Foul Finnebog: A Norwegian Tale
by
Rosemary Olson
Copyright 2011 Rosemary Olson,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0485-1
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
To my Viking mother, who helped my imagination bloom with her stories and never stopped loving and encouraging me in my dreams. I owe my insight and love of fairytales to her.
Rosemary Olson
Chapter I: A Wooden Box
The hot, summer sun shown down on a land far away. The tall grass and weeds along a slow-flowing river kept waving softly in the slight breeze. The miller’s dog, a medium-sized, brown and black mutt made its way to the bank and leaned in through the grass to lap some of the cool water. He yipped and jumped back suddenly as a wooden box bumped against the bank of the river just inches from where he’d been trying to get a drink. The box, made by a local carpenter, had been finished, filled, and discarded in the river just upstream only late this morning. About the size of a large flower pot, the lid had been made to fit perfectly so the contents inside would not get wet. It was obviously the work of a skilled carpenter. The dog leaned in a little closer and sniffed. Something wasn’t quite right about the smell of this box. It continued to drift slowly down the river as the dog excitedly barked and escorted it along its lazy journey. Before long, the water began rushing a little faster as small whitecaps buffeted the chest. It was getting closer and closer to a large paddle wheel that kept the water churning through the miller’s farm. The old miller, thin and leathery-looking, was working close by. He looked over at his barking dog just as the box became wedged between one of the rotating paddles on the wheel and the bank of the river.
“Vegard!” he yelled as he hobbled over to see what was causing the wheel to stop turning.
“What, in the name of Odin’s ghost...” he muttered as he noticed the small chest.
He stumbled into the water, grabbed the box, and heaved it onto the land. The paddle wheel started churning slowly as it was relieved of the obstruction, causing the man to lose his balance and splash around as he tried to get away from the turning wheel. He clumsily lumbered up the bank where he sat for a minute, trying to catch his breath.
“Vegard! Get away from that!” he breathlessly motioned to the dog that had now made its way to the box and was circling it wildly. There were strange noises coming from inside the wooden chest, like the sound of a muffled fox’s howl.
“Sit!” He said to Vegard as he pulled the chest closer to him. The dog ignored his master’s order and continued sniffing the chest. The old man swiped him away angrily. He placed his hands on the lid and tried to tug it open. It wouldn’t budge. He had been weakened from trying to fish the box out of the river. As he took a deep, renewing breath, he heard a muffled shriek from inside the box.
“What is causing so much...Uuhhhh!” he grunted as he tried again to tug open the lid. “Well how does this thing...” he muttered to himself in frustration.
“What on earth are you doing?” The miller’s wife yelled as she stumbled toward him wearing her work clothes--her only clothes, which consisted of a dress that was a little too long, an apron, and a dirty, loose-fitting bonnet. She was as old and haggard looking as her husband, with hands that were chapped from years of hard labor. She had noticed the commotion her husband made when he was splashing around in the river and made her way across a small clearing to where he was kneeling, dripping water over the top of the box.
“Look there,” she pointed, “can’t you see there’s a key in the lock?”
She crouched over the chest, turned the key slowly, and lifted the wooden cover. The miller’s eyes narrowed, trying to peek inside the dark opening. His wife’s eyes gleamed, hoping to see riches untold.
“AHHH!” The miller’s both gasped in unison. A small pair of eyes looked up at them.
Chapter II: Visitor’s
“Mildri! Come away from that window, now. It won’t do you any good to watch him walk away, child.”
“But mother, I really thought he liked me.”
Mildri watched with longing as another potential suitor was led by her father down the small pathway to the gate. Her light brown eyebrows creased over her clear, blue eyes. She was quite a catch, wasn’t she? She wore her finest burgandy-colored gown, stitched with gold thread. Her long, loosely-braided hair fell down across the middle of her back. She had fastened the bright ruby necklace her father had given her around her smooth, small neck. He said it would protect her against any sadness or bad spirits that might try to cloud her judgment. She wasn’t so sure. If anything, it clouded her father’s judgment in choosing her future husband. No one was good enough for his daughter. At seventeen, she was considered almost too old to marry. There had been over thirty young men that had come to speak to her father, but there was always an excuse as to why they were turned away.
“His nose was too big. You wouldn’t want to be kept awake by the snore coming out of it, I can tell you that!”
“He’s only a chancellor. Better to be a prince than to advise one, don’t you think?”
“He wore a white tunic instead of something a little brighter. And he calls himself noble. Bah!”
And the excuses would go on and on.
She moved quickly away from the window as her father opened the door and stepped into the room with his head bowed.
“I thought he was going to be the one for you, my dear, but he is very picky when it comes to...”
“Father!” Mildri interrupted, “I can’t take it any more. No more excuses! He was a perfectly good suitor and he had good teeth. I’m getting older by the minute, you know.”
“I realize that, dearest,” he said as his eyes narrowed to small slits, “but I can’t let you marry just anyone, now can I? Perhaps I should go and discuss this matter with the Stargazers so that I can ease my heart knowing you won’t die an old maid.”
“She will die an old maid if it’s left up to you and the stargazers to choose!” her mother retorted. Mildri ran up the stairs and flung herself down on her bed, sobbing into her sleeve.
Stargazers! They were a couple of old, wrinkled gypsies that lived along the outskirts of the village. No one really knew how old they were, but they had been consulting and gazing for as long as anyone could remember. Surely, if Finnebog paid them enough, or threatened them enough, they would give the name of the prince his precious Mildri was to marry.
