by Wendy Delsol
“On festival day, only the selurmanna wear the silver tassel.”
“The who?” I asked.
“The selurmanna,” he said, still pointing. “The seal people. Your cap is a sign.”
Talk about déjà vu. Once again, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of someone pointing at my head and calling it a sign. And cap? That’s what the Storks call our ridiculous means of communication.
“It’s not a sign,” I said. “It’s just a hat.”
“But where did you get it?” he asked. “They are very obscure.”
Which, at least, explained the looks and whispers I had attracted upon arrival.
“My afi and I are staying with his cousin and his cousin’s wife. They’re all wearing them, too.”
“Then you are a descendant of the selurmanna.”
Jeez. Like I needed more branches sprouting from my crazy family tree.
“What does that mean?” I asked, knowing — but not caring — how dumb I sounded.
“Ancestors who can trace their lineage as descendants of Finnur, a legendary forefather.”
That was a relief, more a matter of first dibs than something fantastical. His use of the word “obscure” probably one of those lost-in-translation moments; rare was probably the word he was looking for. Though his English was pretty darn fluent and his accent very light.
“So kind of like an Icelandic version of the pilgrims,” I said. “Was he a Viking settler?” At least I had a smattering of Icelandic history and felt confident that this was a good guess.
The guy laughed, smacked the table, and said, “Nothing so common for Hafmeyjafjörður, not according to the legends.” He gestured with his arms in a floppy circle. “Here is considered a place of old mysteries. Here it is believed the huldufólk walk the earth. Here the vatnfólk still swim the seas.” He then winked, as if making light of it all.
Just as I was about to ask for an English-please translation, my in-box chimed. I quickly pulled up my Hotmail account and saw that I had an e-mail from Klarksberg. As I opened the message, I heard the chair next to me scrape the floor and watched my chatty neighbor stand and wave to someone across the room.
“Enjoy the festival,” he said to me as he walked away.
I wanted to yell “Wait,” get a little more backstory from the guy, but I also wanted to read the e-mail immediately. Someone in Greenland was sitting at a keyboard. Jack? Please let it be Jack.
My eyes scanned the message. My hopes drained with a glug. It read:
Dear Kat, your message to Jack has been brought to my attention. Sorry to say that he is currently unavailable. I will get it to him at the first possible opportunity. Will explain more later. Pressed for time now. Best to you and Afi. Stanley.
I read it three times, but still sat staring at the screen like some sort of code had been embedded in the short missive. Unavailable? Weren’t there, like, twenty of them, tops, at the base? What? Was he in the bathroom? In the shower? How long could either of those take? Which brought me to at the first possible opportunity? Pressed for time? They were dealing with climate change, right? Small gradual changes over the history of the planet. Hardly anything with a detonator attached to it. So why the hurry?
I closed my laptop with a snap. I hardly knew what to stress about first and most. My talkative neighbor calling my silver tassel obscure and a sign and calling the town a place of mysticism, or reports coming in of Jack being withdrawn, under Brigid’s special care, and now unavailable. I left the café with more than my strange cap weighing on my mind.
I found the church easily enough. It helped that it was set high on a hill and that the noon bells were louder than jet traffic over LAX. Though church bells were much more melodic. I followed the crowd into what felt like a meeting room or banquet hall. Rafters of rough timbers towered above, and the plaster walls were thick, with few windows. It felt like the real deal: a Viking longhouse, not some Disneyesque recreation. In the center of the room, there were long tables covered with crisp white cloths, while colorful paper lanterns and silvery netting hung from the ceiling and flags and coats of arms decked the walls. People carrying plates of food milled about. Finally, my attire allowed me to blend. Everyone was dressed as if stepping out of a Hans Christian Andersen tale. Silver tassels, however, were few and far between. Vigdis’s shiny round face was easy to spot. She waved at me from her place in the serving line, where she wielded a large spoon over an even larger serving dish. I found Afi and Baldur sitting at the far end of a table sipping coffee, with dirty plates pushed to the side.
I sat down at an empty seat.
“Uh, Afi, is there something I should know about this silver tassel?” I asked, fingering its shimmery fringe.
“It’s for the pure Hafmeyjafjörðurs,” Afi said.
“But what does that mean? Some guy at the café made it sound like it was unusual. And another thing: who are the huldufólk and the vatnfólk?”
The table got very quiet. Baldur cleared his throat; Afi stroked his chin.
“Afi?” I asked.
“These are old legends, Katla. Stories, really.”
Like I hadn’t heard that one before.
“Go on,” I said.
“The huldufólk are the hidden people,” Afi said.
“Hidden how?” I asked.
“Magical beings who are invisible to humans,” Afi said with no more inflection than a weather report.
“And the vatnfólk?”
“The water creatures of which mermaids, mermen, and the selkie belong. Hafmeyja is even the Icelandic word for ‘mermaid.’ Our town, Hafmeyjafjörður, translates to ‘Mermaid Fjord.’”
Again, Afi spoke so matter-of-factly. I kept waiting for him to crack a smile, slap a knee. Nothing.
“Hungry?” I looked up as Vigdis slid a plate of food in front of me.
I was, but I also considered food, like ancestors, a don’t-surprise-me topic.
“Thank you,” I said, trying my best to sound convincing.
“Is my specialty, rhubarb-filled pancakes and blóðmor sausages,” Vigdis said, beaming at me with pride.
I hoped it was the pancakes she was pushing, because, personally, I didn’t want any blood in my sausages — more was simply out of the question.
“You’ll have to eat fast,” Vigdis said, “because next comes the minstrel out in the square.”
“The minstrel?” I asked with a mouthful of pancake that was warm, and honey-infused, and disappearing quickly.
“Ah, yes,” Vigdis said, nodding with pleasure at my appetite. “The village minstrel will recount the story behind our festival. So many come from afar that is helpful to give the history. And for some years now is all done in English. You’re not the only tourist here today. We’ve become quite the attraction. Eat up, eat up,” she urged. “Is starting very soon.”
I dropped my napkin over two untouched blood-filled sausages. “Let’s go, then. I’d really like to hear the stories.” It was true. If I was going to walk around town with some symbolic silver tassel, I supposed I needed the 411 on it.
After stashing my laptop in Baldur’s tiny trunk, I followed Afi, Baldur, and Vigdis down the steep hill and into the town’s square. It wasn’t far from the café where I’d been earlier, but this was definitely a much older part of town. The shop fronts had a Nordic charm, with their bright colors and ornate trim. Some had medieval-looking turrets; others had pointy spire-like roofs; one even had a clock tower. And old-fashioned wooden shop signs hung from iron brackets. Over cobblestone pavers, we followed the festival-goers into the open square, where a stage had been set up.
Scattered through the crowd were the obvious tourists dressed in jeans and modern attire. Somehow, against this idyllic backdrop, they were the ones out of place.
Soon, an official-looking gentleman took the stage. Though his costume was also period, its high ruffled collar and big brass buttons down the front of a tailed coat spoke of authority. He introduced himself as the
mayor and then, with as much pomp as he could muster, declared the festival open. The first order of business was the selkie legends.
The minstrel climbed onstage, and I almost took cover. Talk about hulking. He was tall and built. He wore heavy brown woolen stockings, a mid-thigh-length bright green tunic with gold braiding, a red cape, a wide leather belt and thigh-high boots, and a leather cap with fur trim. Yowza. His long dark hair and beard were thick and, quite honestly, in need of some very deep conditioning. He looked like a cross between Hagrid and one of the beasts from Where the Wild Things Are.
He opened his arms in a gesture of welcome. “Once upon a time,” he began.
I relaxed. That’s how children’s books began. Fiction, from long, long ago: that, I could handle.
“God in heaven cast out those angels who merited neither salvation nor damnation.” He brought his hands to his side, hooking his meaty thumbs into his belt. “They tumbled to earth here on this Icelandic fjord, where their celestial traits set them apart from God’s children. Some fell into the waters and became the vatnfólk, the sea creatures, of which there are many. Others fell to the earth and became the huldufólk, the hidden people, also taking many forms. Of all the creatures, there’s but one with the ability to inhabit both land and sea. The selkie alone can shed its seal cloak to reveal a human form. Once a year, in atonement, the selkies come ashore here, the place of their fall.” The minstrel gestured in the direction of the fjord with his muscled arms. “In a cavern by the water, they dance with their long-lost cousins, the huldufólk, for one night, and then return to the sea, always seeking a return to God’s good graces.”
So far so good, I thought. An annual beach party: a kind of dancing-with-the-fallen-from-the-stars. After an Icelandic winter, I was certain the locals would invent any excuse to celebrate.
“For countless generations, the townsfolk knew of this night and respected the privacy of these mystical creatures. One winter, though, ten hundred years ago, times were very hard and there were many hungry mouths to feed. A hunting party of menfolk waited on the rocks for an opportunity to slay the unsuspecting seals. One among this group, Finnur, a poor, unmarried fisherman, could not lift his eyes from the human form of one of the selkies. Legend says she had hair the color of fire and eyes the color of emeralds. Even the selkie-men sought her out, calling upon her to dance: ‘Lovely Leira, charm of the sea, Lovely Leira, dance with me.’ So enraptured was Finnur that he could not bear to see her hunted. Even after watching her shape-shift back into her sealskin, Finnur was captivated. To protect her from the hunters, he shielded her and her fellow seals with his own body.”
Still sounded OK to me. And as romances go, boy meets seal was an interesting twist. The hammy minstrel definitely had my attention.
“That night, Leira and the other selkies escaped, while a wounded Finnur could only watch helplessly as the beautiful creature slipped away,” the minstrel continued. “Afterward, Finnur was shunned by the villagers and forced to live in a small hut many miles from the town. Here he lived another summer and winter, but very lonely and with a heavy heart. The following year, the night of the dance of the selkies, he returned, hoping for a glimpse of the lovely Leira. Crouched behind some rocks at the entrance to the cavern, Finnur was approached by an elf, one of the huldufólk. The elf said:
‘Many a selkie here tonight
Owes unto thee its life.
In gratitude, we offer thee
The most precious of all as wife.
For seven years, bearing seven children,
A wife to you she’ll be.
Then, Leira, to whom the waters are home,
You must vow to return to the sea.’”
The minstrel paused, locking eyes with many in the crowd. I looked around. Even Baldur and Vigdis, who must have heard the story year after year, were pink-cheeked and attentive. The beefy bard sure knew how to tell a story. I, too, was eager for the rest of the tale.
The minstrel continued, “The young fisherman eagerly consented. He was then invited to dance with the red-haired, green-eyed beauty. After a jig, the elf presented to the young man a sealskin, and instructed the fisherman to lock it away until the pact was done, but cautioned that on the night of the selkie dance, eight years thereafter, the pelt, and her freedom, were to be returned. As prophesied, over seven years, she was a loving wife and bore him seven children: seven girls, in fact, each as beautiful as their mother. During their final winter together, Leira, again, grew round with child, and Finnur, who longed for a son, was certain that Leira carried a boy. Yet on the eve of the dance, it was clear that the child was months from birth. Finnur begged his wife to abide by him until the child was born, after which he’d return her sealskin and her freedom. Leira, understanding the solemnity of the vow, insisted that Finnur take her, and her hidden sealskin, to the dance.
“In the end, an anguished Finnur locked Leira, his daughters, and the sealskin in the hut and hurried to the dance in hopes of bargaining with the huldufólk. The elf was furious that Finnur had broken his vow and would hear nothing of a delay. The angrier the elf became, the greater the winds whipped, until a huge squall brought driving rain and waves the width and breadth of giants. Fearing for his family during such a storm, Finnur rushed home to find his hovel reduced to flotsam, his seven distraught daughters clinging to one another in fear, and his wife and her sealskin washed out to sea. Nor was it only the family of Finnur who bore the brunt of that storm. Villages up and down the length of the fjord were washed away that fateful night. Finnur took to the sea in his fishing boat, never to be heard from again. To this day, storms bring stories of a mist-shrouded skiff and ghostly form tossed by the swell of an angry sea. And the seven daughters — half-selkie, half-human — were adopted out to the kind families of Hafmeyjafjörður. Legend holds that the descendants of these sisters are sometimes more water creature than earthly being. And any who can trace an ancestor to one of these seven sisters are considered the selurmanna, the seal people, and wear the silver tassel to the selkie dance.”
At the conclusion of the minstrel’s performance, I turned to my grandfather. “Afi, how is it I’ve never heard of the seal people before, especially if we’re descendants? And just what does that mean? It couldn’t possibly be a true story.”
“Town records indicate there were seven sisters, daughters of one Finnur Haldorsson.” Afi scratched at his head. “The rest of the story, well, I suppose that as it passed from generation to generation, it grew, as such things do.”
“So there’re no selkies swimming in your gene pool?”
Afi laughed. “Our breed’s a long line of mariners, whalers, and fisherman, but two legs and two arms had every one of them.” He pushed up the sleeve of his thick woolen sweater and pointed to a bulbous blue vein that ran from the back of his hand over his wrist. “Though I’ve always said it’s seawater, not blood, coursing through these old veins of mine. But the selurmanna and the selkie dances — all the makings of a good story and a good celebration. No?”
“So far so good,” I said. “What’s next?”
“The games,” Afi said.
“What kind of games?” I asked.
Afi chuckled. “Like nothing you’ve seen before.”
He was right. We followed the crowd down to the waterfront, where, upon a large grassy clearing, a Viking encampment had been recreated. Colorful banners and flags flapped in the wind of the early-spring day. Though snow lay in scattered piles and the air temperature was in the low forties, tops, a weak late-afternoon sun did its best to brighten the scene. I myself zipped up my white down-filled parka. Afi, as well as most of the crowd, seemed unbothered by the brisk day.
Again, I was impressed by the scale of the event. A lively village lay before us. Simple stick hovels and canvas tents horseshoed one side of the perimeter, from which merchants and artisans sold their wares. We walked along, inspecting the many objects for sale. Shields and crude swords were popular items. Afi explained that later th
ere would be a contest of Viking war tactics. Though some of it was clearly child-size and cheap reproductions, there were a few vendors who appeared to be hawking the real deal. I also noticed quite a few hooded capes made to look like sealskin. Leather belts, pouches, and saddlebags were spread over blankets and hung from makeshift display fronts. Fur-trimmed vests, chain-mail tunics, Viking helmets, Nordic sweaters, and sheepskin coats were also being sold by authentic-looking shopkeepers. Afi struck up a conversation with one of the wool vendors, while a table of jewelry, a few tents down, caught my eye. Behind the table sat a woman and a girl about my age. The woman wore layer over layer of bright peasant-style clothing, bangles up and down her arms, and a head scarf. Daggerlike slashes of eyeliner and smoky-blue shadowed lids intensified her brooding stare. She was either playing the part of a gypsy or was the true article. I guessed the latter. The girl had dark eyes, coal-black hair, and an all-black palette that was hard-core goth; even her lipstick and the tats inking her arms were midnight black. I smiled at her; she scowled back in return. So much for customer service.
I picked up one of the medieval-looking crosses on a thick leather band. With my Doc Martens and against a simple white T-shirt, it would look great. As I was running the krona-to-dollars calculation in my head, I spied a pile of stones much like the ones stuffed into my leather satchel. My free-thinking fingers reached out and palmed a few of them, like dice.
I heard the woman jabber something at me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m American.”
She looked at me, up at my cap and tassel, and then turned and squawked something at the girl.
“My mother wonders if you’d like to have your runes read,” the girl said. Though it was technically a question, or maybe even an invitation, her tone couldn’t have been more disinterested.
“My runes read?” I asked. I had thought they were an alphabet, not a fortune-telling device.
“With the aid of the runes, an erilaz, like my mother, can tell the future.”
