After a long hard winter of meagre fare, the cock magpie was at his sleekest on the first day of spring. Now it was time for him to call his mate. He knew she would not be able to resist the handsome fellow he saw reflected in the puddle from which he drank.
In fact every creature should be allowed to admire such a fine avian specimen, he thought. It would be their last chance for a while, too, for when he was building his nest, and then gathering food for his mate and chicks, he would not have the time to display himself. Nor would he look so neat and tidy as now.
He flapped his way up to the highest bough of the tallest tree in the forest, a bare larch whose needles had not yet had time to sprout. There he sat, flicking his tail to steady himself as he swayed in the gentle breeze, silhouetted against the sky, visible to anyone who lifted their eyes. But was anyone looking?
He gazed around and saw the fox rooting about in the undergrowth, too busy to take his mind off the search for more food; the squirrel darting up and down a pine tree, looking for the nuts and seeds it knew it had stored around here somewhere; the capercaillie strutting around the forest floor, busily preparing its lek for the mating season. But not one of these creatures – not to mention the flocks of song birds flitting about the forest – noticed him, let alone paid him any attention.
This would not do; such a handsome bird as he jolly well ought to be admired. So he called for their attention.
Here is a strange folktale, originally published in 1845 in a collection of children’s tales. Apparently, children of that time were made of stern stuff, and didn’t suffer from nightmares,
I am now thoroughly disillusioned with everything and anything to do with publishing and distribution. Insert rant here – blah blah! Anyway, here are some new plans for the books I have published thus far, timeframe uncertain.
Produce a reformatted edition of Asbjørnsen & Moe – with narrower margins, smaller type, reduced line height, and so on, to bring the page count down. I will offer these volumes on non-monopolistic POD services. This point is going to prove the bottleneck; repagination is going to take quite a bit of time, especially since my energy has also to go into producing new books.
Sell .pdf copies of the original annotated edition for a reasonable price on Ko-fi.com.
Bump up prices on Amazon so that I receive a royalty comparable with the money I receive through Ko-fi. (I’ll be withdrawing the non-annotated edition from Amazon.)
Investigate the viability of deluxe hardcover volumes for private distribution.
I don’t expect I will sell more books by making these changes; what I will ensure, however, is that readers have good alternatives to buying from monopolists
Two goats once met on a bridge. One was white, the other black. The bridge was so narrow that neither one could pass the other. They stood for a while on opposite ends of the bridge and looked across at each other.
“I will not stand aside for you,” said the white goat.
“Nor will I for you,” said the black one.
“I have as great a right to the bridge as you,” said the white one.
“But no greater,” said the black goat.
They continued to look scornfully at one another, and neither would give way.
“We shall quarrel about this,” said the white one.
“Yes indeed, come on, then!” said the black one.
And then they rushed at each other, and butted at one another, and they both fell headlong into the river. And then they both had to get out again.
I was working on my forthcoming volume of legends concerning the draug, or sea draug, and rediscovered my notes concerning the description of the (as yet unnamed) creature, as early as 1704.
In December 1704, Reinhold Friderik Tønders, who was betrothed to Sophie Amalie Krogh (1686–1735), the daughter of the bishop of Nidaros, Peder Nielsen Krog, drowned at sea. Two poems were written on the occasion of his death, one by his fiancée, and one by Petter Dass (1667–1707), parson at Alstahaug in Nordland, whose parish was at the time presided over from Nidaros (Trondheim). Both poems use imagery that is reminiscent of later decriptions of the draug.
Krogh:
The sea took the spoils
You fared the way of all flesh
Like Jonah, about your head
You wore a cap of kelp
Dass:
But now you must contented be
with a coffin made of kelp,
and a shroud prepared of seaweed
enveloping your head.
Krogh’s reference to Jonah is interesting, for it transpires that both poets have appropriated a biblical image to portray their hapless drowning victim. From inside the fish, Jonah laments: “The waters compassed me about, even to the soul: the depth closed me round about, the weeds were wrapped about my head.” (Jonah 2: 5)
A similar description subsequently becomes widely associated with the reanimated sea dead, here exemplified by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen: “Instead of heads and hair, they had knots of seaweed.” (The Tufte Folk on Sandflæsa)
More to look forward to in The Draug, forthcoming later this year.
