Foul Finnebog: A Norwegian Tale. Rosemary Ph.D. Olson

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СКАЧАТЬ well. If it isn’t one of the richest merchants in the land at our door,” Thorkel, the stargazer said in a crackly, low voice. “Come, come Finnebog. What is it you want?”

      Mildri’s father had found his way through the village to the outskirts of town where the Hills of Palatar began to mound and jut out of the earth. They were rocky hills, full of caves and crevices and all manner of hiding places. This is where the stargazers had built their home inside the belly of one of the hills. He walked into the dark cave, lit only by small candles here and there.

      “I would like you to consult the stars and tell me whom my daughter is to marry,” he said, getting right to the point. “Six hundred pieces of gold will be yours if you give me a name.” He had done business with the stargazers before. Whenever he had questions about his business of being a merchant or where to travel to bring him more wealth, he had come to ask their advice.

      Night had fallen by the time his money exchanged hands. Thorkel had led him into a larger, even darker room with black rock walls and floors. The ceiling was high and draped over the center was a large tarp that had been made of dark linen and covered in beeswax to keep the rain from seeping through. The stargazer pulled on a long, thick rope hanging from the tarp and it fell from the ceiling to one side of the room, exposing the night sky above. Finnebog gasped at the immense blackness dotted with so many tiny, sparkling lights.

      Thorkel pointed to a wooden chair in the corner of the room. “Sit there!” she hissed.

      Finnebog felt along the wall to the chair, taking every chance he could to look through the hole in the ceiling of the cave. Another stargazer, whose name he didn’t know, appeared in the dense circle of starlight in the middle of the room. Thorkel joined her and, together, they began chanting in low tones and holding their hands high in the air. The chants became louder, and then softer like a wave rolling on the ocean.

      “What is it? What do you see?” the impatient Finnebog questioned.

      They both stopped chanting and glared at him as though he had just shouted that he turned into a troll with green hair. They turned back to gaze at the stars and chant, this time in high-pitched squeals and screeches. Finnebog put his hands over his ears. “Good grief! Hvor mye lengre? Just tell me his name!” he moaned.

      “Quiet you!” Thorkel yelled. “We don’t see anyone, yet. And if you don’t be quiet, you can leave without a name!”

      Finnebog settled back into the chair and put his fingers in his ears, his lips forming a pout. He wasn’t leaving until he got what he paid for.

      The stargazers’ chants became low hums as they pointed and stared into the heavens. Finally, after what seemed like hours, they stopped. The stargazer without a name stepped back and disappeared into the darkness of the cave walls just as quickly as she appeared. Thorkel made her way over to where Finnebog now stood against the wall by the chair. Before he could ask his questions again, she spoke.

      “She shall marry the thatcher’s son. He is just an infant, and so she must wait. This is your answer.”

      “A thatcher’s son?! Preposterous!” he said in disbelief. “He could never be rich enough for my daughter! Go look again, and this time come back with a suitable answer!”

      “Enough! It is written in the stars!” shouted Thorkel. “Leave!”

      And with that, Thorkel grabbed him by the edge of his topcoat and forced him through the darkness to the front opening of the cave. For being so old, she was quite strong. She shoved him out into the night and slammed the carved wooden door shut. Finnebog brushed off the fingerprints left by the stargazer on his jacket and started for home. As he walked, he came up with a horribly brilliant plan. His daughter could not possibly marry a mere thatcher’s son. And one so young, bah! He made his way to the village carpenter. He would wait on his doorstep until morning, for this particular carpenter was known for making the most beautiful, airtight, wooden boxes.

      Chapter IV: Oh, the Heart of a Wife and Mother

      “You did what?!” Finnebog’s wife stood in utter amazement as her husband recounted the stargazers’ words and how he had spent his day down at the young thatcher’s home. He had left the empty box on the bank of the river quite a distance from their home. He told his wife how he had made his way to the man who made the roof he sat under. He was sitting on the small porch in front of the small shack.

      “Hello, friend,” he greeted as he held out his hand. “My name is Finnebog the Merchant and I come to you with a request.“

      “Oh? And what might that be?” questioned the poor thatcher.

      “I heard you have a son. I would like to take him off your hands as a helper to me. I will take him to foreign lands to be a learner of languages,” Finnebog said in his most velvety salesman voice. “He will be well taken care of, for I am quite wealthy and can give him whatever he needs and desires.”

      The thatcher stared at him, contemplating what was being offered in exchange for his only child.

      “Oh,” Finnebog continued, “and I will also give you six hundred gold pieces for your trouble. With that kind of money, you could buy your own farm and live quite comfortably for the rest of your long life.”

      The thatcher stood from his chair and nodded to the silver-tongued man before him.

      “Let me talk to the wife,” he mumbled as he turned and went through the door that was hanging by one hinge.

      Finnebog heard muffled sounds back and forth between them inside. After awhile, he went to put his ear to the door and jumped back just as the man swung it open. He carried a small, beautiful child in his arms, surrounded by a dirty wool blanket. The merchant stared at the captivating child as a wicked smile crossed his mouth. He took the boy quickly and handed over the gold. He stepped down off the porch before they changed their minds, and as he walked away, he heard the thatcher’s wife as she sobbed into the sleeve of her husband’s worn shirt.

      Finnebog made his way along the stream to the wooden chest.

      “Now don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not the type of boy I want my daughter to marry,” he said to the child as he placed him in the box, closed the lid tight, and locked it.

      He gave one last glance and heaved it into the river.

      *

      Finnebog’s wife removed her hand from over her mouth.

      “Don’t you think you could have gotten away with paying less?” she complained.

      “Perhaps, but at least we’re done with that,” he said with a sense of satisfaction, and then he grabbed her arm and whispered, “Don’t you dare breathe a word of this to Mildri or you shall meet the same fate as that child.”

      She jerked her arm out of his hand and stepped back.

      “Don’t you think you’d better stop threatening me and get to work on finding the perfect prince for your daughter, since your so keen on putting anyone out of the way that she’s actually meant to be with?” she said with a sneer.

      “I’ll get right to work, my dear. Don’t you worry. There has got to be a brave, rich man out there worthy of my daughter!”

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