behind his back for a moment. He held his two fists outstretched towards Freda. She tapped the left hand and he unfolded it, revealing a white pawn.
“I guess you’re first,” he replied.
They rotated the chessboard and replaced the two missing pawns. Freda began the game by moving the King’s pawn two spaces forward. Her father did the exact same thing with his black pawn.
‘Which way should I go now?’ she thought to herself. She moved one of her knights forward and her father countered by advancing his queen. They continued like this for a while longer, until Mr. Samuelsson attacked with his queen.
“I didn’t see that,” said Freda.
“I have a feeling you’re missing quite a few things,” replied her father.
In the next four moves, Mr. Samuelsson’s queen removed a pawn, a bishop, a knight, and the other bishop.
“You’re taking all my pieces,” said Freda.
“It’s all part of the game.”
Freda studied the board. She figured it was time to retaliate. She advanced her queen towards the center of the board. Now, she was in striking distance of three different pieces. Now, her father would have to choose who to keep and who to let go.
“That’s a fine move, Freda.”
Mr. Samuelsson pulled at his whiskers, just as he always did whenever he was perplexed. He had taught his daughter well. Maybe it was too well, because he now had to figure a way to protect his Queen. He slid the Queen backwards, removing yet another of Freda’s pawn.
Freda slid her Queen diagonally. Mr. Samuelsson advanced his Queen again, taking yet another pawn. Freda moved her knight. Mr. Samuelsson moved one space over, removing yet another pawn. Freda moved her knight again. Mr. Samuelsson took one of Freda’s rooks.
“Check,” he stated.
Freda moved her king out of the way. Mr. Samuelsson slid his Queen along the back row, removing the other rook. Now, all Freda had was her king, her queen, two pawns, and a knight. Her father was only missing a pawn. However, things were about to change.
“I think it’s your turn to be missing something,” said Freda confidently.
She picked up her knight and moved it into one of the squares where a black pawn sat. She swapped out the pieces, placing her knight a short distance away from the king. However, not one of the black pieces could harm the white knight.
“Check…and mate,” announced Freda.
“Hmmm,” said her father as he investigated the chessboard. The king could not move out of the way, because Freda’s Queen was protecting the only free space for his King.
He tipped his King over, signifying defeat.
“Good game, my dear child.”
“There’s one thing I don’t get,” said Freda.
“What’s that?” asked her father.
“You have all these pieces and I only have a few. I think you should win.”
“But you cannot rule a country without a King,” said her father.
“Wasn’t there a time when Iceland didn’t have a King?” questioned Mrs. Samuelsson from the hallway.
“Yes, the time of the Commonwealth.”
“What’s a Commonwealth?” asked Freda.
“It was when each part of the country had its own tribe, called a clan. Each clan had a leader, called a Chieftain.”
“It’s sort of like ‘Chief,’” replied Freda.
“That’s the exact reason why I gave him that name.”
“So, why did it change?” asked Freda.
“Sometimes, clans would go to wars. There was one family that rose to power. Have you ever heard of Snorri Sturluson?”
Freda nodded.
“His family started feuds with other clans.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They wanted more control over their territories. Some clans would attack neighbors to get their fields. When that happened, chieftains would retaliate. First, one clan would attack the other and then the other clan would attack back. Sometimes, chieftains would gang up on other gangs, just like your knight and Queen ganged up on my King.”
“So, I’m like a mini-chieftain?”
“I suppose so,” chuckled her father.
“What happened then?”
“These arguments would grow more and more hostile until many lives were lost. These arguments became known as blood feuds.”
“How did it finally stop?”
“The chieftains decided it was finally time to make an agreement not to fight anymore.”
“That’s it? They just stopped?”
Her father nodded. “In a way, yes. Also, this agreement allowed Iceland to unite with Norway. Now, Iceland had a King, who would make decisions and create laws. Instead of killing each other, farmers settled these matters by the law of the land.”
“That’s good for us,” said Freda.
“That doesn’t mean you and I can’t have another blood feud of our own. Do you want to play again?”
“Of course I do,” she replied.
Freda set the pieces in their proper squares. Meanwhile, Mr. Samuelsson carefully positioned each piece in the center of its square. This went on for the rest of the night. Kingdoms were created and kingdoms were destroyed, but not an ounce of blood was shed.
And this is the way Freda and her father liked it.
As the Samuelsson children gathered at the small dining room table, their mother checked them over before everyone took their seat. She clenched her hands just beneath her chin and began a prayer.
“Come, Lord Jesus, be our Guest,
And bless what you have bestowed.”
“Amen,” everyone said in unison.
Hands and arms simultaneously went in their own determined directions as everyone reached for their favorite food. Freda watched as the one thing she wanted, the fish chowder, was passed from brother to father to mother.
“What’s wrong, dear?” asked Mrs. Samuelsson.
“May I please have the fish chowder?”
“I’m terribly sorry. Hand me your bowl so I can fill it with chowder.”
As soon as Freda’s mother returned the full bowl, Freda began eating. The fish in the fish chowder was halibut. Freda could tell for two reasons. First, whenever her mother purchased halibut, she would have the fishmonger slice it into thin snake-shaped filets. When she came home, she’d chop each filet in half and boil the pieces until they puffed into tiny rectangular cubes. Secondly, her mother always purchased North Shore halibut, which always left an oily-fishy aftertaste. No matter how her mother cooked North shore halibut, you always knew it was a fish.
“Ma, why did you cook halibut when you put it in the chowder, too?”
“I made the baked halibut first. I decided to use the leftovers to make chowder at the last moment.”
It did not matter, because everyone would eat whatever Mrs. Samuelsson cooked.
Freda grabbed a piece of cold toast and crumbled it into her chowder before finishing her first bowl. She began her second bowl by adding cold crumbled toast. The bread soaked up the liquid, making the chowder even thicker than before.
“Did you catch any fish today?” asked Stefan.
“No we did not,” replied Freda.
“Your father and I never came home empty handed,” boasted Stefan.
“That’s not true,” Mrs. Samuelsson said defensively.
“There have been times,” added Mr. Samuelsson, “when we’ve spent an entire weekend in the ice shake and not returned with anything but wind-burnt cheeks.”
“That’s not the way I remember it,” replied Stefan.
Freda let out an exhaustive sigh.
Freda hated competing with her older brother, but her brother seemed to take great joy in proving who was the favorite son.
“Don’t you worry about it,” said mother, “you’ll bring something home next time.”
“Gretl, quit spoiling that child. She can stand up for herself,” said Freda’s father. He gave his young girl a wink as he plucked a pickled herring out of the jar.
“Does anyone else want one?”
“I’ll take one,” said Stefan.
“Me too,” added Freda.
Mr. Samuelsson fished the herring out of the tiny pickling jar and took one for himself, too. He then plopped a scoop of smashed potatoes on his plate, topping it with a healthy dollop of butter. He then slathered fish chowder over the top, as if it were gravy. Meanwhile, Freda reached for the grilled tomatoes.
“Ma, did you get these from the grocery store, too?”
“Actually, I got those from Mrs. Anderson. She has a hot house, you know.”
“I wish we had a garden, too.”
“We’d have to build a hothouse before we could have a garden,” said her father.
“I’ve seem outdoor gardens,” argued Freda.
“Those are for potatoes and carrots. It is very hard to grow tomatoes outdoors,” said her father.
“It’s just something the Danish people do,” said mother.
“What do you mean?”
“Of all the Vikings that settled in Iceland, the only ones that ever really farmed were the people from Denmark. I guess it’s because the rest of us were too busy being Vikings.”
“Next time you see her will you please thank her for me?” asked Freda.
“I think Mrs. Anderson would appreciate that very much.”
Freda did as her father did, eating one last serving of smashed potatoes, covered in butter. Her potatoes, however, were not topped with fish chowder.
“Daddy, would you like to play chess after dinner?”
“That sounds like a perfect idea,” replied her father.
Freda could always rely on her father for a game of after-dinner chess. He believed that a good game of chess kept the mind as sharp as a tack.
After she put her dishes in the washer, she went to the living room where her father waited. He was waiting in the middle of the living room, seated in a metal folding chair. Freda moved a small round lamp stand in front of her father. She sat up the chessboard and put the pieces in their places before fetching a second folding chair for herself. As she did, her father adjusted each piece was centered in its square. He plucked a white pawn and a black pawn from the board and held them behind his back for a moment. He held his two fists outstretched towards Freda. She tapped the left hand and he unfolded it, revealing a white pawn.
“I guess you’re first,” he replied.
They rotated the chessboard and replaced the two missing pawns. Freda began the game by moving the King’s pawn two spaces forward. Her father did the exact same thing with his black pawn.
‘Which way should I go now?’ she thought to herself. She moved one of her knights forward and her father countered by advancing his queen. They continued like this for a while longer, until Mr. Samuelsson attacked with his queen.
“I didn’t see that,” said Freda.
“I have a feeling you’re missing quite a few things,” replied her father.
In the next four moves, Mr. Samuelsson’s queen removed a pawn, a bishop, a knight, and the other bishop.
“You’re taking all my pieces,” said Freda.
“It’s all part of the game.”
Freda studied the board. She figured it was time to retaliate. She advanced her queen towards the center of the board. Now, she was in striking distance of three different pieces. Now, her father would have to choose who to keep and who to let go.
“That’s a fine move, Freda.”
Mr. Samuelsson pulled at his whiskers, just as he always did whenever he was perplexed. He had taught his daughter well. Maybe it was too well, because he now had to figure a way to protect his Queen. He slid the Queen backwards, removing yet another of Freda’s pawn.
Freda slid her Queen diagonally. Mr. Samuelsson advanced his Queen again, taking yet another pawn. Freda moved her knight. Mr. Samuelsson moved one space over, removing yet another pawn. Freda moved her knight again. Mr. Samuelsson took one of Freda’s rooks.
“Check,” he stated.
Freda moved her king out of the way. Mr. Samuelsson slid his Queen along the back row, removing the other rook. Now, all Freda had was her king, her queen, two pawns, and a knight. Her father was only missing a pawn. However, things were about to change.
“I think it’s your turn to be missing something,” said Freda confidently.
She picked up her knight and moved it into one of the squares where a black pawn sat. She swapped out the pieces, placing her knight a short distance away from the king. However, not one of the black pieces could harm the white knight.
“Check…and mate,” announced Freda.
“Hmmm,” said her father as he investigated the chessboard. The king could not move out of the way, because Freda’s Queen was protecting the only free space for his King.
He tipped his King over, signifying defeat.
“Good game, my dear child.”
“There’s one thing I don’t get,” said Freda.
“What’s that?” asked her father.
“You have all these pieces and I only have a few. I think you should win.”
“But you cannot rule a country without a King,” said her father.
“Wasn’t there a time when Iceland didn’t have a King?” questioned Mrs. Samuelsson from the hallway.
“Yes, the time of the Commonwealth.”
“What’s a Commonwealth?” asked Freda.
“It was when each part of the country had its own tribe, called a clan. Each clan had a leader, called a Chieftain.”
“It’s sort of like ‘Chief,’” replied Freda.
“That’s the exact reason why I gave him that name.”
“So, why did it change?” asked Freda.
“Sometimes, clans would go to wars. There was one family that rose to power. Have you ever heard of Snorri Sturluson?”
Freda nodded.
“His family started feuds with other clans.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They wanted more control over their territories. Some clans would attack neighbors to get their fields. When that happened, chieftains would retaliate. First, one clan would attack the other and then the other clan would attack back. Sometimes, chieftains would gang up on other gangs, just like your knight and Queen ganged up on my King.”
“So, I’m like a mini-chieftain?”
“I suppose so,” chuckled her father.
“What happened then?”
“These arguments would grow more and more hostile until many lives were lost. These arguments became known as blood feuds.”
“How did it finally stop?”
“The chieftains decided it was finally time to make an agreement not to fight anymore.”
“That’s it? They just stopped?”
Her father nodded. “In a way, yes. Also, this agreement allowed Iceland to unite with Norway. Now, Iceland had a King, who would make decisions and create laws. Instead of killing each other, farmers settled these matters by the law of the land.”
“That’s good for us,” said Freda.
“That doesn’t mean you and I can’t have another blood feud of our own. Do you want to play again?”
“Of course I do,” she replied.
Freda set the pieces in their proper squares. Meanwhile, Mr. Samuelsson carefully positioned each piece in the center of its square. This went on for the rest of the night. Kingdoms were created and kingdoms were destroyed, but not an ounce of blood was shed.
And this is the way Freda and her father liked it.
Vikings and Monks
Unlike the night before, the road that lay before Mr. Samuelsson was relatively clear. The tires crunched through a thin layer of snow, which was already melting under the bright morning sun.
“Freda? Are you asleep?”
“Not yet,” she replied.
“You should take a look at the Ocean. It’s beautiful today.”
Freda opened her eyes and looked to her left. The vast expanse of dark blue water stretched across the horizon.
“Look at all the seagulls,” said Freda.
“That’s because there’s a fishing boat nearby,” said her father.
“Why do you say that?”
“Seagulls are smart fishermen. They let fishing boats do all their fishing.”
“How do they do that?”
“Fishermen chop up the smaller fish and throw them back into the sea. The seagulls pick through the leftovers that float on the waves.”
“Don’t you think those fishermen get annoyed with the seagulls?”
“On the contrary, sailors think seagulls are lucky.”
“How could a seagull be lucky?”
“Fishing boats often go far from land. When they’re returning home and they spot a seagull, they know it will not be long until they are home.”
Freda watched the seagulls hover over the water. They teetered on the wind, their necks stretching downward as they searched for fish.
“How do you think they learned to fish like that?”
“Like most creatures, they know it’s easier to be a scavenger than a hunter.”
“Then why aren’t we scavengers?” asked Freda.
“Because we can fish,” answered her father.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to be like the seagulls?”
“Mankind doesn’t scavenge. He hunts. That’s the way it’s always been. Even the Vikings were great hunters and fisherman.”
“Is that why we’re fishermen?”
“It’s one reason. You have to remember that Iceland is an island. It was here long before there were any Vikings.”
“I thought Vikings were from Iceland.”
“They were also from Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Finland, too. That’s why we’re called Scandinavians.”
“What does it mean to be from Scandinavia?” asked Freda.
“We all came from Northern Europe, sailing from one country to another. There was a place once called Scania. It’s part of the southern shores of Sweden and the Northern shores of Denmark. Since Scania was bordered by the Baltic Sea in the east and the North Sea in the west, Scandinavians were known for their longships. Those great Viking ships are still one of the things in which we take pride.”
“Have you ever seen a longboat?”
“Once, when I was a young boy, your grandfather and I went for a ride on a longboat.”
“What was it like?”
“It was exciting. I remember going to a celebration where longboats of all shapes and sizes gathered near the shore. Large sails billowed in the breeze. Some were plain, but most were painted with fancy designs. Some had mythical beasts painted on the front and others had stripes or crosses. I loved riding in that old clinker.”
“Clinker?”
“That’s what the Vikings called their longboats. It’s because of the way they were constructed. Long pieces of wood were connected alongside each other, often fastened with metal straps.”
“It doesn’t seem so special.”
“It was very special. Their long, flat bottoms on Viking ships made them the fastest things in the water. Vikings even placed carved dragon heads on the prow. That’s why the enemies called them ‘dragon ships’.”
“Is that the only way Scandinavians are alike?”
Mr. Samuelsson pulled at the whiskers of his blonde beard as he gave her question some thought.
“If you look at our flags, you’ll see the Nordic Cross. That cross represents the people of the North – the Nordic people. The North Sea was their common link. It’s just like Mr. Thorvald said, ‘from raiders to invaders to traders.’ The sea may be our only true link, but it is an important one.”
Freda looked across the shore. Rock-filled shores dotted the coastline.
“I don’t know how they could’ve picked Iceland. When you look at it from the Ocean, all you see is rocks. Even when you get past the rocks, there is only a thin strip of land where they could live.”
“You don’t like it here?” asked her father.
“I don’t know. When I look at pictures of Norway and Sweden in books, I see the same thing. Everywhere you look, there are jagged rocks.”
“That’s what life is like in the fingerlands. Fjords cut jagged coastlines in all the Scandinavian countries, but there is still more to Iceland.”
“Like what?”
“When you think about home, what is the first thing you think about?”
“Tall cliffs.”
“What is the first thing you’ll check on when we get home?”
“Sarge.”
Her father nodded. “Your old horse runs in the field behind our house all day long. How could she do that on jagged rocks?”
Freda looked out her own window. Unlike the rocky shores, farmland extended inland. Sheep and cows and horses grazed on the thick, grassy fields.
“I guess you’re right,” she replied.
Soon, the arctic truck turned off Ring Road, joining with the familiar dirt road that ventured inland. Their house sat at the top of a rolling hill.
“Finally,” said Freda.
As the truck stopped beside the house, Freda and her father unloaded gear. The old house leaned a small bit, pushed slightly off balance by trade winds that blew in from the North Sea.
Just like Mr. Thorvald’s Haberdashery, the outside of Freda’s house was white. Multiple layers of paint covered the outside walls. As anyone got nearer to the house, that person could plainly see where the paint flaked. Some peeled by natural causes, some was peeled away by Freda’s nervous hands when she played alone on the front porch.
As soon as Freda unloaded her luggage and fishing gear, she headed directly to the back porch. She grabbed a bucket and filled it with milled oats. Then, she went to the backyard, where her horse waited.
“Sarge,” she purred softly.
The old horse shook its head and neighed, happy to see its owner.
Freda fit the bucket into its place inside the horse stall. An impatient Sarge pushed Freda aside as it nosed its way into the bucket of oats.
“Why can’t you just wait until I put your bucket in its place?”
Sarge refused to answer as it happily ate its meal.
Freda fit her hand into the horsehair brush sitting on the shelf. She ran it over Sarge’s thick winter coat. The thick bristles massaged the horse and put a shine on the coat. Every time she ran the brush over Sarge’s rear haunches, the horse’s thigh muscles twitched.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she whispered.
Sarge glanced at Freda and then closed its eyes. Freda tried her best to avoid the places that tickled the old Icelandic horse as she continued brushing its hair.
After a short while, Sarge was sleeping. Freda put away the hairbrush and closed the barn door behind her.
“How’s Sarrge?” asked her father.
“She’s doing just fine. I fed her and combed her hair.”
“I hope you get around to saying hello to your mother,” said Mrs. Samuelsson.
“Hello, mommy. It’s good to be home,” said Freda as she gave her mother a hug.
“This is a new coat. Where did you get it?”
“Mr. Thorvald gave it to me.”
“It’s a very nice coat. You should take good care of it.”
“I will,” replied Freda.
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving.”
“That’s good because I’m making some fish chowder.”
“I can’t wait.”
“It’ll be ready soon, so wash up and get your brother while you’re at it.”
Freda went upstairs in a flash. Her brother was taking a mid-afternoon nap. She woke him before washing her face and hands. When she returned downstairs, there was a feast fit for a king sitting on the dining room table. Freda could hardly wait.
“Freda? Are you asleep?”
“Not yet,” she replied.
“You should take a look at the Ocean. It’s beautiful today.”
Freda opened her eyes and looked to her left. The vast expanse of dark blue water stretched across the horizon.
“Look at all the seagulls,” said Freda.
“That’s because there’s a fishing boat nearby,” said her father.
“Why do you say that?”
“Seagulls are smart fishermen. They let fishing boats do all their fishing.”
“How do they do that?”
“Fishermen chop up the smaller fish and throw them back into the sea. The seagulls pick through the leftovers that float on the waves.”
“Don’t you think those fishermen get annoyed with the seagulls?”
“On the contrary, sailors think seagulls are lucky.”
“How could a seagull be lucky?”
“Fishing boats often go far from land. When they’re returning home and they spot a seagull, they know it will not be long until they are home.”
Freda watched the seagulls hover over the water. They teetered on the wind, their necks stretching downward as they searched for fish.
“How do you think they learned to fish like that?”
“Like most creatures, they know it’s easier to be a scavenger than a hunter.”
“Then why aren’t we scavengers?” asked Freda.
“Because we can fish,” answered her father.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to be like the seagulls?”
“Mankind doesn’t scavenge. He hunts. That’s the way it’s always been. Even the Vikings were great hunters and fisherman.”
“Is that why we’re fishermen?”
“It’s one reason. You have to remember that Iceland is an island. It was here long before there were any Vikings.”
“I thought Vikings were from Iceland.”
“They were also from Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Finland, too. That’s why we’re called Scandinavians.”
“What does it mean to be from Scandinavia?” asked Freda.
“We all came from Northern Europe, sailing from one country to another. There was a place once called Scania. It’s part of the southern shores of Sweden and the Northern shores of Denmark. Since Scania was bordered by the Baltic Sea in the east and the North Sea in the west, Scandinavians were known for their longships. Those great Viking ships are still one of the things in which we take pride.”
“Have you ever seen a longboat?”
“Once, when I was a young boy, your grandfather and I went for a ride on a longboat.”
“What was it like?”
“It was exciting. I remember going to a celebration where longboats of all shapes and sizes gathered near the shore. Large sails billowed in the breeze. Some were plain, but most were painted with fancy designs. Some had mythical beasts painted on the front and others had stripes or crosses. I loved riding in that old clinker.”
“Clinker?”
“That’s what the Vikings called their longboats. It’s because of the way they were constructed. Long pieces of wood were connected alongside each other, often fastened with metal straps.”
“It doesn’t seem so special.”
“It was very special. Their long, flat bottoms on Viking ships made them the fastest things in the water. Vikings even placed carved dragon heads on the prow. That’s why the enemies called them ‘dragon ships’.”
“Is that the only way Scandinavians are alike?”
Mr. Samuelsson pulled at the whiskers of his blonde beard as he gave her question some thought.
“If you look at our flags, you’ll see the Nordic Cross. That cross represents the people of the North – the Nordic people. The North Sea was their common link. It’s just like Mr. Thorvald said, ‘from raiders to invaders to traders.’ The sea may be our only true link, but it is an important one.”
Freda looked across the shore. Rock-filled shores dotted the coastline.
“I don’t know how they could’ve picked Iceland. When you look at it from the Ocean, all you see is rocks. Even when you get past the rocks, there is only a thin strip of land where they could live.”
“You don’t like it here?” asked her father.
“I don’t know. When I look at pictures of Norway and Sweden in books, I see the same thing. Everywhere you look, there are jagged rocks.”
“That’s what life is like in the fingerlands. Fjords cut jagged coastlines in all the Scandinavian countries, but there is still more to Iceland.”
“Like what?”
“When you think about home, what is the first thing you think about?”
“Tall cliffs.”
“What is the first thing you’ll check on when we get home?”
“Sarge.”
Her father nodded. “Your old horse runs in the field behind our house all day long. How could she do that on jagged rocks?”
Freda looked out her own window. Unlike the rocky shores, farmland extended inland. Sheep and cows and horses grazed on the thick, grassy fields.
“I guess you’re right,” she replied.
Soon, the arctic truck turned off Ring Road, joining with the familiar dirt road that ventured inland. Their house sat at the top of a rolling hill.
“Finally,” said Freda.
As the truck stopped beside the house, Freda and her father unloaded gear. The old house leaned a small bit, pushed slightly off balance by trade winds that blew in from the North Sea.
Just like Mr. Thorvald’s Haberdashery, the outside of Freda’s house was white. Multiple layers of paint covered the outside walls. As anyone got nearer to the house, that person could plainly see where the paint flaked. Some peeled by natural causes, some was peeled away by Freda’s nervous hands when she played alone on the front porch.
As soon as Freda unloaded her luggage and fishing gear, she headed directly to the back porch. She grabbed a bucket and filled it with milled oats. Then, she went to the backyard, where her horse waited.
“Sarge,” she purred softly.
The old horse shook its head and neighed, happy to see its owner.
Freda fit the bucket into its place inside the horse stall. An impatient Sarge pushed Freda aside as it nosed its way into the bucket of oats.
“Why can’t you just wait until I put your bucket in its place?”
Sarge refused to answer as it happily ate its meal.
Freda fit her hand into the horsehair brush sitting on the shelf. She ran it over Sarge’s thick winter coat. The thick bristles massaged the horse and put a shine on the coat. Every time she ran the brush over Sarge’s rear haunches, the horse’s thigh muscles twitched.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she whispered.
Sarge glanced at Freda and then closed its eyes. Freda tried her best to avoid the places that tickled the old Icelandic horse as she continued brushing its hair.
After a short while, Sarge was sleeping. Freda put away the hairbrush and closed the barn door behind her.
“How’s Sarrge?” asked her father.
“She’s doing just fine. I fed her and combed her hair.”
“I hope you get around to saying hello to your mother,” said Mrs. Samuelsson.
“Hello, mommy. It’s good to be home,” said Freda as she gave her mother a hug.
“This is a new coat. Where did you get it?”
“Mr. Thorvald gave it to me.”
“It’s a very nice coat. You should take good care of it.”
“I will,” replied Freda.
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving.”
“That’s good because I’m making some fish chowder.”
“I can’t wait.”
“It’ll be ready soon, so wash up and get your brother while you’re at it.”
Freda went upstairs in a flash. Her brother was taking a mid-afternoon nap. She woke him before washing her face and hands. When she returned downstairs, there was a feast fit for a king sitting on the dining room table. Freda could hardly wait.
In Sheep's Clothing
Although her sleep was nearly perfect, waking up was quite another matter. A series of barks, both human and animal, came from the barnyard. Freda ran to the window and looked outside, only to find Mr. Steinnar, with shovel-in-hand, chasing after an arctic fox.
The white-furred fox ran circles around Mr. Steinnar, yapping at the chubby old man. Meanwhile, Mr. Steinnar tried his best to catch the crafty fox.
Soon after, Freda’s father joined Mr. Steinnar in the barnyard. The two men were trying to protect Mr. Steinnar’s collection of Icelandic Sheep.
Usually, this was a job for Mr. Steinnar’s sheepdog, Thor. Unfortunately, Thor was no legendary hero. Instead, he was a lazy old dog who watched from the warmth of the barn.
Freda got dressed and hurried downstairs. She did not want either her father or Mr. Steinnar hurting the beautiful fox.
“Get out!” Mr. Steinnar shouted at the fox.
“Scat!” shouted Mr. Samuelsson.
“Leave him alone!” screeched Freda.
The men stopped at Freda’s command. They also stopped to catch their breath. The fox paused, knee-deep in snow. The fox glanced at the red-headed girl on the porch and then at the tired old men in the barnyard. The men were bent at the waist with their hands on their knees. They exhaled hot clouds of breath from their lungs.
The arctic fox yapped at them from the safety of the snow bank. Mr. Steinnar popped up and took a few tired steps towards the fox. The fox darted under the electric fence and disappeared into the woods.
“And don’t come back!” shouted Mr. Steinnar.
In all the chaos, Freda had not noticed that her jacket was damp. She had not remembered it being that wet the previous night. In fact, the jacket smelled clean.
“You shouldn’t be out here in that jacket,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“Why not?”
“I just washed it this morning while you were in bed.”
“What will I do for a coat?” she asked.
“You do know I not only fix clothes, but I sell them, too. I have plenty more inside.”
Freda retreated to the warmth of the house. Soon after, Mr. Steinnar and her father joined her.
“Wait here one moment,” said Mr. Steinnar.
He grabbed the yellow measuring tape and drew it around Freda. He measured around her chest and her waist, then drew the tape from her neck to her hip. He even placed the end of the measuring tape on her forehead and drew it around her head. Afterwards, he looped the measuring tape around his neck and disappeared into a back room. He emerged with a green vest and overcoat.
“This should do the trick,” he stated.
“What trick?”
“Try them on,” he replied.
Freda buttoned the vest and pulled on the jacket. She rumpled her body, trying to make it fit. She was not used to the scratchiness of Icelandic wool. Her mother always took her to one of the shopping malls in Reykjavik whenever she needed a new coat.
“Hold still,” said Mr. Steinnar.
He stood in front of Freda and tugged on the shoulders of her jacket, straightening it on her frame. He picked lint off the face of the fabric. Afterwards, he ran his hands over the shoulder, smoothing the surface.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Scratchy.”
“Of course it’s scratchy. It’s wool. Do you like it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Go outside and see how it feels.”
He tied a wool scarf around her neck and gave her a wool cap, too. Freda went for test walk in the clothes. Although the clothes were plenty scratchy, they were plenty warm, too.
She followed the fox tracks until she passed by the barn. A group of Icelandic sheep sat behind a fence inside the barn, just on the other side of Thor. As she passed the old sheepdog, he opened one eye, investigated the red-haired girl, and then went back to sleep.
“Hello, sheep,” she said, “How are you doing?”
The sheep ignored Freda as they grazed from the feeding trough. They seemed perfectly comfortable inside the chilly barn.
“No wonder you’re not shivering, you’re wearing wool.”
She pet the sheep while they continued to eat. As soon as the sheep were finished, they moved away from the trough and away from Freda. She walked along the fence, peering at the sheep and their thick, woolen coats.
“Why is your wool so soft? I guess that’s because you do not have fingers to scratch when it itches.”
She leaned against the fence and watched the sheep for several moments. They gathered in the corner of their stall as they laid down for sleep.
Although the rest of her body felt fine, Freda’s cheeks and face were frozen. She decided it was time to return to the warmth of the farm house. Even though she was inside, she remained in her coat and hat, trying to get warm.
“You’d better remove your cap and coat,” said her father.
“But my face is still cold,” replied Freda.
“Then let’s warm you up,” said Mr. Steinnar.
He prepared a bowl of hræringur and offered it to Freda. Freda stirred the mix of porridge and yogurt with her spoon.
“Do you have any molasses?” she asked.
Mr. Steinnar retrieved a jar of molasses from the kitchen. She plopped the honey dipper into the molasses and drizzled it over the hræringur. She stirred her molasses into the hræringur and took a bite. It tasted rich, like heavy cream, but sweetened with the molasses. As Freda ate it, she warmed from the inside out.
She investigated the front room as she ate. In the light of day, she noticed a picture of a Viking ship on the far wall.
“Why do you have a picture of a boat?” asked Freda.
“That’s no boat. It’s a Viking Ship. Can you imagine sailing in these icy waters without a modern coat?”
“Brrr. Not at all,” replied Freda with a shiver.
“Icelandic explorers were masters of warm clothing, too.”
“Like my wool coat?”
“Even better. Vikings used something called oilskin.”
He brought an old black cape from the back room. It was made of canvas, but the outer surface was slick and glossy.
“Is this oilskin?”
Mr. Steinnar nodded.
“They coated some of their fabric with oil, which made the fabric windproof and waterproof. In fact, Icelandic scholars say this oilskin, layered over wool garments is just as warm as the most sophisticated jackets made today.”
Freda ran her hand over the oilskin. To her, it felt like the skin of a seal pup.
“Is it made from animal skin?”
“Normally it’s just cotton covered in oil and cured.”
“Cured?”
“Haberdashers would warm the coat over hot coals to dry the oil. After a layer of oil dried, they applied another layer of oil and baked the coat again. The oil also glued the threads of the fabric together, making it waterproof.”
“That seems like a lot of work,” said Freda.
“I’m sure it is, but it is better than being cold, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.”
Freda finished her hræringur and asked for another. Mr. Steinnar gladly obliged. He also served up two bowls of the hearty porridge for Mr. Samuelsson and himself.
“That hits the spot,” says Mr. Samuelsson.
“I agree,” added Freda, “I feel much better.”
“After I finish my bowl, I think we’d better get on the road.”
Freda groaned.
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Steinnar, “you’re welcome back anytime.”
“Good,” smiled Freda.
“You can keep the overcoat and vest, too. You’ll need it to keep you warm on the trip home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Steinnar.”
“You’re welcome, Freda.”
Freda put on her new vest and overcoat and tucked her old jacket under her arm.
“What do I owe you, Magnus?” offered Mr. Samuelsson.
“We’ll decide that the next time you come by the store.”
“Fair enough,” replied Freda’s father as the two men shook hands.
They said their good-byes and loaded themselves into the Arctic Truck. As they made their way back onto the Ring Road, they faced the sun. It beat on Freda’s face as she sat beside her father.
“How long do you think it’ll be until we’re home?” she asked.
“We’ll be there when we get there,” her father answered.
Freda had heard it time and time again. Her father was a man of few predictions. He always worked hard and tried his best. The rest was “up to the Good Lord”, as her father always said.
Freda closed her eyes, but did not go to sleep. Instead, she basked in the glow of the morning sun. She was warm and content. She was also anxious to get home and show her new coat to her mother.
The white-furred fox ran circles around Mr. Steinnar, yapping at the chubby old man. Meanwhile, Mr. Steinnar tried his best to catch the crafty fox.
Soon after, Freda’s father joined Mr. Steinnar in the barnyard. The two men were trying to protect Mr. Steinnar’s collection of Icelandic Sheep.
Usually, this was a job for Mr. Steinnar’s sheepdog, Thor. Unfortunately, Thor was no legendary hero. Instead, he was a lazy old dog who watched from the warmth of the barn.
Freda got dressed and hurried downstairs. She did not want either her father or Mr. Steinnar hurting the beautiful fox.
“Get out!” Mr. Steinnar shouted at the fox.
“Scat!” shouted Mr. Samuelsson.
“Leave him alone!” screeched Freda.
The men stopped at Freda’s command. They also stopped to catch their breath. The fox paused, knee-deep in snow. The fox glanced at the red-headed girl on the porch and then at the tired old men in the barnyard. The men were bent at the waist with their hands on their knees. They exhaled hot clouds of breath from their lungs.
The arctic fox yapped at them from the safety of the snow bank. Mr. Steinnar popped up and took a few tired steps towards the fox. The fox darted under the electric fence and disappeared into the woods.
“And don’t come back!” shouted Mr. Steinnar.
In all the chaos, Freda had not noticed that her jacket was damp. She had not remembered it being that wet the previous night. In fact, the jacket smelled clean.
“You shouldn’t be out here in that jacket,” said Mr. Steinnar.
“Why not?”
“I just washed it this morning while you were in bed.”
“What will I do for a coat?” she asked.
“You do know I not only fix clothes, but I sell them, too. I have plenty more inside.”
Freda retreated to the warmth of the house. Soon after, Mr. Steinnar and her father joined her.
“Wait here one moment,” said Mr. Steinnar.
He grabbed the yellow measuring tape and drew it around Freda. He measured around her chest and her waist, then drew the tape from her neck to her hip. He even placed the end of the measuring tape on her forehead and drew it around her head. Afterwards, he looped the measuring tape around his neck and disappeared into a back room. He emerged with a green vest and overcoat.
“This should do the trick,” he stated.
“What trick?”
“Try them on,” he replied.
Freda buttoned the vest and pulled on the jacket. She rumpled her body, trying to make it fit. She was not used to the scratchiness of Icelandic wool. Her mother always took her to one of the shopping malls in Reykjavik whenever she needed a new coat.
“Hold still,” said Mr. Steinnar.
He stood in front of Freda and tugged on the shoulders of her jacket, straightening it on her frame. He picked lint off the face of the fabric. Afterwards, he ran his hands over the shoulder, smoothing the surface.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Scratchy.”
“Of course it’s scratchy. It’s wool. Do you like it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Go outside and see how it feels.”
He tied a wool scarf around her neck and gave her a wool cap, too. Freda went for test walk in the clothes. Although the clothes were plenty scratchy, they were plenty warm, too.
She followed the fox tracks until she passed by the barn. A group of Icelandic sheep sat behind a fence inside the barn, just on the other side of Thor. As she passed the old sheepdog, he opened one eye, investigated the red-haired girl, and then went back to sleep.
“Hello, sheep,” she said, “How are you doing?”
The sheep ignored Freda as they grazed from the feeding trough. They seemed perfectly comfortable inside the chilly barn.
“No wonder you’re not shivering, you’re wearing wool.”
She pet the sheep while they continued to eat. As soon as the sheep were finished, they moved away from the trough and away from Freda. She walked along the fence, peering at the sheep and their thick, woolen coats.
“Why is your wool so soft? I guess that’s because you do not have fingers to scratch when it itches.”
She leaned against the fence and watched the sheep for several moments. They gathered in the corner of their stall as they laid down for sleep.
Although the rest of her body felt fine, Freda’s cheeks and face were frozen. She decided it was time to return to the warmth of the farm house. Even though she was inside, she remained in her coat and hat, trying to get warm.
“You’d better remove your cap and coat,” said her father.
“But my face is still cold,” replied Freda.
“Then let’s warm you up,” said Mr. Steinnar.
He prepared a bowl of hræringur and offered it to Freda. Freda stirred the mix of porridge and yogurt with her spoon.
“Do you have any molasses?” she asked.
Mr. Steinnar retrieved a jar of molasses from the kitchen. She plopped the honey dipper into the molasses and drizzled it over the hræringur. She stirred her molasses into the hræringur and took a bite. It tasted rich, like heavy cream, but sweetened with the molasses. As Freda ate it, she warmed from the inside out.
She investigated the front room as she ate. In the light of day, she noticed a picture of a Viking ship on the far wall.
“Why do you have a picture of a boat?” asked Freda.
“That’s no boat. It’s a Viking Ship. Can you imagine sailing in these icy waters without a modern coat?”
“Brrr. Not at all,” replied Freda with a shiver.
“Icelandic explorers were masters of warm clothing, too.”
“Like my wool coat?”
“Even better. Vikings used something called oilskin.”
He brought an old black cape from the back room. It was made of canvas, but the outer surface was slick and glossy.
“Is this oilskin?”
Mr. Steinnar nodded.
“They coated some of their fabric with oil, which made the fabric windproof and waterproof. In fact, Icelandic scholars say this oilskin, layered over wool garments is just as warm as the most sophisticated jackets made today.”
Freda ran her hand over the oilskin. To her, it felt like the skin of a seal pup.
“Is it made from animal skin?”
“Normally it’s just cotton covered in oil and cured.”
“Cured?”
“Haberdashers would warm the coat over hot coals to dry the oil. After a layer of oil dried, they applied another layer of oil and baked the coat again. The oil also glued the threads of the fabric together, making it waterproof.”
“That seems like a lot of work,” said Freda.
“I’m sure it is, but it is better than being cold, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.”
Freda finished her hræringur and asked for another. Mr. Steinnar gladly obliged. He also served up two bowls of the hearty porridge for Mr. Samuelsson and himself.
“That hits the spot,” says Mr. Samuelsson.
“I agree,” added Freda, “I feel much better.”
“After I finish my bowl, I think we’d better get on the road.”
Freda groaned.
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Steinnar, “you’re welcome back anytime.”
“Good,” smiled Freda.
“You can keep the overcoat and vest, too. You’ll need it to keep you warm on the trip home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Steinnar.”
“You’re welcome, Freda.”
Freda put on her new vest and overcoat and tucked her old jacket under her arm.
“What do I owe you, Magnus?” offered Mr. Samuelsson.
“We’ll decide that the next time you come by the store.”
“Fair enough,” replied Freda’s father as the two men shook hands.
They said their good-byes and loaded themselves into the Arctic Truck. As they made their way back onto the Ring Road, they faced the sun. It beat on Freda’s face as she sat beside her father.
“How long do you think it’ll be until we’re home?” she asked.
“We’ll be there when we get there,” her father answered.
Freda had heard it time and time again. Her father was a man of few predictions. He always worked hard and tried his best. The rest was “up to the Good Lord”, as her father always said.
Freda closed her eyes, but did not go to sleep. Instead, she basked in the glow of the morning sun. She was warm and content. She was also anxious to get home and show her new coat to her mother.
Any Port in the Storm
When we left Freda and her father, they were sliding along the icy patches that covered Ring Road. Although she was desperately tired, Freda could not sleep. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead.
They came upon a fork in the road. To the right lie the short path through the highlands towards Durnik. Mr. Samuelsson paused before turning right at the fork.
“What’s the matter?” asked Freda.
“It could be much worse if I take the road through the highlands.”
“Doesn’t Ring Road dead end if you go the other way?”
“It does,” answered her father.
“Then there’s no choice.”
“We could go as far as Siglufjörður. There are some people I know up there who could give us a place to stay for the night.”
“You mean we’re not going home?” groaned Freda.
“It’s the best thing to do, sweetheart.”
Against Freda’s wishes, the Arctic Truck turned left. It was the best solution, because the driving along the coast was relatively safe. However, the roads along the highlands had snows piled more than two meters high, nearly as tall as Mr. Samuelsson.
Freda remade her bed in the front seat and closed her eyes. In what seemed like a snap, her father roused her from sleep.
“Come on, we’re here,” he said.
When Freda rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she saw a white two-story house with a steeply pitched roof.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Ólafsfjörður,” replied her father.
“Why are we stopping here? It’s only ten more kilometers to our home.”
“It’s just too dangerous. I called an old friend while you were sleeping. He said we could stay here tonight.”
Before Mr. Samuelsson could turn off the engine to his truck, a short and plump man opened the front door.
“Hello, Magnus!”
“It’s good to see you, Obadiah. Is this Freda?”
“It sure is,” replied her father.
“The last time I saw her, she were barely able to walk.”
“Freda, this is Mr. Steinnar. We’ve known each other since we were school boys.”
Freda was too busy looking at the building to notice her father. The row of lights hanging between the first and second floors lit a signboard directly over the front door. The name on the signboard said ‘Steinnar’s Haberdashery’.
“Freda? Did you hear me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Freda, “Hello, Mr. Steinnar.”
Mr. Steinnar led them into the building. He struck a match and lit two hurricane lamps. The lamps cast a soft yellow glow that flickered as he placed them in different parts of the room.
“Mr. Steinnar, what is a haberdashery?”
“If you look around, you might be able to figure it out,” replied Mr. Steinnar.
A mannequin, partially fitted in a wedding dress, stood in one corner of the room. A length of yellow measuring tape hung over the shoulder of the dress. Swatches of woolen cloth were draped across the backrest of a brown leather chair. An antique sewing table was wedged into the corner.
“Are you a tailor?” she asked.
Mr. Steinnar nodded.
“Then why don’t you just call yourself a tailor?”
“Why call yourself a tailor when you can call yourself a haberdasher?” asked Mr. Steinnar.
“Because it’s easier to pronounce.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s easier,” chuckled Mr. Steinnar, “but a haberdasher is part of Icelandic tradition. Some people say the word comes from ‘hapertas’, which may be a kind of wool made in Iceland long, long ago. A ‘hapertas-er’ was man who worked with this type of fabric.”
Freda nodded thoughtfully.
“What happened to the wool?”
“Nothing happened to the wool. It’s the words that may have changed. Some people think it changed when Icelandic traders went to England.”
“How did that happen?”
“It happened the same way that trading happened. We not only shared our wool with people from England, Ireland, and Scotland, but we shared our words, too.”
“Like ‘hapertas’?”
“Like ‘hapertas’, which became ‘haberdash’, ‘epli’ became ‘apple’, ‘nótt’ became ‘night’, and ‘steinn’ became ‘stone’. They’re all words shared with the English, but first they came from Middle Europe.”
Freda gave Mr. Steinnar a puzzled look. He took Freda by the hand and led her to a globe that sat next to his desk. He spun it around until he found the European continent.
“We are here, halfway between Norway and Greenland.”
“How did the language travel?”
“Language traveled with the people. There’s an old saying about Icelanders: ‘From Raiders, to Invaders, to International Traders.’”
“What does that mean?” asked Freda.
“At first, vikings from Norway pillaged foreign lands, including Iceland. They attacked neighboring countries and returned home with their new treasures.”
“Why didn’t the Icelanders fight back?” asked Freda.
“Archaeologists think that monks from Ireland or Scotland may have been the first people of Iceland, but they’re not sure. There’s no evidence of anyone before the Vikings. Eventually, the Vikings realized that the land was just as valuable as any treasure, so they built settlements here.”
“I’ve heard stories about ancient Icelandic Sailors, but never about Vikings,” replied Freda.
“The Vikings were sailors but they realized it was easier to trade goods than to risk their lives invading other countries. Sailors like Thorvald Asvaldsson, Erik the Red, and Leif Ericsson came over from Norway and settled Iceland, Greenland, and even North America. Everywhere they traveled, they brought their culture with them.”
“Erik the Red was a Viking?”
“Back then, most Icelanders were Vikings. In fact, Erik the Red was banished to Greenland for murdering a man.”
Freda gasped.
“In those days, men were just starting to learn how to trade one good for another. In face, Erik’s father was banished from Norway to Iceland for the murdering two men.”
“My gosh, were they all bad men?”
“Erik’s son, Leif, was a good man. He set sail to Greenland and explored the northeastern islands of Canada. He even created a settlement in Greenland.”
“What happened to him?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” replied Mr. Steinnar.
“I wonder why people in Canada don’t speak Icelandic,” said Freda thoughtfully, “what do you think, Mr. Steinnar?”
“I think that’s enough questions for one night,” interrupted her father.
“But this is so interesting,” said Freda.
“They’ll be more time to talk about it tomorrow morning. Now, it’s time for bed.”
Freda groaned, but to no avail. Mr. Steinnar set up a bed in the guest room, complete with several heavy blankets. Freda’s father tucked her in and planted a kiss upon her forehead.
“Why haven’t we visited Mr. Steinnar before?” she asked her father.
“I come up here all the time when I’m making deliveries. Maybe you can come with me next time.”
Freda smiled.
“Thank you, daddy. Good night.”
“Good night, my dear.”
Freda curled into a ball and pulled her head beneath the covers. Soon, she was fast asleep, no doubt dreaming about icy ocean waters and ancient Icelandic explorers setting foot on lands far, far away.
They came upon a fork in the road. To the right lie the short path through the highlands towards Durnik. Mr. Samuelsson paused before turning right at the fork.
“What’s the matter?” asked Freda.
“It could be much worse if I take the road through the highlands.”
“Doesn’t Ring Road dead end if you go the other way?”
“It does,” answered her father.
“Then there’s no choice.”
“We could go as far as Siglufjörður. There are some people I know up there who could give us a place to stay for the night.”
“You mean we’re not going home?” groaned Freda.
“It’s the best thing to do, sweetheart.”
Against Freda’s wishes, the Arctic Truck turned left. It was the best solution, because the driving along the coast was relatively safe. However, the roads along the highlands had snows piled more than two meters high, nearly as tall as Mr. Samuelsson.
Freda remade her bed in the front seat and closed her eyes. In what seemed like a snap, her father roused her from sleep.
“Come on, we’re here,” he said.
When Freda rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she saw a white two-story house with a steeply pitched roof.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Ólafsfjörður,” replied her father.
“Why are we stopping here? It’s only ten more kilometers to our home.”
“It’s just too dangerous. I called an old friend while you were sleeping. He said we could stay here tonight.”
Before Mr. Samuelsson could turn off the engine to his truck, a short and plump man opened the front door.
“Hello, Magnus!”
“It’s good to see you, Obadiah. Is this Freda?”
“It sure is,” replied her father.
“The last time I saw her, she were barely able to walk.”
“Freda, this is Mr. Steinnar. We’ve known each other since we were school boys.”
Freda was too busy looking at the building to notice her father. The row of lights hanging between the first and second floors lit a signboard directly over the front door. The name on the signboard said ‘Steinnar’s Haberdashery’.
“Freda? Did you hear me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Freda, “Hello, Mr. Steinnar.”
Mr. Steinnar led them into the building. He struck a match and lit two hurricane lamps. The lamps cast a soft yellow glow that flickered as he placed them in different parts of the room.
“Mr. Steinnar, what is a haberdashery?”
“If you look around, you might be able to figure it out,” replied Mr. Steinnar.
A mannequin, partially fitted in a wedding dress, stood in one corner of the room. A length of yellow measuring tape hung over the shoulder of the dress. Swatches of woolen cloth were draped across the backrest of a brown leather chair. An antique sewing table was wedged into the corner.
“Are you a tailor?” she asked.
Mr. Steinnar nodded.
“Then why don’t you just call yourself a tailor?”
“Why call yourself a tailor when you can call yourself a haberdasher?” asked Mr. Steinnar.
“Because it’s easier to pronounce.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s easier,” chuckled Mr. Steinnar, “but a haberdasher is part of Icelandic tradition. Some people say the word comes from ‘hapertas’, which may be a kind of wool made in Iceland long, long ago. A ‘hapertas-er’ was man who worked with this type of fabric.”
Freda nodded thoughtfully.
“What happened to the wool?”
“Nothing happened to the wool. It’s the words that may have changed. Some people think it changed when Icelandic traders went to England.”
“How did that happen?”
“It happened the same way that trading happened. We not only shared our wool with people from England, Ireland, and Scotland, but we shared our words, too.”
“Like ‘hapertas’?”
“Like ‘hapertas’, which became ‘haberdash’, ‘epli’ became ‘apple’, ‘nótt’ became ‘night’, and ‘steinn’ became ‘stone’. They’re all words shared with the English, but first they came from Middle Europe.”
Freda gave Mr. Steinnar a puzzled look. He took Freda by the hand and led her to a globe that sat next to his desk. He spun it around until he found the European continent.
“We are here, halfway between Norway and Greenland.”
“How did the language travel?”
“Language traveled with the people. There’s an old saying about Icelanders: ‘From Raiders, to Invaders, to International Traders.’”
“What does that mean?” asked Freda.
“At first, vikings from Norway pillaged foreign lands, including Iceland. They attacked neighboring countries and returned home with their new treasures.”
“Why didn’t the Icelanders fight back?” asked Freda.
“Archaeologists think that monks from Ireland or Scotland may have been the first people of Iceland, but they’re not sure. There’s no evidence of anyone before the Vikings. Eventually, the Vikings realized that the land was just as valuable as any treasure, so they built settlements here.”
“I’ve heard stories about ancient Icelandic Sailors, but never about Vikings,” replied Freda.
“The Vikings were sailors but they realized it was easier to trade goods than to risk their lives invading other countries. Sailors like Thorvald Asvaldsson, Erik the Red, and Leif Ericsson came over from Norway and settled Iceland, Greenland, and even North America. Everywhere they traveled, they brought their culture with them.”
“Erik the Red was a Viking?”
“Back then, most Icelanders were Vikings. In fact, Erik the Red was banished to Greenland for murdering a man.”
Freda gasped.
“In those days, men were just starting to learn how to trade one good for another. In face, Erik’s father was banished from Norway to Iceland for the murdering two men.”
“My gosh, were they all bad men?”
“Erik’s son, Leif, was a good man. He set sail to Greenland and explored the northeastern islands of Canada. He even created a settlement in Greenland.”
“What happened to him?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” replied Mr. Steinnar.
“I wonder why people in Canada don’t speak Icelandic,” said Freda thoughtfully, “what do you think, Mr. Steinnar?”
“I think that’s enough questions for one night,” interrupted her father.
“But this is so interesting,” said Freda.
“They’ll be more time to talk about it tomorrow morning. Now, it’s time for bed.”
Freda groaned, but to no avail. Mr. Steinnar set up a bed in the guest room, complete with several heavy blankets. Freda’s father tucked her in and planted a kiss upon her forehead.
“Why haven’t we visited Mr. Steinnar before?” she asked her father.
“I come up here all the time when I’m making deliveries. Maybe you can come with me next time.”
Freda smiled.
“Thank you, daddy. Good night.”
“Good night, my dear.”
Freda curled into a ball and pulled her head beneath the covers. Soon, she was fast asleep, no doubt dreaming about icy ocean waters and ancient Icelandic explorers setting foot on lands far, far away.
Upon Ring Road
Freda and her father lived on the northern coast of Iceland, in the tiny fishing village of Dalvik. Although they lived close to the shore, they fished just north of the dam at Lake Blöndulón. Lake Blöndulón sat in the middle of Iceland, far from the shore where most Icelanders lived.
Blöndulón dam was created to harness the power of the river. Icelandic engineers used the energy from the water to create electricity, called hydroelectric power. This was only one of the many ways Icelanders used the island to stay alive.
Mr Samuelsson drove his Arctic Truck into a valley and across a small stream. The truck’s tires churned as the truck floated along the surface of the stream.
“Are we home yet?” asked Freda, as she rubbed the little bit of sleep from her eyes.
“We’re not even close,” replied her father, “go back to sleep.”
Freda laid down, but the undulating motion of the Arctic Truck made her queasy.
“I hate when you do this,” she muttered.
“This old truck is specially made. It could cross a river if I wanted it to. This truck is completely watertight, like a floating submarine.”
As tires snagged river rocks, the Arctic Truck lurched forward. Freda hurriedly put on her seat belt. Mr. Samuelsson did not until the truck slid over a patch of ice-covered rocks.
“I hope you’re right. You know I cannot swim,” said Freda as she grabbed onto the edges of her chair.
Just then, the truck hit another patch of jagged rocks. It jumped forward and up, climbing onto the shore. Freda let loose a sigh but did not release her tight grip on the seat.
“Look at the winds outside,” said Freda, “could be the rock giants coming to get us.”
“The rock giants are here to protect us, not to harm us,” reassured her father.
Of course, they were talking of the tale “Guaridan Spirits of Iceland.”
A long, long time ago, so it is said, the King of Denmark sent his master magician to Iceland to scout out the land.
The Magician turned into a whale and swam to the eastern fjord, only to find it protected by a great ice dragon.
He then traveled to the northern edge of Iceland. A gigantic bird waited there, his wings outspread. His body covered the valley and the magician could not pass.
The whale swam to the western shore. THe guardian of the western fjord was a large bull. The whale did not dare approach the land, for the bull came out into the sea and bellowed, frightening the whale away.
Now, the whale had to go to the south coast, where the rock giant lived. The rock giant was the greatest of the Icelandic beasts. He held his spear high over the waves. Without further planning or hesitation, the whale swam back to Denmark, never to be seen again.
Fathers told their children of the rock giants that roamed Iceland during the winter storms. Although the rock giants protected sailors and land-farers alike,
As the wind howled, Freda could nto help but think the rock giants were angry.
“I cannot wait to be safe at home,” she said.
“Me neither,” replied her father.
The north-bound highway stretched to the shore, where it met the Ring Road, a single highway that went completely around the island of Iceland. Very few travelers went inland, except for fishing, because the valleys of centeral Iceland were rocky and bare. There was no land for farming. There were no lakes or rivers to fish. The only reason Lake Blöndulón existed was because men put it there.
Just after Mr. Samuelsson turned onto Ring Road, he hit aband of metal stripping laying in the middle of the road. It cut into one of the tires, causing a flat.
“What in Thor’s name is that?” he said.
Mr. Samuelsson pulled to the side of the road.
“Is everything okay?” asked Freda as she awoke from her sleep.
“I think so,” replied her father.
“Do you need any help from me?”
“Not this time, sweetie.”
He bundled up and then got out of the truck. As he investigated the tire, he saw where the tire had been punctured. The metal stripping cut a large gash in one side of the tire, which made it useless.
Mr. Samuelsson motioned to Freda. She rolled down her window.
“I guess I do need your help,” he said.
Freda got out of the truck, eager to help.
“I need you to stand out of the way while I change the tire.”
“I can help do that.”
“Not this time,” replied Mr. Samuelsson.
Freda moved out of the way. As her father got the spare tire from the back of the truck, Freda investigated her surroundings.
“Daddy, what’s that building over there with the antenna?”
“It’s one of the weather stations.”
“What’s a weather station?” she asked.
“They monitor the weather and use that antenna to relay the information to different meteorologists around the country. There are weather stations just like that one all around Ring Road.”
“Are there any inland?”
“If so, there aren’t many. Not many people live inland. There’s no farmland and it’s much colder.
“Why is it so much colder inland?”
“Wind currents that travel down the slope of a mountain are much colder than the currents traveling over the Arctic Ocean.”
“I thought the Arctic Ocean was colder than the middle of Iceland.”
“Some currents are, but the main Ocean currents come from the south. They flow along the coast of North America, bringing warmer water and warmer air currents, too.”
“So that’s why it’s warmer?”
“That’s most of the reason. We also have geysers and volcanoes.”
“I don’t like geysers,” replied Freda.
“Why not?”
“They make the air smell funny, like a rotten egg.”
“That’s called sulfur. It’s part of the gas that erupts from a geyser. Plus, the energy from geysers helps to heat our home.”
“It does?”
“It most certainly does. Do you see those pipes over there? That’s the geothermal station. Just like dams use the energy of the water, geothermal energy plants use the energy of geysers.”
Even in the darkness, Freda could see the lights of the geothermal station down the road. Large flumes of white smoke erupted from chimneys fitted over steel pipes. She knew from past experience that geothermal stations always smelled like rotten eggs.
Mr. Samuelsson fitted the new tire on the axle and secured all the lug nuts. As soon as he removed the jack, the truck was as good as new.
“Let’s go,” he announced.
As they drove up Ring Road, the odor grew stronger until they passed the geothermal station. Freda was glad when they passed the station. It not only meant the smell was almost over, but it also meant they were closer to home.
Ring Road stretched along the coast, separating the mountains from the Ocean. As they curled around the farthest reach of road, the snow began to clear, which meant they were closer to home.
Soon after the snow cleared, it began to grow again.
“I thought you said there was less snow near the shore,” said Freda.
“Usually there is,” replied her father, “but I see lots of gloomy skies ahead. It looks like there’s a snow storm near Dalvik.”
Soon, the Arctic Truck entered the blizzard. Freda adjusted her seat and fitted her seat belt snugly around her chest. Soon, the white Truck disappeared in the thick flurries of a winter snowstorm.
“I’m scared,” said Freda.
“Don’t worry,” said her father, “We’re almost home.”
Still, Freda could not help but worry. Snowstorms always scared her. She stared out the front window of the truck, looking for any signs of trouble.
“Relax,” demanded her father.
“I don’t know if I can.”
Freda eased back into her seat. Even as the gap between truck and home decreased, Freda was eager to be home again. Unfortunately, the snowstorm had different plans and Freda and her father would just have to wait.
Blöndulón dam was created to harness the power of the river. Icelandic engineers used the energy from the water to create electricity, called hydroelectric power. This was only one of the many ways Icelanders used the island to stay alive.
Mr Samuelsson drove his Arctic Truck into a valley and across a small stream. The truck’s tires churned as the truck floated along the surface of the stream.
“Are we home yet?” asked Freda, as she rubbed the little bit of sleep from her eyes.
“We’re not even close,” replied her father, “go back to sleep.”
Freda laid down, but the undulating motion of the Arctic Truck made her queasy.
“I hate when you do this,” she muttered.
“This old truck is specially made. It could cross a river if I wanted it to. This truck is completely watertight, like a floating submarine.”
As tires snagged river rocks, the Arctic Truck lurched forward. Freda hurriedly put on her seat belt. Mr. Samuelsson did not until the truck slid over a patch of ice-covered rocks.
“I hope you’re right. You know I cannot swim,” said Freda as she grabbed onto the edges of her chair.
Just then, the truck hit another patch of jagged rocks. It jumped forward and up, climbing onto the shore. Freda let loose a sigh but did not release her tight grip on the seat.
“Look at the winds outside,” said Freda, “could be the rock giants coming to get us.”
“The rock giants are here to protect us, not to harm us,” reassured her father.
Of course, they were talking of the tale “Guaridan Spirits of Iceland.”
A long, long time ago, so it is said, the King of Denmark sent his master magician to Iceland to scout out the land.
The Magician turned into a whale and swam to the eastern fjord, only to find it protected by a great ice dragon.
He then traveled to the northern edge of Iceland. A gigantic bird waited there, his wings outspread. His body covered the valley and the magician could not pass.
The whale swam to the western shore. THe guardian of the western fjord was a large bull. The whale did not dare approach the land, for the bull came out into the sea and bellowed, frightening the whale away.
Now, the whale had to go to the south coast, where the rock giant lived. The rock giant was the greatest of the Icelandic beasts. He held his spear high over the waves. Without further planning or hesitation, the whale swam back to Denmark, never to be seen again.
Fathers told their children of the rock giants that roamed Iceland during the winter storms. Although the rock giants protected sailors and land-farers alike,
As the wind howled, Freda could nto help but think the rock giants were angry.
“I cannot wait to be safe at home,” she said.
“Me neither,” replied her father.
The north-bound highway stretched to the shore, where it met the Ring Road, a single highway that went completely around the island of Iceland. Very few travelers went inland, except for fishing, because the valleys of centeral Iceland were rocky and bare. There was no land for farming. There were no lakes or rivers to fish. The only reason Lake Blöndulón existed was because men put it there.
Just after Mr. Samuelsson turned onto Ring Road, he hit aband of metal stripping laying in the middle of the road. It cut into one of the tires, causing a flat.
“What in Thor’s name is that?” he said.
Mr. Samuelsson pulled to the side of the road.
“Is everything okay?” asked Freda as she awoke from her sleep.
“I think so,” replied her father.
“Do you need any help from me?”
“Not this time, sweetie.”
He bundled up and then got out of the truck. As he investigated the tire, he saw where the tire had been punctured. The metal stripping cut a large gash in one side of the tire, which made it useless.
Mr. Samuelsson motioned to Freda. She rolled down her window.
“I guess I do need your help,” he said.
Freda got out of the truck, eager to help.
“I need you to stand out of the way while I change the tire.”
“I can help do that.”
“Not this time,” replied Mr. Samuelsson.
Freda moved out of the way. As her father got the spare tire from the back of the truck, Freda investigated her surroundings.
“Daddy, what’s that building over there with the antenna?”
“It’s one of the weather stations.”
“What’s a weather station?” she asked.
“They monitor the weather and use that antenna to relay the information to different meteorologists around the country. There are weather stations just like that one all around Ring Road.”
“Are there any inland?”
“If so, there aren’t many. Not many people live inland. There’s no farmland and it’s much colder.
“Why is it so much colder inland?”
“Wind currents that travel down the slope of a mountain are much colder than the currents traveling over the Arctic Ocean.”
“I thought the Arctic Ocean was colder than the middle of Iceland.”
“Some currents are, but the main Ocean currents come from the south. They flow along the coast of North America, bringing warmer water and warmer air currents, too.”
“So that’s why it’s warmer?”
“That’s most of the reason. We also have geysers and volcanoes.”
“I don’t like geysers,” replied Freda.
“Why not?”
“They make the air smell funny, like a rotten egg.”
“That’s called sulfur. It’s part of the gas that erupts from a geyser. Plus, the energy from geysers helps to heat our home.”
“It does?”
“It most certainly does. Do you see those pipes over there? That’s the geothermal station. Just like dams use the energy of the water, geothermal energy plants use the energy of geysers.”
Even in the darkness, Freda could see the lights of the geothermal station down the road. Large flumes of white smoke erupted from chimneys fitted over steel pipes. She knew from past experience that geothermal stations always smelled like rotten eggs.
Mr. Samuelsson fitted the new tire on the axle and secured all the lug nuts. As soon as he removed the jack, the truck was as good as new.
“Let’s go,” he announced.
As they drove up Ring Road, the odor grew stronger until they passed the geothermal station. Freda was glad when they passed the station. It not only meant the smell was almost over, but it also meant they were closer to home.
Ring Road stretched along the coast, separating the mountains from the Ocean. As they curled around the farthest reach of road, the snow began to clear, which meant they were closer to home.
Soon after the snow cleared, it began to grow again.
“I thought you said there was less snow near the shore,” said Freda.
“Usually there is,” replied her father, “but I see lots of gloomy skies ahead. It looks like there’s a snow storm near Dalvik.”
Soon, the Arctic Truck entered the blizzard. Freda adjusted her seat and fitted her seat belt snugly around her chest. Soon, the white Truck disappeared in the thick flurries of a winter snowstorm.
“I’m scared,” said Freda.
“Don’t worry,” said her father, “We’re almost home.”
Still, Freda could not help but worry. Snowstorms always scared her. She stared out the front window of the truck, looking for any signs of trouble.
“Relax,” demanded her father.
“I don’t know if I can.”
Freda eased back into her seat. Even as the gap between truck and home decreased, Freda was eager to be home again. Unfortunately, the snowstorm had different plans and Freda and her father would just have to wait.
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