In my latest post, on the forthcoming volume of legends of the undead draug, I write: "I am still meditating on how to include in a paperback the information behind the links." These links give useful background information on the geography of this part of the world, folkloric figures generally unfamiliar to readers of English, and more or less obscure heroes of Norse literature. Additionally, some links point directly at the source literature in Old Norse or Danish translation. To include all this kind of material on paper would require an annotation apparatus that risks overshadowing the texts themselves, which would be quite unfortunate.

So how do I deal with this matter? Do I publish in ebook format only? Or do I cut down the amount of information included in the printed book? Or do I move the notes to a place in the book where they may be overlooked while the texts are being read? I am leaning towards the latter solution – writing brief introductions to each text or group of texts, in which I can address potential difficulties a reader of English might face. Of course, a bibliography will have to serve in lieu of links to the original literature.

One of the consequences of this solution is that the contents of the ebook and physical edition will diverge to a degree, with the ebook having direct links to independent information and the paper version containing my own ruminations. But still, isn't it about time we employed the many possibilities that hypertext affords us in serious non-fiction?

This outlying creature of Norwegian folklore is the topic of a book I have been wanting to produce for a long time. It has been delayed, of course, by the mountain of work that Asbjørnsen & Moe gave me. However, now that I’ve mostly finished with them (at least for now), I have time and energy to expend on such projects.

The book itself is a compendium of texts – both folkloric and literary – that deal with this enigmatic psychopomp (for I think we must be able to term it thus). A detailed introduction will not be necessary, either, for Andreas Faye has us covered (see below). I am still meditating on how to include in a paperback the information behind the links. Perhaps this one will be a hyperlinked ebook only – I haven’t yet decided.

The Draug

(From Andreas Faye. Norske Folke-sagn. 1844, p. 7f.)

The concept of the draug varies. South of the mountains¹ it is widely considered to be a white ghost [gjenferd], or a fylgje that forebodes death, and accompanies the fey wherever he goes. And sometimes it shows itself as an insect, which in the evening gives off a whistling sound. Herjus Kvalsot’s “draug” haunts the place where he was murdered, at Herjusdalen in Hvidesø, and came to his home one Christmas Eve, crying:

Better to walk at Kvalsot on a newly-swept floor
than to lie in Herjusdalen in unconsecrated ground.²

North of the mountains, on the other hand, the draug is nearly always to be found on or by the sea, and to some extent it thus replaces the neck. The fishermen from Nordland have many dealings with the draug. They often hear a fearsome scream from the draug, which sounds like: “h – a – u”, and also, “so cold!” and then they hurry to land, for the scream forebodes a storm and misfortune at sea.

The fishermen often see him, and describe him as a man of average size, who is dressed in the typical clothes of a seaman. Most folk from Nordland say that he has no head. Folk from Nordmøre, on the other hand, admit him a tin plate on his neck instead of a head, with burning embers on it for eyes. Like the neck, it can take on different forms. It prefers to haunt the boathouses, where it most often dwells. In these, and in the boats, the fishermen sometimes find a kind of foam. This is assumed to be the draug’s vomit, and the belief is that it warns of a death.

Note: In the Old Norse language, it is called the draugr. For the Icelander Thorstein Skelk, a contemporary of Olaf Tryggvason, the draugr of one of Harald Wartooth’s champions roared most gruesomely, as if from Hell, but sank down into the earth at the sound of the church bells. It is also called at that place “Dolgrimm.”³ (Fornmanna sögur, III, §200.)

Odin is praised in Ynglinga saga [§7] for being able to waken the dead from the earth, and was therefore called “draugr dróttinn” [revenant-sovereign]. In Hervarer saga [Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks] the draugar are spoken of as the ghosts [gjenferd] of the heroes that dwelled in the burial mounds (compare Hrómundar saga Gripssonar §4). The draug thus appears to be one’s fylgje, which leads the dead to the very grave.

I will diminish, and go into the West

Current events are exhausting; perhaps it is becoming cliché to point it out, but it remains true. Social media are full of current events. Social media are therefore exhausting. Now, as I withdraw from social media – for peace of mind’s sake – I shall increase my presence here, back on a personal blog, safe and free from the interference of various bad actors.

These blogposts appear on the website’s front page, are archived under their own banner (above), and are syndicated, allowing you to read them from the comfort of your own RSS reader, should you choose to do so. And as for content, all I can say is that they will reflect my interests, as abiding or as fleeting as they may be.

“Soria Moria Castle” is one of the most familiar folktales in Norway. It tells of Halvor, who, marooned in an unknown land, rescues three princesses, each one held by a troll in its castle. When he has killed all the trolls, he is free to choose the princess he likes best for wife. But Halvor is downcast; he misses his parents and his home. The princesses allow him to visit, transporting him by magic, but he must not mention them. Which of course he does. The princesses appear, as if summoned by magic, lull Halvor to sleep, and then disappear back to Soria Moria without him. Halvor has then to make the long, arduous journey to Soria Moria Castle by any means he can, where he arrives just in time to prevent his chosen princess from marrying another.

This version of the folktale was first published by Asbjørnsen & Moe in Norske Folkeeventyr in 1843. Erik Werenskiold illustrated it for the Asbjørnsen’s compendium edition of 1879, and these images are still those most often published; in fact, I have used Werenskiold’s images to illustrate my translation. (See my annotated edition, vol. 1, p. 187–200).

In 1900, Theodor Kittelsen exhibited a series of twelve paintings to complement a simplified retelling of the folktale, which he published in 1911.¹ The story is very weak, yet Kittelsen’s images have since become the most well-known illustrations of Soria Moria, perhaps because of his coloured medium, whereas Werenskiold’s work is in pen and ink.

In Kittelsen’s story, Halvor has been recast as Askeladden, the more conventional hero of the folktales. Instead of going to sea only to be marooned, he sees a vision of Soria Moria castle in the ashes he rakes at home, and decides go out to search for it. He soon spies the castle in the distance and heads in the right direction. He meets a number of increasingly dangerous animals on his journey, which he simply placates with food. Then he evades a mountain troll. He sees the castle, but has to creep past a sleeping dragon and a golden bird that can wake it if it screeches.

Inside the castle, the princess is nitpicking a troll. She shows Askeladden a huge sword and a magical strengthening drink, and he chops the troll’s head off. Wedding. Happily ever after. The end.

Askeladden barely broke a sweat.

Now, while Kittelsen’s retelling may be insipid, with little in the way of dramatic tension, his paintings are iconic, especially his vision of the distant golden castle Soria Moria, for which he which possibly drew some inspiration from Adam of Bremen’s description of the temple of Uppsala (History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen, IV, xxvi).

To do the images some justice, Kittelsen’s tale may be worth recomposing…

Some time back, a friend suggested that I submit my annotated edition of The Complete Norwegian Folktales and Legends of Asbjørnsen & Moe for consideration for the Katharine Briggs Award, the “annual book prize established by the Folklore Society to encourage the study of folklore, to help improve the standard of folklore publications in Britain and Ireland, to establish The Folklore Society as an arbiter of excellence, and to commemorate the life and work of the distinguished scholar Katharine Mary Briggs (1898-1980; Society president 1969-1972).”¹ I like big shiny things – an engraved goblet, no less – as much as the next manchild, so I looked into the submission process, but ultimately decided not to go through with it.

My sudden loss of interest is easily explained: the process requires that four copies of the book be submitted to the judges (a necessity I quite understand). My volumes are big and thick, and therefore expensive. What is more, because of where I live, I cannot get them at cost price; I have to pay full whack. To buy four copies of the whole three-volume edition, I would have to shell out more than £200, plus shipping, an expense I am unwilling to cover for no guaranteed return.

(Of course, I might win… yadda yadda yadda… exposure… blah blah blah…)