Lessons in Icelandic (short story) by Leanne Dyck

How do ensure your culture will survive? What songs do you sing? What stories do you tell? 

This short story was inspired by the Icelandic folklore of the After-Walker--which I learned about in Nelson S. Gerrard's book The Icelandic Heritage.

photo by ldyck

Lessons in Icelandic

On the farm, during haying season, my dad, Uncle Steini, my cousins, and I gathered twigs and built a campfire. Over this fire, we cooked our supper of hot dogs and beans. After supper, Uncle Steini played our favourite songs on his guitar as we sang along... 

Olavia and Oliver

"Who is the god of mischief?" my dad asked.

"Loki," one of my cousins cheered.

"The god of art?"

"Bragi," another replied.

"The goddess of love?"

All paused so I could answer, "Freya."

"The father of all the gods?"

"Thor," Uncle Steini roared as we giggled. "He was also the god of war. Sometimes he comes down to Earth and walks among us. When he knocks on your door, what will you do? Will you turn him away?"

"No!" We yelled.

"He could be dressed in rags."

"We'll welcome him."

"He could be dirty, smelly."

"We'll give him food to eat and sit him by the fire."

"Good. Thor is very pleased. Remember what Thor said, children. 'Cattle die, kindred die, you yourself must one day die. The only thing that will not die is the verdict over each man dead.' So live a good life, and do well by all. What is praise-worthy, praise; where action is required, act."

"Tell us a story," we asked my dad and leaned in close, hungry for each word. By the warmth of the campfire, he shared ancient sagas...

After-Walker

Children believe in ghosts. As you lay in your bed, on stormy nights, in the rustle of wind through leaves, listen for the voices of the dead. They will speak to you. 

Olafur's saga is whispered by the north wind. Over the waters, over the sky, over the eons, it flies to your ears. The saga tells of a Viking longboat setting sail from Islandia, headed for the new world Vineland. Aboard this boat was Olafur the Bloodthirsty, your ancestor. The world feared his savage taste for blood.

By day, he was a mighty warrior; his ax never hesitated. As eventide drew neigh, he reached for a mug of mead, his sticks, and wool. He wove stitches; he garments. He was a master craftsman.  

The legend of his skill flew from ear to ear, near and far. The finest garment he ever wove was a hooded cloak with long tassels he wrapped around his neck--the Islandia Hood. It was handsome in appearance, warm to wear. 

Many offered him power, wealth, love to possess it, but he refused all offers. 

He told his brother, Jens, "None shall have the hood. When I die, I will be dressed in it."

Jens swore he would uphold this wish. Death comes to all. Olafur died bravely on the battlefield. Freya came to claim him. 

Olafur reached up to adjust his hood. His fingers discovered its absence. 

Freya tried to soothe him, tried to persuade him to release what no longer served him but... 

Olafur did not enter Valhalla. He is doomed forever to walk. Greed will not let him rest until he finds his hood. He is an After-Walker. 

Reading AfterWalker on YouTube 

(The book mentioned is no longer available)

Free knitting pattern:  Islandia Hood

Recordings

Wednesday, September 16

Other People's Memories

A short story about the grandpa I never knew.

Saturday, September 19

Island Artist

A humourous short story inspired by island life

Next Sunday...

Short Story:  Author reading on the radio by Leanne Dyck

This short story recounts the day I traveled from Mayne Island to Salt Spring Island to read a story I wrote on the radio--a short trip but a huge step.

If you're looking for me...

I'm over here...

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The Scotiabank Giller long-list has been announced. 

Sharing my author journey...

Remember back in March when our world got really small? Well, back then, I needed something to get my mind off of things that were beyond my control and so I...

Afi (short story) by Leanne Dyck

I'm blessed with a wonderfully supportive family--and friends--who have nurtured my writing. Here's an early example...

Afi

My mom's parents--my amma (grandma) and afi (grandpa)--lived on School road. I visited them before and after school and during lunch. Amma taught me crafts. Afi taught me how to play gin rummy. He was a grizzly bear, belting out Icelandic folk songs but... One day, I saw him shake. I thought it was odd and then I knew it was scary. Amma had to guide him into a chair. I stood there staring not knowing what to do or where to go--not wanting to see. 

Afi noticed me. 

"Leanne, Elsken (my dear), it's time to go home, " Amma told me.

I left but I couldn't stop worrying about them. Would Afi be okay? Would Amma?

Afi came home from the hospital--a shell of the man he'd once been. I think he knew he was passing away; I think he knew it would be soon.

Mom judged attending Afi's funeral too emotionally upsetting for me. I stayed home but Afi was with me. He remained with me. So when my language arts class was required to write a character sketch I wrote about him. Mom helped me with the spelling, grammar, and punctuation, but the words were mine.

Knowing Amma was lonely without Afi, we visited her as often as we could. 

In Amma's living room, Mom sat in the turquoise chair with wooden arms. "Mom, Leanne has something she'd like to read to you. It's about Dad."

Amma joined me on the sofa.

I wanted to tell her that my essay wasn't very good, that I wished it was better. But I didn't. I just read... 

"I am sure in your life you have met someone who really made a lasting impression on you. Possibly they offered you a new perspective on life and maybe even on yourself.  This special person in my life was my afi.

"Afi once told me that if you were liked by both little children and dogs you had to be doing something right.

"Little children followed him everywhere like he was the pied piper. Dogs ran to greet him. 

"His secret: he was always the straight goods. He never tried to hide any aspect of his character. Nor did he try to create a ribbon and bow effect. It would have been nearly impossible to camouflage any aspect of his strong personality, anyway. So, he didn't waste time trying. 

"He was as stubborn as an old mule." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Amma grin. "And very opinionated. Yet he did not try to push his ideas on anyone. This was not what Afi hoped to do by stating his views. His goal, instead, was discussion. He had the love of debate of a lawyer."

Amma sniffled and pulled a tissue out of her sleeve. 

"I'm sorry, Amma. I didn't mean to make you cry. I'll stop."

"Oh, no, Elsken." She smiled. "They're tears of joy. Please keep reading your story."

"Afi regarded each person no matter what age, gender, or race as having something special to share. Gregarious was his nature and debating his tool."

Silence.

"The end," I said so that Amma would know I was done.

"Oh, Elsken, that's wonderful. You are a wordsmith."

When I graduated from high school Amma gave me a pen and pencil set.

"So you'll continue to write, Elsken." She told me with a hug.

Next Sunday evening...

Bunny by Mona Awad

'Just me and them in a room with no visible escape route for two hours and twenty minutes. Every week for thirteen weeks.' Workshop is protagonist Samantha Heather Mackey's personal hell.

In Icelandic (short story) by Leanne Dyck

This short story was inspired by something my Icelandic-Canadian grandma saw on a bus.

photo by ldyck

In Icelandic

The elderly women were already seated when the young man climbed onto the bus. The minute he sat down, they started talking--in Icelandic.

"He's so handsome," said one of the women. 

"Yes," the other agreed. "I wonder if he's married."

Her friend nudged her arm. "Oh, go on. You're much too old."

"Not for me--for my granddaughter. But if I were forty years younger."

They shared a giggle.

The subject of their attention pulled the cord requesting the bus driver to stop. The young man offered them a smile as he passed their bench. "Have a good day, ladies," he said--in Icelandic.

Next Post:  Books with pictures aren't just for children. On Sunday, September 30, I share my favourite illustrated books for adults. 

photo by ldyck

Sharing my author journey...

You:  It's summer's end, Leanne. How did you do with your spring and summer projects?
Me:  Well...

Eve's Other Children (short story) by Leanne Dyck

The origin legend is about a group of invisible people. This short story was inspired by Icelandic folklore.

photo by bdyck

Eve's Other Children

God told Adam and Eve, “Cats have kittens, sheep have lambs, cows have calves, dogs have puppies and you shall have children—lots and lots of children. Go forth and multiply.”

Eve dug her big toe into the soft, black soil. This is a very weird first date. I mean, I’ve just met the guy and God’s already talking about having babies with him. It’s not like he’s the only guy in the whole-- Well, I guess he is. It’s him or nothing. And besides, he is kind of cute. The least I can do is get to know him.

So Eve started dating Adam and they got along. They got along so well, in fact, that they fell in love.

“Ten—ten’s a good number,” Eve told Adam. “Let’s have ten children.”

“I’m a good provider,” Adam said. “Let’s have twelve.”

Eve giggled. “Or twenty.”

First came Cain, then Abel, but they didn’t stop there. The family grew and grew. Looking down from heaven, God smiled at all of them. One Monday, He phoned Eve. “I’ll be there tomorrow. We’ll have lunch. I’m looking forward to meeting everyone.”

“Oh, so am I.” HE’S COMING TO VISIT US. TOMORROW!  Books, toys, dust—clutter of every kind surrounded her. “The whole place is a total mess.” Freaking out, she raced around mindlessly. “I have to dust, vacuum, clean the bathroom, and…”

“I’ll help you, Mom,” Helga said.

“Oh, dear girl, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Mere hours before His arrival, Eve surveyed her progress. Homemade vegetable soup simmered on the stove. Hand-polished hardwood floors glimmered in the sunlight. “Everything looks— The kids!” There was hair to wash and bodies to dress.

Most of the children understood the importance of the visit. They stood obediently in line as she fussed over them. 

However, there were others. These children joked, laughed.

“Hush, children. You must quieten down and co-operate. God will be arriving at noon. We must be ready.”

“Sure, whatever, Ma.” 

“Don’t you see?" Thorlak said, "It doesn’t matter to Him what we wear. He doesn’t care if we brush our hair. He sees us; He knows what we look like.”

“It matters." Eve glared at him. "It’s important to look our best—out of respect.”

“Blah, blah, blah. Who’s that?”

        

Eve followed Thorlak's line of sight and saw God cresting the hill. She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. He’s early!

Half of her children wore pretty dresses and carefully ironed pants. They made her feel so proud. But her other children... Wind tousled hair. Mud-caked clothes. What do I do? He can't... “Quick children run out into the woods and play.”

One of the boys stopped pulling his sister's hair just long enough to ask, “But I thought you said we had to meet this God guy?” 

“I won’t let anyone see you—not when you look like that.”

As they scampered off into the woods, they stuck their tongues out—taunting their prim and proper siblings. “We get to play. We get to play. We get to play.”

“Why do we have to…? How come they get to…?” 

Eve glared at the ones left behind and they fell silent.

Knock, knock, knock. Eve swung open the door and, sure enough, found God standing there. She threw her arms around Him in greeting. As coached, her children bowed and curtseyed. 

“If you, please, Mr. God, sir, we would like to entertain you with a song,” Cain said.

God took a seat and the humble cottage filled with music. The song ended and God clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Your voices are so sweet. It’s like listening to the angels. Gather around, children, I’d like to tell you a story.” He cradled the youngest on his lap; the rest sat in a circle around Him. “In the beginning was nothing. So, I thought, hey, why not shine some light on things. I did—and thought, not bad.”

As He spoke, Eve ladled soup into her finest dinnerware. She waited patiently until storytime was finished and then called them for lunch.

God sat at the head of the table, slurping his soup until the bowl was empty. “That was delicious, Eve.”

She ran to the stove, retrieved the pot, and brought it to the table. “Would you like more?”

“Yes, please.” God held his bowl up for Eve to fill.

“Me too, Mommie,” the youngest said and God chuckled.

After lunch, the children bowed and curtseyed—excusing themselves. 

God and Eve were alone in the kitchen. “Eve you’re doing a fine job. Your children are delightful.”

Eve glowed with pride.

“But, I’m not sure… Did I meet all of your children?”

Eve froze—recalling tousled hair, muddy clothes, and irreverent attitudes.

“Eve?” God drummed his fingers on the table. “I asked you a question. Did I meet all of your children?”

Oh, no he’s on to me. What do I do now? Play dumb. Yeah, that always works. She slowly nodded her head.

“Real-ly?”

Eve spoke to her coffee mug. “Yes, of course, you did.”   

“Oh, Eve. You’re forgetting whom you’re talking to. I’m God. There’s nothing I don’t see. Nothing. I see the birds in the sky, the ants on the ground and I see some of your children playing in the woods.”

“Oh, them. Well…um…well.”

“Why did you lie to me?” 

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean to… I tried. I tried so hard. Adam’s never home. From the minute I got off the phone with you, I worked. I got down on my hands and knees to scrub every inch of this floor. I picked, washed, and chopped every vegetable in that soup you enjoyed. When you were cresting the hill, I was still working. Those bratty kids, they just won’t co-operate. I tried to explain how important You are. They laughed at me. Thorlak even argued with me. You won’t believe what I have to contend with. I just couldn’t deal with them any longer—not today, not with you coming. You can come back. You’ll meet them then. No harm was done.”

“Yes, Eve. Harm was done. You hid your children from me. You lied to me. I can’t abide dishonesty. You know that. You’ll never learn unless I take a firm hand. And so, the sins of the mother are visited upon the children.”

“No. What are you saying? What are you going to do? You can’t…"

 “Eve, you banished your children to the woods and that is where they will remain. You didn’t want me to see them and so no one will—not you or Adam or your other children. They shall become Huldufolk.”

Eve's Other Children was published in the Icelandic Connection magazine. 
'Icelandic Connection is a quarterly magazine celebrating the cultural heritage of people of Icelandic decent in North America.' -from the Icelandic Connection website

Icelandic Knitting Voyage by Leanne Dyck

This article was previously published in the August 2007 issue of Knit Together
Owner/Editor:  Cynthia MacDougall

My Icelandic Knitting Voyage by Leanne Dyck

My Icelandic-Canadian grandma taught me to knit--using the Norwegian purl. Knitting has been handed down in my family for generations.

It took 150 years for a member of my immediate family to return, but, in 2007, I did.

My ancestors left Iceland expecting never to return to their beloved island home. They were packed onto the ship like cattle and took very few possessions. I wonder if my great-grandma took her knitting needles? 

Knitting came to Iceland in the 16th century. Traditionally, both girls and boys were taught to knit.

(in front of the Textile Museum)

The Textile Museum in Blondous has a display of woollen undershirts and fisherman's leggings. The leggings encased the pant leg from the toe to the upper thigh. At the Icelandic Emigration Centre at Hofsos, I saw traditional Icelandic mitts. Icelanders knew that the thumb was the first part of the mitt to wear out. So they knit an extra thumb. This way when the thumb did wear out all the fisherman had to do was turn the mitt around. That's a fine example of Icelandic ingenuity!

(beautiful Hofsos--the Emigration Centre in the foreground)

In the 1970s and 1980s, almost everyone in North America was wearing the Icelandic sweater. This sweater craze was started by a country with a population (at the time) of 204, 426. When I visited the National Museum, I learned that Icelander's had started knitting and wearing these sweaters in the 1940s. It took North Americans 40 years to catch up. 

(in front of the National Museum)

While in Hofsos, I spoke with Rosa Tryggadottir, who told me that grade school in Iceland only goes to the equivalent of our grade ten. Upon graduation, students can enroll in studies of their choice. Rosa enrolled in a school that offered needle-craft classes. Some of her friends studied knitwear design at a university level and, after graduation, they formed an association to sell their work--much like the Handknitting Association of Iceland 

(Icelandic sheep during fall round-up)

Iceland has a unique program for North Americans over the age of thirty, called Snorri* Plus Participants spend two weeks touring Iceland and accompanying their hosts as they engage in their occupation or hobby What an opportunity for a knitwear designer or knitter!

(Iceland from the air)

Iceland has a rich knitting tradition, with customs old and new. Learning about them is an intangible souvenir of my trip that I will have with me for the rest of my life.

(*Snorri Thorfinnsson, born of Icelandic parents, is credited as being the first ethnic European to be born on North American soil (not including Greenland).)