Short Fiction

By Jonas Lie.

Translated by Robert Nisbet Bain and Littell’s Living Age.

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Foreword

This edition of Jonas Lie’s Short Fiction was produced from two translations. “The Grey” was translated by Littel’s Living Age and published in 1879. “The Fisherman and the Draug,” “Jack of Sjöholm and the Gan-Finn,” “Tug of War,” “ ‘The Earth Draws,’ ” “The Cormorants of Andvaer,” “Isaac and the Parson of Brönö,” “The Wind-Gnome,” “The Huldrefish,” “Finn-Blood,” “The Homestead Westward in the Blue Mountains” and “ ‘It’s Me’ ” were translated by Robert Nisbet Bain and published in Weird Tales from Northern Seas in 1893.

Hendrik Kaiber

Santa Maria, Brazil, January 2025

Short Fiction

The Grey

Near the Nordfjord is a mountain called Birkberg, on whose slope, almost like pictures on a wall, hang the small buildings of the farm of Strömshagen. Through the ravine below rushes a wild mountain torrent, over which a few unhewn logs serve as a bridge for man and horse. On the opposite side, farther down, on more level ground, is the Evjenfarm,1 which takes its name from the river that here rests from its mad career in a little bay sheltered by birch-trees.

A short distance from the bridge over the ravine, behind the hill, there was, at the time our story begins, a piece of land overgrown with bushes, which for years had been the cause of dispute between the two farms. The road to it had been barred by Jon Evjen2 twenty years before with three hedges, which looked very dry and fragile, it is true, but were recognized by the law as a sign of possession authenticated by years, and the land was given to Evjen.

This lawsuit impoverished the owner of Strömshagen, who dying left the estate, loaded with debt, to his widow and son Gjermund, a lad of twenty-two. He was a sturdy youth, with dark hair, heavy eyebrows, and a full, but clever, intelligent face. His fault was a proneness to sudden fits of anger, and a readiness to assert his rights with his fist, when fair words might have served his purpose. Besides, he was much prouder than he seemed, and in trading often thought that people would hardly have dared take advantage of him, if he had been a rich landowner.

An air of prosperity pervaded Evjen. The oldest daughter’s name was Sigrid; she was tall, fair, remarkably beautiful, and moreover very skilful in household work, with a quiet manner in which was a certain innate dignity. Whenever she spoke, her words were kind and sensible; she had the ruling voice in the family council. Everyone said she looked like the heiress of a large estate, and there was no lack of suitors who offered them, but she refused all proposals. Her parents were displeased: either she did not wish to marry at all, or she showed less wisdom in this matter than in other things; but they let her have her will. Yet when one Sunday, on the way home from church, three of the richest peasants, who had vainly asked for Sigrid’s hand, walked stiffly and proudly past them, old Jon Evjen could not help saying, “it seemed to him she would reject all her suitors till there was nobody left except that brawler Gjermund Strömshagen, who could scarcely support himself on his farm.” At these words Sigrid grew scarlet and left the room. When she returned, it was evident that she had been weeping. Jon guessed that it was on account of his reproof, and almost regretted it, but said nothing.

Gjermund and Sigrid had often played together as children; they had met sometimes above by the bridge, sometimes below on the level shore of the bay. Their parents, however, had been less intimate, as they were not related, and their summer pastures were far away from each other. The farms, too, were not so near as would probably be supposed at the first glance, for the real bridge over the river was much farther below, at a place where the road from Evjen turned down to the fjord. Only a foot or bridle path led to it from Strömshagen.

The children, however, as has already been mentioned, had often played together. When Sigrid, who was three years younger, appeared under the birches on the shore, Gjermund was soon standing with his fishing-rod on the other side. From a cliff, beneath which the stream was somewhat narrower, he could swing himself by the aid of his pole to the lower side; there he built houses for her and made ponds, till it was time for him to return home across the lore bridge. She went with him to that point, but was forbidden to cross. It would be dangerous, her father said, and besides she had nothing to do on the other side.

When the lawsuit came they met more rarely, but always had an eye on each other, even when in course of time they grew up. The Birkberg is so much higher than the Evje alp, that Gjermund could overlook it; in summer he looked like a mere speck on the rocks, but she could distinguish him. Besides Gjermund was an active hunter, and they often met out of doors; then there was always a great deal to be said. On the way to church the opportunity was less favorable, but even then they frequently found means to exchange a few words.

At this time Gjermund had a grey horse, of which he was not a little proud. It was uncommonly well-formed, with a broad chest, slender limbs, and a graceful head, with large eyes, and small, pointed ears. It had been raised on the estate from a foal, was now eight years old, and on account of its color always called “the Grey.”

It was always a pleasure to Gjermund when the Grey, escaping from the mountain, neighed at the gate. The animal occasionally made such excursions, to see how matters were progressing at home; it was sure of getting a handful of salt, or some special dainty. It usually trotted to the stable door, accompanied by a barking dog, thrust its head into the familiar place, then wheeled around, tossing its neck so that the fluttering mane fell back from its eyes, cantered around the farmyard snuffing at first one thing and then another, and finally stopped at the door of the house. There it waited quietly to see what would come next; but if the delay was too long, its body gradually disappeared within the little entry, till nothing was visible on the stone flags outside except the hind legs and tail. The people in the house were obliged to drive the Grey out, before they could open the door of the room.

However the rest of the cattle might fare—and in the spring the supply of fodder was often scanty enough, since here, as on many mountain farms, they kept too much stock—the Grey was always fat and in good condition. It was well known, though never mentioned aloud, that the brownie in the stable had chosen the horse for his special favorite. For this reason the Grey always looked into the stable-door first when he came into the farmyard; besides he wore in his mane an elf-braid, which is an unfailing sign. No one ventures to undo this braid, because the animal will then become as thin as it was fat.

The grey had also managed to make good friends at Evjen. When still a colt, roaming about the steep pasture by the river, Sigrid had often tossed bread to it across the stream. Since then, whenever it saw her, it always came neighing down the hill, and with raised head waited to see what was coming. If she then walked down the river bank, it followed along the opposite shore. Once it cautiously crossed the log bridge over the ravine and reached the Evjen farmyard, where Sigrid and her sisters gave it plenty of salt and bread. Although the owners of Strömshagen tried to prevent it, the memory of this feast was too tempting to the Grey for it not to find the way there again, in spite of fences.

One summer afternoon, when it was standing in the farmyard, the youngest child crept to the open well and stretched its little arms over the edge. The Grey went up to the child, seized its little skirt with its teeth, and drew it some distance away. Since that time the animal had been privileged. Jon Evjen, though he did not like to have it come, never drove it away; but as soon as the graceful creature had been fed, it trotted quietly home.

One day the log bridge broke down. According to an old custom between the farms each owner was to repair half; but when Gjermund crossed the stream to discuss the matter, Jon answered curtly he had no use for the bridge, and could not see why Gjermund needed it; if any road between the farms was wanted, there was the land way; the bridge had been built long ago before the other road was made.

Sigrid was standing at the well; she spoke to Gjermund as he passed, but did not come into the room. When he passed her again on his way home (she was now alone somewhat farther down the hill), he looked at her gravely.

“The Grey can’t cross the ravine any more, Sigrid, your father wants nothing but the land road.”

“That may be the shortest, Gjermund,” she answered gently.

“But so many use it now,” replied Gjermund bitterly, “I have no large estate to inherit like them.”

“I will wait, as you know,” she said in a still lower tone, with downcast eyes.

“God bless you for these words, Sigrid, I long to hear them oftener,” said Gjermund as he turned.

Both were very pale, and could only exchange a few words in passing, but he took a wildflower she had held in her hand.