Michael Henrik Wynns skrivedagbok

[Michaelhe]

For en del år tilbake skrev jeg dette satiriske diktet om 17 mai:

17 mai
Kommer år på år
Som lukt av hete, diesel og Wonderbaum
Men hva er verst:
tusen gaulende drittunger, marsjerende korps
eller skallbank?
Jeg tråkker over tomme flasker på vei til kjøleskapet,
stopper halvveis for å spy.
Den smilende kongen på TV
ser annerledes ut fra dass-skåla.
Hvem er det som har lagt brukte kondomer
på min signerte utgave av grunnloven?
Hvorfor finnes det ikke en bit mat i huset?
En motbydelig eim av lykke og vårsol
velter inn ytterdøra.
Utenfor bensinstasjonen
spretter uniformerte russe-fjolls
rundt med de jævla blåsegreiene sine.
I morgen er det rett på polet, for faen,
og så hjem igjen.
Vil heller daue av sult
enn å møte bunadskledde idioter.

 

Michael Henrk Wynn

[Michaelhe]

Sector Alarm

Some years ago I was alone in my apartment. I was walking about in my underwear and - as was normal - I hadn’t seen anyone in weeks. I had a cup of coffee, something to eat and then went to the toilet to do what is normally done there. I washed my hands, flushed and opened the door. Then suddenly I realize that there is a man in my apartment, a blond quite handsome man, not very tall or strong, and he is standing on the other side of my bathroom door.
“Who the hell are you!” I say.
I notice that he wears a jacket with a Sector Alarm emblem. He then tells me that he is there because “I need security”.
“What do you mean?” I say quite astonished. He obviously presented a convincing argument. First, he had entered my apartment without my permission, and now he wanted to sell me services to prevent it from happening in the future.
I should have yelled at him, but I have never been very fond of that sort of thing. So, I escorted him to the entrance, locked my door and complained to several of my relatives.
About a week later, I read in the newspaper about an old disabled pensioner, who had been terrified because the very same security firm had sent "agents" into her garden . The strange men in black were supposedly making an unauthorized “inspection of her basement windows”. Then I thought, they were unable to force entrance through the front door, at least. Grannys always lock their doors. But is it any more legal to enter through the basement window?

Endret 11. mai 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

En tragisk brann

7200 kalkuner brant inne i en forferdelig ulykke på Helgøya. Brannfolkene var opptatt på kjøkkenet da brannen var et faktum, og ankom stedet noe forsinket. De gjorde da sitt beste, fløy over flammene med et slukningfly fra sjøforsvaret og sprayet bygningen med pepper, fløte og en blanding av karry og rosmarin. Poteter, skrellede løk og sjampingjonger ble også lagt i en stor ring rundt åstedet, for å stanse spredning av glør. Termometer ble også brukt for å hindre personskader under mobiliseringen, som pågikk i en hel uke til 23.30 om kveldene (men bare til 21 på lørdag 6 mai). Flyttbare toaletter og telt måtte lånes inn fra Øyafestivalen. Men i slik tragisk stund står alle lokalsamfunn samlet.

Endret 13. mai 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

Forskningsnytt
 

Vedtak i forskningsrådet
Forskingsrådet er Norges viktigste støttespiller for offentlig finansiert forskning. Det består av høyt respekterte medlemmer, og professorer med erfaring fra inn og utland. Disse har gjennom en lang karriere opparbeidet seg en unik særkunnskap som gjør dem i stand til vurdere forskning, ikke bare på grunnlag av dens evne til å generere hypoteser og svar, men også sette kunnskapsformidling inn i det miljøet hvor den finner sted.
Forskingsrådet er derfor stolt over å kunngjøre to nye bevilgninger, hver på en million kroner, til opprettelsen av to såkalte “asynkrone interaksjonsmedier”. De asynkrone mediene skal bygges opp som standard CMS på den svært annerkjente plattformen Wordpress, og skal videreformidle forskeres private erfaringer med internasjonale kongresser. Dette er en kunnskap som har blitt neglisjert, og dermed har norske forskeres evne til internasjonal nettverksbygging ikke vært like god som den utenlandske akademikere besitter, for eksempel i USA eller Storbritania. Eksterne samarbeid, bla med foretningsmannen Peter Stordalen og hans omfattende nettverk av bevertning og losji-enheter, vil i kombinasjon med den kunnskapen som de asynkrone mediene formidler sterkt kunne bidra til at Norge blir mer synlig som forskingsnasjon.

 

Revolusjonerende slankemetode
Forskere i Norge har i flere år undersøkt årsakene til at mennesker går opp i vekt. I ti år har forskingsrådet spyttet penger inn i et omfattende program for å løse et problem som blir større år for år, og som koster samfunnet store summer.
Nå har norske forskere publisert en artikkel i tidsskriftet Science som har vekket enorm oppsikt internasjonalt, fordi den skisserer i detalj en metode for å gå ned i vekt som er nesten opp mot 100% sikker. I korte trekk går den ut på at mennesker som spiser to koteletter hver dag, skal redusere inntaket til en kotelet, og mennesker som spiser tre kakestykker, skal i stedet skal spise to. Forskerne legger ved et diagram som dokumenterer det man lenge har mistenkt, men ikke godt nok bevist, nemlig at kroppsvekt til en stor grad er proporsjonal med mengden og kvaliteten på maten som man putter i munnen.
“Det at vi nå har denne sikre kunnskapen gjør oss i stand til behandle mennesker på en langt mer kostnadseffektiv måte, “ sier professor Fettberg Mumlegris, som leder det ti-årige proskjektet, hvor rundt 300 norske forskere ved 6 institusjoner har deltatt fulltid de siste ti årene.

Endret 24. mai 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

Artificial intelligence threatens jobs!

The most powerfull national assembly in the world, the United States Congress, is extremely concerned that AI will lead to job losses. Issues concerning efficiency and potential cost-savings from AI rose to light in the wake of a four hour filibuster by Marjorie Taylor Greene on space lazers.

Endret 24. mai 2023 av Michaelhe
dobbeltpost

[Michaelhe]

I have written a new fairytale poem. i have written a couple of these before. Edit: I just softened the ending. It was over the top. I think it works ok now?

The Fire-ship
We are on a mountain ledge
my dog and I
watching foreign carracks
on a rolling moonlit ocean.
Sails flutter and canons roar,
but the sea swallows all human voices.
I am untouchable on shore,
Hidden by solitude.

Why are these vessels here?
Will any outcome matter?

Silhouettes of masts pass by the moon
above ever moving silvery foam,
Hatches open to spit
fire at their enemy.
In that illuminated instance human forms
plunge into the depths.

Smoke settles over icy water,
as a slow, glowing fog
encircles the perimeter.
It grows ever brighter
until a wall of flames
breaks through:

A burning deck!
The rigging on fire!

The ship creaks,
heaves from side to side.
Crashes echo
across
an intervening night
– and flames unite.

I lower my gaze.
Shadows dance
around bush and bolder.
It is too much.

I walk home in silence.

Michael Henrik Wynn

Endret 26. mai 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

What I can and cannot write
I write texts in a few genre as a hobby, and these genres have stayed with me since university. They all date back to when I worked in the student newspaper at my local university. Somehow I became more interested in the forms of text that they used rather than the stiff academic articles I was supposed to master. I wrote many short satirical columns, a few of which were successful, and which I later translated and re-used elsewhere. I also started writing what I call “tabloid literary history”, short biographical articles that were meant to stir up interest, rather than to present - or pretend to to present - original hypotheses. Sometimes I would spend whole days in the library researching these articles, in stead of focusing on the dull lectures I sometimes witnessed. 

When I discovered what the internet could do, I realized that I could take up some of my hobbies and post the texts online. In addition, I started writing some short stories and poetry. Some of the early satirical texts were not good, I stepped over the line once, I recall, and was rightly severely reprimanded.  But as you go on that invisible line becomes more defined and that makes it a little more easy to avoid. But there are no guarantees. The things that I am able to write all have one thing in common, they are short. Once I joined an online writing class and tried to write a crime novel about a buss driver, partly inspired by Hitchcock movies. Of course, it turned out really really bad. I also tried to write a spy story set on a steamer, and that also was over my head. 

I am writing this to show that my interest in literary history and satire is no recent addition, but has stayed with me for many decades. In fact, when I was 14, I tried to translate a poem by Longfellow, and I used to write long really terrible fantasy stories, glue the pages together with tape, and edit them with a pair of scissors. But then finally word processing arrived. 

I must also say that in spite of the genre, I do not have any sort of personal charisma, like some stand up comedian. Most people have found me a little gray. Nor am I constantly in good mood, in fact I can often be very depressed for months on end. The hobbies have in a way been a sort of refuge in which the mind was a little more free. 

Endret 27. mai 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

 

[Michaelhe]

Fredspris
Nobels fredspris er Norges stolthet. Hvert år velger en komitee av pensjonerte politikere ut ulike helter fra hele kloden som får æren av å besøke Norge, og holde et foredrag for å hylle Stortinget og regjeringen. Det er bare de aller beste som får en slik ære. De har all grunn til å være fornøyde, for listen av mennesker som synes Norge er helt suverene er lang. Alt fra Obama og Martin Luther King til Kissinger og Yunus. I nesten hundre år har denne prisen opprettholdt Norges status i utlandet. På grunn av store mangler i utdanningsystemene i enkelte deler av verden er mennesker i enkelte konfliktområder ennå ikke klar over hvor flott Norge er.

[Michaelhe]

Concerning book reviews

It is known that publishers are not that particular about the truthfullness of what they put on the covers of their publications. A  reviewer once wrote the following email to the publisher of a Clive Cussler adventure:

"Dear Publisher,

I regret to inform you that I am incorrectly quoted on the cover of your recent Clive Cussler publication. My statement is taken out of context. When I wrote "Clive Cussler is heard to beat", I was refering to his extraordinary record in the 100 meter dash. But the statement is clearly true, because it has been tested experimentally on several occasions.

Sincerely yours

John Boookman, Lincoln Daily News"

Endret 25. juni 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

Om skyteren ved London Pub

Årsakene til PST og E-tjenesten fikk to mennesker skutt er gjennomgått i en ny rapport. Dokumentet slår ubønnhørlig fast at hvis etatenes budsjetter hadde vært det dobbelte og grunnloven hadde vært opphevet ville hendelsen aldri funnet sted. En felles tallsmann for de hemmelige tjenestene sier til VG:

"Det er klart at Zaniar Matapour hadde sine motiver, men disse er mindre relevante for utfallet av saken. Det betyr også mindre hva legene sier eller har sagt om hans sykdom, eller det eksakte tallet på døde. Det som betyr noe i forhold til utfallet er hva reglementet og budsjettene sier."

Endret 12. juni 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

My defence for the Kurds

The Turkish nation is not "a melting pot", but a kebab of delicious and succulent cultural ingredients. To avoid salmonella each piece must be pure and fresh.

Endret 14. juni 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

Dødsfall

En gammel dame i latin-amerika ble nylig erklært død, lagt i en kiste og kjørt til begravelsesagent. Der våknet hun opp og hamret for å komme ut. En uke senere er hun nå erklært død igjen, men denne gangen ikke uten en forklaring for forrige svært unødvendige avskjed. Hun hadde glemt å levere skattemelding, og utsatte følgelig det hele inntil denne var innmeldt. Dødsfall er nemlig fradragsberettiget under både innstektsbeskatning og formue. Og når skattemeldingen var levert så la hun seg ned og døde. For å hylle kvinnen har kommunestyret i hjembyen - i hennes ære - innført en ny avgift på gravstener. Denne er på 2,5% av innkjøpsprisen, men vil ikke bli fradragsberettiget under noen post for ligningsåret 2023 ettersom det er snakk om en lokal bestemmelse med begrenset omfang, vedtatt under forordninger som gjelder for landets lokale selvstyre.

 

Endret 19. juni 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

A new audiobook that I made today based on one of my stories. It turned out ok. But remember what i have been saying about fiction. It is inspired by reality, but must never be confused for reality. 

 

[Michaelhe]

I have recorded another one

 

[Michaelhe]

Regjeringens oppdaterte reiseråd for sommeren 2023

Når man ferdes i enkelte deler av verden gjelder visse uskrevne regler som mange ikke kjenner til. Man må aldri kommunisere med helsepersonell, byråkrater eller offentlige tjenestemenn uten vitners nærvær og med advokat til stede. Grunnen til dette er at man i noen land kan bli holdt kriminelt ansvarlig for at man tror på det de sier. 

Endret 25. juni 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

The importance of grammar
As an English teacher by training who has worked for 20 years as a part-time academic translator, I have noticed a crucial piece of information that is absent from the public debate: many people in conflict areas around the world, in wars, in clinics and elsewhere die prematurely because other people cannot spell, use proper syntax, build arguments, substantiate cases, write full sentences or follow rules. I am not exaggerating the importance of my own profession at all. Of course, these things are above my paycheck. So, the only thing any of us really can do, is to relax with a nice steaming hot cup of coffee and some low fat cheese.

Endret 25. juni 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

I wrote this story tonight, but i do not think that the idea behind is original. But there is nothing new under the sun. We are all plagarizing our parents' sex life. Still, I think it does say something very important.

“Celebrity mourning” a short story by Michael Henrik Wynn

The crowds waited in anticipation as the pompous fanfares marked the opening of the red carpet, a crowd of slick journalists rushed to the front fence. An even larger crowd consisting of “common men” were held back at the perimeter – like some reserve force. And then they arrived, the dashing superstars in their lavish costumes. The simultaneous flashes of hundreds of cameras enlightened the long expected arrivals from constantly shifting angles. Some of them sweated, others blinked, but they all kept their faces. They smiled because they were used to it, and they lifted their arms and waved. They paraded along the marked lines giving autographs, and they were all in a splendid mood.

“The film was excellent, Mark Thompson! How did you feel upon receiving the award”
“It was a great honor, of course.”
“How do you feel about being nominated as the most sexy man in the business”
“I appreciate good taste when I see it”, the middle aged actor said and put on his best grin.
Those who heard him – and there were plenty of these – roared with laughter. They would have escorted him to his limousine, but sunglassed guards – probably picked or perhaps even bred for size and grim appearances –  blocked their way. Strangers struggled, they shouted after him, and for their sake Mark Thompson stopped, walked over to the fence where they stood and signed several autographs. Then he moved on to the next fence closer to the parking lot. There were three of them along the way, and Mark Thompson radiated even more humor and wit at the two next ones. He was warming up. Only the last two hundred meters did he walk a little faster when he noticed an open limousine waiting for him. He sighed when the car doors slammed shut behind him, because he now was protected from a multitude of stares by bullet proof colored glass. But a sigh was all he could manage because even if they could not see him, he was able to see them, the vast moving crowd, an organism by itself, twisting and turning, giving off sounds of hysteria, of admiration and sometimes – more often than people realize – of disgust and resentment.

The car navigated through the streets of the city center, and stopped by the venerable Grand Hotel. The door opened, and again he was exposed. But there was that million dollar, tastefully bleached smile that had melted so many hearts, and there was that sharp tongue that always knew how to dodge awkward questions. It had served him so well, and it only became more and more efficient with age. It ripened like a fine wine.

At the reception, men and women he had never met and sometimes not even knew existed told him from a mahogany podium about how he had completely altered their lives, sometimes saved them from bad marriages, improved their sex lives and prevented suicides. Of course, he had no choice but to be humbled by his enormous power, such good fortune that life had bestowed upon him. He was obliged to tell them of his own struggles, and how thankful he was that he had made it, arrived at his station, and how they too could make it if they just followed their dream. Ever onwards and upwards.

There was fine dining, exquisite cuisine, which he enjoyed in silence, while hum and chatter, and toasting glasses sounded over his head. Then he got up, excused himself and rushed through the velvet corridors for the bathroom. But a young blonde had made it passed the guards, was blocking his way and was flashing her excellently sculpted breasts. Then, there was a bizarre situation in which a gigantic two meter black body guard chased the tiny creature down the corridor. Mark Thompson walked by and smiled.
“They never stop”, he told the guard, “they can’t help it. You’re doing a great job, thank you, but be gentle on her. She is drunk and very young.”
“Yes sir”, said the giant bodyguard.

He did his thing in the toilet, washed his hands in the gilded sink, and returned to his seat. His agent was on the phone, several radio stations wanted his views on some matter. He found a quiet corner, and called them. He preferred these brief phone interviews. No one could see his face, he could even do them in the nude at home, if he wanted. But somehow it never seemed right. Even in their voices, he could sense their eyes.

At ten o’clock that evening he called it a day. He had been at it since morning. Then there was the routine of leaving the building, the choreographed exit, the waiting door. The relief of departure, the oddness of seeing those ordinary people walking along the bar strip as his limousine passed. The loud music, the distant laughter. He had been 18 once, hadn’t he? He had not always had this life. Many many years ago, he too could walk down that strip, and no one would even look twice at him, a pimpled mumbling nerd. The girls had even giggled at him with pity, the pathetic boy who would never get laid.

The cortege struggled through traffic, but as they entered the more affluent areas, people and vehicles magically dispersed. He was left with majestic glass and steel constructions, all polished and glimmering, fancy restaurants with private entrances and then the villa area: well kept gardens with pools hidden by carefully landscaped residential palaces. As dusk fell, the stars had come out and they hung over his home, stretching endlessly towards a million dollar horizon and view. Below them lay the vast pulsating metropolis. On top of the hill stood his isolated palace, his marble columns, his tiled walkways.

Another open door was waiting for him, and he rushed towards it. He had made sure that it had been made of the most quirky wood he could find. It stood out because it had the texture of an English cottage door. The faces that met him, his servants, were friends at least, he thought. He paid them enough to fake it.
“Is she still awake?” he asked as the maid took his coat.
“Yes, sir. She is awake”
He then stopped by the stairs, and wondered whether he would he would be brave enough to enter her room. But the memories overwhelmed him, and he bit his lip as he climbed the steps.
There was the door he dreaded. He leaned his forehead against it as he knocked. It squeaked open, and the silhouette a huge bed and a dying woman was visible against the moon light from a half open window. He walked those final steps to the vacant chair, and an imperceptible breeze silently swung the door shut behind him.

 

Endret 21. juli 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

I was reading the news online recently, and I came across a story about a pathologist at Harvard medical school who was arrested for selling body parts from his work online. This is a priceless story, I thought. And today I scribbled down this poem in his honor

 

To the Harvard Pathologist who Sold Body-Parts Online

Dusk swallows modernity,
pimpled students withdraw to their own future,
and ancient winds swirl the leaves over cobblestones.

It is then, accompanied by the owls of the city,
that a regular apparition moves under a fleeting moon.
Like a ghost of Burke or Hare
it steals across the parking lot towards a waiting morgue.
Footsteps on venerable floors, doors creak,
panting down those countless winding stairs
to the bowels and intestines of academia.

And there it was,
the illuminated cold storage of many minds!
Jarred egg-heads and poetic hearts in formalin.
Who would not have bought a decapitation of Peirce,
or the preserved moustache of William James?
But one must take what life offers.
Then the giggling tomb raider
flings a sack of spoils over his shoulder:

"How stupid they all are! Naive to the last.
These relics of preserved flesh
will fetch a fortune on the open market!
No need....... no need whatsoever,
to inflate tuition fees."

by Michael Henrik Wynn

Endret 7. juli 2023 av Michaelhe

[Michaelhe]

I have about ten or twelve stories in the works. Here is one which is ALMOST finished. It is set in Norway, in the age of the first king of the snorre saga (or one of the first), Halvdan the Black (Halfdan Svarte), the father of Harald the Fair-Haired (Harald Hårfagre). He is a character in the story, but most of it is invented because there are scarce sources about his life and the real location of the kingdom he created. When I say it "almost finished", I mean I may need to moderate or change the language in places. There is a sort poetic tone to it you see.

“The Orphan”, a short story by Michael Henrik Wynn

Before king Harald began the unification of Norway, the country consisted of many smaller kingdoms, often fighting among themselves. Bands of violent thugs roamed the countryside demanding protection money from peasants, blacksmiths, carpenters and traders. And many made a claim to divinity.
In one such kingdom, located in a long and narrow valley, there was a hamlet in which there lived an ugly and childless woman in her mid fourties. Her loneliness was such that she frequented neighbors at all hours making a nuisance of herself. But she was intelligent, and read the minds of her hosts with just one glance. Therefore, she never stayed long out of fear of outwearing her welcome, and eventually became known as “wandering Hilde”. It was with a certain sadness that locals observed her walking down solitary paths in the evenings, her lamp was visible from great distance in clear weather. They would see it climb the side of the valley to her farm. At least, it was a comfort that her piece of land even though it was small, was the most fertile in the valley. So, she was never short of food, only a person with whom to share it.

One winter there came news from afar that a great battle was brewing. The local king was in a bitter struggle for his life with the neighboring kingdom. Men and boys gathered what weapons they possessed, kissed their wives and mothers before they rode or walked off, and were never heard of again. It was said that the neighboring king was an extremely evil man, who enjoyed seeing his enemies suffer. He would engage in the most grotesque torture with a crooked smile upon his face. It was his right as king to hold lives in the palm of his hand, and to do with them as he pleased. At one point the cruel ruler came riding down the valley with his hord of savages, his long hair streaming like some torn grey banner in the wind as he rushed forward with his lifted, blood-soaked sword. They saw the fires spread from house to house. Screams echoed far through the valley unto the plains below. Who had died? What had happened to the children?

But the fate of a king is never certain. He eventually miscalculated, underestimated the hatred he had stirred up, and in a flash a crowd had ambushed him, torn him from his proud black stallion, and stabbed him hundreds of times, before placing his decapitated head on a pole.
The mob then did to their enemies what they had experienced themselves. New flames flickered under the starry sky, and many young died needlessly for the wrongs of their parents.

It so happened that wandering Hilde stood at the top of the enemy’s valley one morning as dawn revealed columns of drifting thick smoke, and fields of golden wheat. She observed the sacking with the distance of an outsider. What did it matter what people did, their petty arguments, she was not part of their world. She knew that the law demanded revenge and that the Gods craved it. But she did not understand it. One of these murdered children could have warmed her heart, stoked her homely fires until her ship eventually sailed for the halls of Hell.

She turned with her usual melancholy, and began on her solitary trek home. She crossed the creek, navigated the rutted tracks to the mountain pass. As she was passing the treeline, she heard the neighing of a horse. She stopped, looked in all directions, but could not, at first, understand where the noise was coming from. She heard it again, and walked towards a mighty pine with thick green branches that overhung a path. Underneath it she found a small mare, and by its feet a tiny red-haired child, a girl, five winters or so that seemed to have fallen off. The child did not cry, perhaps because she had been cushioned by the soft ground, or because she was still confused from her ordeal.

For a moment wandering Hilde did not know what to do. If there was a child, there was most certainly a mother. But where?
“Hello, little one, where is your mother?”
The girl did not speak, but pointed towards a column of smoke that rose from treetops four hundred meters away. The child then drew her hand over her throat, as if to indicate that something had been cut.

Hilde did not have time to reflect on the macrabre display, for in the very next instant male shouts were not far away, and hooves trampled. Instinctively, she drew the child towards her bossom, slapped the horse on its back, sending it off riderless. She then placed herself and the child as close to the trunk as she could. They were hidden by the low branches, invisible to the panting horses that moments laters raged by.
She then realized that she had forgotten to place her hand over the child’s mouth. But, as she looked down she saw that she had no need to worry. The child had buried her face against her thigh, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. So it was that wandering Hilde’s heart melted, and that she brought home an enemy offspring to her own house, fed it and treated it as if it were flesh off her own flesh.

But a child can never be invisible to any neighbor. Even if she managed to hide the secret for six moons, the seventh the game was up, and the whole village debated intensly who the child might be, what linage it might have, and whether it was right to feed the blood of an enemy.

The average villager, of course, would never get beyond speculation, but there was a traveling merchant, who sometimes also collected taxes. He was by no means rich, but maintained halfway houses, where the earls and their men sometimes made stops. He was obliged to wait on these, and present them with such food and drink as they demanded. But he was handsomely rewarded, even if he almost never raised his voice, or offered any comments beyond those required by his function. He was a man of fifty winters, and the locals thought him wise, and often sought his councel on matters relating to the wider world.

The child and her clothes were brought before him. Grey-bearded, bushy-browed and weathered, he sat quietly on a stone in front of a flickering fire, and examined the items in silence. He could find no mark on the child’s limbs that would give any clue. But he noticed that she was well fed, and that all her skins were of fine quality and had regular stitching. Still many men with large farms had daughters, but they were seldom lavished with jewels at that age.

Finally, he found a little pouch, and in it a small medallion with an emblem. If anyone had seen his grey eyes at that moment, they would have noticed his schock. But the others had grown impatient, and were looking at the landscape and walking about. They had concluded that nothing out of the ordinary would be uncovered.
He slipped the pouch into his pocket without anyone noticing, smiled and schook his head.
“As far as I can tell, she is of wealthy kin, but I can say nothing more.”
The others sighed, and they all rode to the house of wandering Hilde the very next morning. Four horses with the elders of the village climbed the paths to her farm. They found fires burning, food cooked, clothes hanging out to dry. When they saw the child stumble towards a smiling Hilde, they all sighed and shook their heads in dismay.

A few evenings later Thor’s wagon thundered above the mountain, his lighetning split the sky over the valley below. Then there was heavy rain, which dripped from leaves and made stones and paths slippery. But then there was quiet, total silence as a slow fog drifted in from all sides. In that fog there was suddenly the sound of a horse, and solitary cloaked rider made his was to the merchant’s house over the mountain pass.

In Norway, sea gulls – the white emissaries – drift in from the endless ocean on summer breezes. As the autumn chill and darkness descend from the mountains, however, they vannish. In their place murders of crows settle upon moist fences and thatched roof tops, greeting visitors with black blinking eyes. When the rider reached the merchant’s house, the gates and shutters were therefore secured and only distant caws were heard. The traveler dismounted, knocked on the door, which creaked open releasing a slit of light. The old merchant then appeared, and bid the stranger enter.

Having dispatched the child’s pouch with a messenger some days earlier, the merchant was expecting somone to come. But when he saw the rider remove his clothes his heart froze and his eyes filled with tears. Before him stood Frey, the king’s beautiful sister – and his most feared assassin.
“Your highness!” he exclaimed, and immediately went to fetch his best food and drink.
Frey, although fourty winters, was a rank darkhaired woman with gleaming eyes. His hands shook as he served her.

The story of Frey was well known among those who travel. She had been married three times, and each time she had failed to produce offspring – and blamed her husband. Every time she had sought the help of her brother the king, who each time lured the men to their deaths so that she might marry again. The third time, however, the king had told his sister:
“Frey, three good men have met their end because you are barren. Three old mothers have wept not knowing why their son had perished. Honor now demands that you pay me back.”
So it was the Frey, in the service of her brother, wielded her charm, exploited her good looks and made men lower their guards, only to plunge her long dagger in their hearts while they were sleeping.

“You have guessed why I have come?” she said looking at the merchant.
He lowered his gaze and sighed. “Yes”
“Now, tell me the story of how the pouch was found”
“There is a local woman called wandering Hilde who now mothers the child…”
“Wandering Hilde? Does this name have any significance? Is she not a local woman?”
A sudden thought came upon the old merchant, a weak glimmer of hope. He excused himself, complained about a bad back and took a seat on the other side of the table.
“It is important, Your Highness, that you know all that there is to know”
“Yes, naturally”
The old merchant then told the legend of wandering Hilde, and in as many strong words as he could elaborated on her character. He described her lantern climbing the hillside in the evening, and how her shadow moved from door to door after dusk. But, he had no hope that anything would make any sort of difference. The woman before him, gorgeous and black-haired as he was, was known as the coldest and most calculating creature ever seen. So, he finished his story, got up and pointed out the window.
“The light you see up there, Your Highness, marks the house where wandering Hilde now lives.”
He felt Frey approaching him from behind, her cold breath streamed over his shoulder as her gaze followed the direction of his finger.
She then whispered: “Thanks for the story, old man”
And then she opened the door and melted into the night.

Frey was not in a hurry. She walked her horse slowly along the path under the light of a bleak crescent. She made sure that not many people saw her. But it would have made no difference if they did. At foot of the hillside, she dismounted and then climbed on foot untill she stood hidden behind trees at the edge of wandering Hilde’s farm. There she stood for a while, and saw a fire flicker through an open window. A young girl giggled.

A long silvery dagger was then unsheathed, and human form slipped quietly to the outside wall. One of the oak shutters had been closed, and in it there was a hole. Frey then placed her eye to the opening and peered inside.

Wandering Hilde, an unusually plain woman, was standing in front of a bucket of water cleaning some cloth. In the background there was a loom, and in the corner of the cramped room stood a straw padded bed. That is where the child sat smiling, and dangling her feet. Wandering Hilde was very preoccupied. At one point she realized that she she needed more water, and reached for her bucket. She made her way towards the door, which slowly swung open releasing a warm and damp stream of light into the night. Wandering Hilde did not see Frey in the shadows behind her, with her dagger raised.

Frey was about to enter the room, and kill the child when something unexpected happened. Hilde sang. A very slow lullaby to calm the child. She did not look back, but the sudden voice caught Frey by surprise and she withdrew back into the dark. There she stood for a moment, sweating and shivering, not knowing why. Moments later Hilde returned, closed and locked the door, and Frey felt the tremendous solitude of the universe suddenly fall upon her shoulders as it slammed shut. She felt dizzy, and looking up at the stars, that enormous multitude of distant lights were all staring at her. The icemaid fled. First to the trees, then to her black stallion and finally to the merchant’s house. There she demanded a room and left orders not to be disturbed.

A volva had once told Frey that when a woman of a certain age climbs to a high mountain pond, and looks down upon her reflection in the water under the northern light, she can see herself the way she could have been. That night, as many other nights, the Arora Borealis twisted and turned like a celestial serpent above. Frey saw this from her window, and immediately asked the merchant whether there was a mountain pond nearby as she needed to brew a magical potion. The old man then told her that four hundred meters up the road, just above the treeline, not far from the mountain pass, there was such a pond.

Frey then proceeded in the direction she was given. After walking quietly through the night, her lantern swinging back and forth, her thick cloak sometimes pulled by sudden gusts, she arrived at her destination. It was dark, and the opposite bank of the pond lay shrouded in mist. But on her side, the water shimmered quietly by the moss. This was indeed mirror enough to consult the Gods!

As she peered into the water she was at first releaved. There was nothing there, only her own familiar face. She smiled, shook her head. She had been needlessly worried. But then she heard a rustle in the trees. She grabbed her dagger fearing an ambush. Then she spotted a black bird against the night sky, and heard the omnious cry of a raven.

Her heart froze, the dizziness returned. She noticed that her feet were soaked, and as she again looked into the water her vision seemed blurred. Who was the shadow in her reflection? For a brief moment she thought she made out wandering Hilde in the ripples. It was just a brief sensation, a palpitation in the surface, but it was overwhelming enough to make her walk back to the old merchant.There she asked for provisions, saddled up her horse and returned to her brother, the king.

Ten moons later, ten riders crossed the mountain pass. A herald preceded them summoning the villagers to the hall. Eight strong and grim warriors, all wearing long swords and crossbows, then surrounded the building, and two cloaked nobles entered to consult with the elders.

There was murmur inside, the men looked at each other with questioning eyes and there was much speculation about what was about to happen. As the two visitors emerged into the light falling from a shaft into the center of the room, they saw that Frey and her brother, the king, stood before them. Then the brother raised his hand, ordered silence and spoke thus:

“Villagers, I am your lawfull king, and I have come among you tell you that I have heard the story of wandering Hilde from my sister. I thought long and hard about it, but did not know what to do. I then fell asleep, and in my dream I saw the many mothers who have cried during our long war. A voice then came upon me saying “Enough!”. I woke from my delirium in a pool of sweat, and walked over to my window for air. I then found a raven purching on my sill.”

At this news of this omen, there was much alarm. The villagers were anxious.

“It is therefore my decision as king that no harm should ever befall the child while wandering Hilde lives, and that this outsider be treated as one of your own for that period. I have come to you in person to ask you to pay allegiance and swear this to me upon one-eyed Odin himself.”

The men of village were obliged to do as any lord demanded. But they needed little persuasion because the king before them was missing an eye himself. The villagers gave their oaths and made their promises, and the king then told them of the orphan’s true linage and what had become of her family. Then the king and his sister left, and they never saw either of them again.

Some years later, news reached the village that he had perished when his horse fell through the ice one winter when he was crossing the fjord. His son, Harold the fair-haired, was also a just man. But the son’s mind and ambition were always focused elsewhere, and the little cluster of houses in the remote valley was forgotten.

There is moss on the old gathering hall in the village. It has been there throughout living memory. The cracked log walls, slimy in rain, were dry, brown and crisp in summer evenings. On such days, the smell of pine, the crackling of fires and the clanking of a hammer on anvils sounded from the nearby houses. Children laughed – as much as children then were allowed to laugh. Wandering Hilde was not a strict woman, and when she commanded Gudrun, as she had named her adopted daughter, she made sure that her voice was always accompanied by a twinkling eye and a smile.

The elders of the village sometimes arrived at the hall robed in sheepskin, looking grey and solumn. It was clear that whatever they were up to, it merrited the raising of voices and the shutting of doors. Only rarely was there an envoy from afar. Then, of course, there was music, mead and minstrels reciting long poems. Occasionally, young Gudrun tried to peer through a crack when the door was open. But she was short of height and never saw much. The heavy wooden door always creaked on its rusty hinges and closed that world from her. Eventually, she gave up, and started doing what other young girls did, learning her womanly chores, preparing herself for that day when a man might arrive to take her away.

When she had experienced six winters with her new mother, one of the men appeared in the doorway of the great hall one humid afternoon in autumn and invited her in. She could hardly believe it. As she entered, she saw walls draped with red and blue cloth, and small divinities of carved oak, and barrels of drink. At the summit of the room sat a stern elderly man, and around him children gathered.

He told stories of a horrific king, who had murdered his three sons. The stories were full of drama, and all the boys smiled. She realized that the man often looked at her as he recounted his tales. And somehow she did not get a friendly impression of him. His pupils were cold. The stories, however, involved many things she did not know about the village, about the kingdom, and the world beyond the crest of the great mountain.
It was not her place to ask impertinent questions. Like all the other children her imagination was captivated by sea voyages, armies and battles in far flung places. This seance became a monthly feature in the calender of the village young. And on all occasions, it would end the same way.
“Do you see the golden amulet on that wall?” the man would say and point at what seemed like a holy relic on a shelf.
“Who does that belong to?” he would ask.
“The Beast King!” the children would shout in unison. And then they would all get up, and return to their chores.
Gudrun would be full of excitement, and run her mother’s side to share her new stories. But mother would always ignore her, and declared that those lies were unfit for women, and suited only for boys, and that the best thing she could do was to avoid the evil geezer and his yarns alltogether. Her mother was so in earnest about this that eventually Gudrun stopped sharing her fantasies. In stead, she would sit quietly on a mossy stone, and look down upon the valley below, her thoughts soaring over the landscape like a seagull yearning for an ocean. Stories would always stir her soul, and she began dreaming of a life of her own – the great adventure that would come with independence.

But no suitors appeared on Gudrun’s doorstep, and no local boy ever showed an interest in her, and the seasons passed as she flourished into a tall and rank red-haired woman – strong, intelligent and soft-hearted. Often she would bring food for the elderly, and she would clean and do things, as if she were a servant. And she would share of her food with passing strangers, and she would try to follow the example of her mother who had saved her all those years ago. In fact, so many years had passed that whatever preceded the life she now had – whatever it might have been – had vanished into a haze. And there was no way to get it back once it had gone.
Old Hilde herself had found the company that was missing from her former years, her evening fires were indeed continously stoked, but age and new worries quickly colored her brows white, and the faint sun and the northern breeze left lines on her forehead. And her steps slowed with each winter, until she moved about like a wise hag with a cane.

“Dear Gudrun”, Hilde stammered from her bed one day. The shifting lights from the fire made her dying eyes shine almost magically.
“Come to my side, daughter!” Gudrun got up and moved next to her mother. She lifted a skin and placed it over her mothers feet.
“Gudrun, I am soon departing this world”.
“No, mother, do not give up”
“I am old, I feel it coming. The winters weigh heavily on my bones, I cannot carry water. That is when my own mother died.”
“Yes, mother.”
“I am worried about what will become of you.”
“Do not worry about me, mother. I have friends, and I have work at our neighbor’s farm.”
“No, child. You do not have friends. When my body is cold, you must leave me unburied, and sneak out of the valley before anyone notices”
“What do you mean?”
At that very moment, there was a knock on the door, and her mother waved the daughter to the side. Gudrun immediately understood that private matters would be discussed, and went for a stroll along the valley in which she had grown up. She strolled by the clear river, and climbed to the shimmering pond. She even made her way to a crest above the pass, and studied her village from a high vantage point. And she spied passed distant white peaks, and imagined an endless expanse of water.

She returned in the evening mist, and noticed a throng of neighbors by the well outside her house. Her brows dropped and eyes teared up as she approached. What she had dreaded had now come to pass. The men seemed to block her, and she found it difficult to penetrate the crowd. Eventually, she fought her way in, and saw her mother lifeless in her bed, her grey gleaming eyes open, staring skywards. Gudrun looked away, and placed her face in her palms. When she glanced up, she noticed the familiar face of wise Astrid. At first she was relieved. But then she saw that wise Astrid’s wrinkles seemed petrified. Her wool-covered figure, normally so crooked, seemed strangely erect, and there was an uncompromising determination in her narrow chin.
“Be gone, spawn of Loke!”, wise Astrid whispered and spat before Gudrun’s feet.

Gudrun ran out the door, only to feel a man’s fist in her face. She tumbled to ground and got up, and fled into the stable to Alas, her white mare. She mounted as quickly as she could and gallopped down the road in a cloud of dust. After a few minutes she glanced back and saw her childhood home vanish behind the pines. She pulled her reigns, and her horse neighed as she halted. She then dismounted and sat down in the grass to cry. But no tears came. There was simply too much at the same time, and she had no idea what had come over her old friends. But, a life may change with the snap of fingers, only a cold stone will move with the ages.
Whether this was fear, sorrow or confusion did not matter, for soon there was trampling of hooves and angry male voices. She decided to mount her horse in a futile dash for the mountain pass. Even in a that humid evening, dark-green branches drooped over her path, casting distinct shadows. And she thought she heard the distant cries of many ravens, one over the other, until they combined into a primordial laughter.

And thus it was that Gudrun was ambushed by a crowd of former friends at the mountain pass, torn from her old white mare, stabbed hundreds of times, and her decapitated head placed on a pole. This was done because she was the youngest daughter of the worst man that had ever lived – even if her lineage had been kept from her until the day of her death. In olden times, the word of a king was all that prevented a smiling neighbor from ending your life.

Endret 16. august 2023 av Michaelhe