A Short Story
Skogàr, Iceland
Richly stacked is Thrasi’s chest
under Skogar’s waters cold
whoever goes there first
will find wealth untold.
–Icelandic folk rhyme
It was nightfall in Skogàr, a small settlement on Iceland’s southern coast. A waterfall thundered down from a ridge. Its roar could be heard miles away. East of it, the Jökulsa river sparkled silver and white as it snaked towards the sea, but that was not always the direction it flowed.
Making his way down a nearby path was an old man named Thrasi who lived east of the waterfall. In his hands he held a chest filled with treasures not from this world.
Thrasi loped alongside the river. He stopped and stared down at the chest. Runes inscribed within intricate knotwork along its lid sparkled in the midnight sun. The path from home had not been particularly long or difficult, but Thrasi’s limbs ached with relentless fervor as if he had journeyed for days.
His heart thumped as his destination came into view. At the end of the path stood a spectacular waterfall. Beside the falls, columns of rock strata fringed with moss glistened an earthy hue. In front of them, an arc blazed yellow, blue, red, and green. Thrasi wondered if this was the rainbow bridge to Asgard, the realm of the gods.
He stood for a moment watching the terns as they glided across the gorge, but not too long for time was of the essence.
Loðmunder was nearing. Loðmunder the traitor, the sorcerer, and thief. Loðmunder who had threatened to take his precious treasures encased in the chest which he held.
His gaze drifted east of the Jökulsa river where Loðmuder’s home was then to the wastelands which their feud had created. The hair rose on his neck as he recalled the dispute between them which had begun many seasons ago.
It had been an early spring day when the frost still settled upon the fields and the days were longer. The nearby river sparkled white and silver as it snaked through the valley. Thrasi had just finished tending to his sheep, when he noticed something peculiar in the distance. The Jökulsa river had rose to an alarming height, but that was not all. It had formed a new path, one that was heading straight towards his farmstead. Thrasi watched as the waters gushed at a furious rate swallowing sheep whole as it moved closer and closer towards his home. Seconds felt like eternity as he raced to save his remaining livestock which lingered nearby.
Only sorcery could do such a thing and there was no doubt in his mind that Loðmunder had done this. The man had been nothing but trouble since he had arrived, showing up with all sorts of books on dark magic, casting spells and threatening to take his land.
That evening Thrasi stood inside his home with his remaining livestock. Tears welled in his eyes as he studied the newly formed swampland. Despite his efforts only two sheep had survived. Vengeance stirred his blood.
First, he collected his riches which were scattered about his home in places he could admire them. He placed them inside a chest which he had carved himself and hid it away. Next, he sifted through his grimoire, a collection of his own magic workings, and searched for a spell that could undo this damage. “Nothing to undo it,” he thought to himself. “But what if I could send the river back?”
At dawn he emerged outside his home. In his right hand he held a staff and in his left, a piece of bloodied sheepskin.
Loðmunder paced in the distance, his figure a stalk-like shadow atop a hill. Surely admiring his work, Thrasi thought to himself but what Loðmunder didn’t know was that Thrasi was also a master of alchemy himself.
Thrasi knelt upon what little dry land remained. He lit an oil lantern and worked beside the dim light, chanting runes to himself as he did so. With his own blood he inscribed runic symbols upon the cloth. At the darkest hour he trudged across the swamp, knee high in muck until he reached Loðmunder’s property. There he drove a stake in the ground and placed the rune inscribed cloth on top of it so that the stake punctured the skin. He emptied a bucket of sheep blood into the river and chanted his curse:
“River flow east to west
Rune- might flow west to east
Waters merge, I will attest
Rune might hear my word
River flow west to east
I command you now
Flow and do not cease!”
Within moments the river came alive. Its current shifted, splitting a new path east towards Loðmunder’s property.
Thrasi stood atop a mound waiting for his neighbor to approach. It didn’t take long before he stalked towards him, his eyes twin flames in the dark. With ice in his voice Loðmunder spoke these words;
“When you die, because you will, soon, I will take your treasures, the ones forged by the dark elves that you hoard away in secret. I will make certain they will never return to your land again.” He had taken a step closer to Thrasi before whispering his next threat. “I will keep that gold ring for myself, the one I know holds your powers within it.”
Between the threats Thrasi could not help but notice Loðmunder’s stench, a pungent blend of ripened body odor and old fish left out to rot. He understood why he had no wife. Who would love a smell like that?
Loðmunder smirked and Thrasi could feel his throat close with anger. How dare he threaten him. These treasures were everything to him. They were forged by the dark elves, the finest smiths in the universe, the same as the blade which carved this chest. Even the gods desired to possess such rarities. The land war didn’t end that night or the days to follow.
For many sunsets the rivers flooded as the sorcerer’s battled spell for spell, runes for runes, curse for curse back and forth until all that remained were two wastelands known today as Solheimasandur and Skogasandur.
The feud outlived the light season and into the harvest season when the first frost arrived. Thrasi had no choice but to rely on old stores and fish to keep him fed and he was certain Loðmunder was no different. If this kept up, the two would starve to death or worse, suffer a miserable winter.
“If I am going to starve to death,” Thrasi said to himself one evening as the wind rattled the walls of his home, “let it be before the cold sets in.” But that day never arrived for one day he awakened to see the river had returned to its original state.
On a wintry night when the sky danced green the two men agreed their powers were equal and there would be no winner. They came to an agreement. They would divert the river the shortest route to the sea. It was a binding spell, one that could never be broken by either man.
They stood there that night in silence watching as the waters did what they commanded. And that was the last they saw of one another. Years had passed and despite acquiring new livestock, Thrasi had begun to age at an unnatural rate. Disease had set in which made even the most mundane of tasks painful and exhausting.
The cold mist from the Skogar falls brought him back to the present moment.
“If only”, he said to himself, His voice was a ghastly rattle, ‘If only it had been different.”
Thrasi took two steps closer to the waterfall and lowered the chest onto the dirt path he stood on. This was his finest work, a chest like no other, carved with the finest blade. He undid its lock. “One final look at my riches,” he said as he lifted the lid. Amber, gold, pendants, and rings stared back gleaming and glinting like gold does when the light hits it. From the treasures he selected a gold ring which he placed upon his index finger.
“Whomever finds this ring,” he said to no one in particular, “will be cursed.” And then he placed the ring back, closed the lid and locked it with a key which he tucked inside his pocket.
Before moving on, he studied his gnarled hands. When did I grow so old? He thought to himself. How quickly time passes. But they were good hands, farmer’s hands, hands which created and built and wielded magic at his will. He looked behind him, to the way he had traveled but he saw no one, not yet at least. Without hesitation, he lifted the chest and continued at a faster pace.
The air grew colder. As he shuffled closer, he could see his breath. Sheep grazed impassively across the emerald, green pastures which rolled along the hillsides. As he gazed upon the scene, the love he had for this place swelled in his heart like no other. He never took a wife or had a son. He never wanted one for he believed no love would ever compare to the love he had for this land. “I am a disgrace to my ancestors,” he muttered. “But a rich disgrace indeed.” And he clutched the chest closer.
At one point he had bounded through these fields as a young boy, not a care in the world, climbing rocks and trees. Next, he was a young man farming and in a blink of an eye, an old man waiting for death to take him.
Soon he would leave this place. Soon he would be traveling the long way on the Hel road. Soon his name would be nothing more than a word in a book or an etching on stone. Soon he would take his last breath and memory would no longer exist.
When he reached the falls, he removed his shoes allowing them to drift down the river towards the sea. Barefoot, treasure in hand, he took a seat on a rock beside the waterfall. Its sound thundered through his body, yet he felt no fear of its power or his fate. The sun warmed his face as he turned his gaze towards the terns who soared across the gorge. When he was ready, he took his one last deep breath before disappearing behind the falls. treasure against him. First there was a violent pound of water, then a stinging cold. The force knocked him down immediately. He never remembered feeling so aware of everything, and yet so at peace. Even when he felt the chest leave his hands there was calm. The terns cried as two ravens neared.
Thrasi and his treasure, and the waterfall that kept them safe.
