“The Vampire Skeleton Corpse” – An Iroquois Folktale

 

Like many gifts, this story returned to me just when I needed it the most.  It struck me as the perfect metaphor for our times.  As I toss and turn at night, worried and fearful for what’s to come, the story continues to haunt me.

As a storyteller, I am very careful as to how I share Native American stories.  These stories are essential to their culture providing wisdom, teachings and knowledge.  Many stories are told only at specific times of the year, or for specific purposes, and then only by those given permission.  Stories are thought of as “medicine” and only the wisest know how to use them to their full potential.  So, as a storyteller I don’t tell these stories because they are not part of my culture.  But I am sharing this story now for it is included in a collection of folktales, Iroquois Stories: Heroes and Heroines, Monsters and Magic by the Native American storyteller Joseph Bruchac.  I trust Joseph’s judgment in sharing this story.

I found multiple versions of this tale by the early collectors and “folklorists” of the late 1880’s including David Cusick, Jeremiah Curtin, Arthur Parker and Frederick Wilkerson Waugh.  Sadly, many of these translations have lost the essence of the culture as they were made palatable for the times and for their Anglo readers. My version will be a conflation of all these stories using Joseph’s wonderful tale as the template.

The ”Vampire Corpse” or “Vampire Skeleton” story was one of the most popular Iroquois folktales.  There are multiple versions of this tale which are found in most of the early collections.  These stories were obviously well loved and told many times.  As the title indicates, this tale is quite frightening, especially if told under the light of the full moon.  It is the ultimate ghost story.  It would also be considered a “pour quoi” tale, for it explains a cultural practice.

But before we begin, I think it’s best to say that these “vampires” are not the same as the ones in Europe. They don’t turn into bats (although sometimes owls!). They can’t be killed with a stake through the heart or vanish in the light of day. Mostly these are the spirits of the dead: people who in life were very evil and who could not give up their evil ways.  After death, people were placed in a box and left on a shelf in a dwelling.  But in this world (and in many others) the dead can be dangerous. When people stumble on the vampire’s location, these spirits feast off the bodies and blood of the living and sometimes transform themselves into birds or animals.

I share this story today for the women who walk on the razor’s edge; those who seek to keep their families and communities safe from evil.  Their intuition gnaws at their stomach and prickles the hairs on the back of their necks. The wise old crones speak of times long gone. They light candles and perform ceremonies at the light of the full moon.  “Remember the ancestors,” they say.  “The time is now, to remember.  Listen to your intuition and act before it’s too late.”
And they are right.

Long ago, a young family made their way into the depths of the forest.  The husband and wife traveled through the winter snow to visit the wife’s family.  The man walked ahead complaining about the journey, while the woman caried her baby on her back and held all the blankets and supplies in her arms. The man, who carried nothing, continued to complain.  “I don’t know why we must go visit your family,” he said. “Is it absolutely necessary to bring them gifts? Don’t they have enough already?”  The woman sighed and walked behind.  Although they could have made the trip easily in one day, the man walked slowly and aimlessly, dragging his feet.  When the sun set, they saw a small bark lodge ahead.

Now long ago an evil man had lived in that bark lodge.  He was thought to be a sorcerer, wizard, medicine man or witch.  No one knew for sure.  But at night it was said that he transformed himself into an owl and went out in search of prey.  When he died, he was buried in this house following the custom of the time.  He was placed inside the hut in a cedar box, placed on a shelf and left there. 

The young family knew nothing of this and so the husband, who was a bit lazy, insisted on staying there for the night even though they could have reached the village in short order. The woman wanted to keep traveling.  She didn’t feel good about staying in the lodge.  The hair on the back of her neck prickled when she moved towards it.  But her husband would have none of it.  He refused to go farther.  The man entered the lodge, took all their bedding and laid down next to the box to sleep.  The woman and her child tried to sleep on the hard floor, but the baby begin to cry.  “Woman!” he said, “Quiet your child, I need to rest!”
 
She did her best and after some time they all began to sleep.  As the moon rose, the bark lodge was filled with light. The woman stirred and heard gnawing.  It sounded as if an owl was tearing and eating the flesh of a mouse.  She looked toward her husband and saw a large pool of blood.  Standing over his body was a figure, its hands and mouth dripping with blood. Was it a skeleton or a corpse?  She couldn’t tell for sure.  Either way, she immediately knew she was in the bark lodge of a monster.  
So, she pretended to speak to her husband to trick the skeleton.  “Husband,” she cried out.  “The baby needs water; I’m going to gather some from the snow.”  She took the baby in her arms, grabbed a pot and went out the door.  As soon as she was free from the bark lodge, she began to run as fast as she could in the direction of the village. The moon was full, but the night was dark and cold.

It wasn’t long before the skeleton knew she was gone.  It began to whoop, screech and scream after her.  “Whoo whot! Whooop!  Whooop!  EEEEK!  EEEK!”  The monster she feared let out a blood curdling cry. She ran as fast as she could with the baby in her arms. She often fell in the snow but pulled herself up to move forward, each time losing precious momentum. In desperation she took off her skirt and threw it as hard as she could into the trees.  The branches caught it, and the skeleton monster attacked, shredding the skirt to bits.  The woman continued to run but the monster grew closer and closer.  She took the blanket and threw it to her side to steer the skeleton off course. The monster attacked the blanket but after finding no blood, screeched in anger.  “Whoop!  Whoop!  EEEK!  EEEK!”  it cried.  The frightful chase continued. After some time, the woman and baby were naked for they had stripped off all their clothes to delay the skeleton’s attack.  Exhausted, cold, and afraid, the woman was almost defeated.  But just then, she saw a sign on a tree marking the boundary of the village before her.  She ran into the long house and collapsed on the floor.   The people were astonished to see her there and gathered to aid her.  They wrapped both the woman and her baby in blankets, gave them food and something to drink.

The woman told the tribe what had happened, and the warriors went out into the darkness with torches to protect the village.  They could see the skeleton monster pace around their border, but the light kept it away.  In this village, an old woman was the tribal leader.  She knew all the old stories and carried all the history and wisdom within her.  After listening to the tale, she said, “An evil man, once lived in that bark lodge.  His bones are still there.  Tomorrow we must go to where he is buried and stop this monster from harming anyone again.”

And that’s what they did.  The next morning, many made their way into the forest - the old woman, the young woman and her baby, along with all the warriors. Together they made their way to the bark lodge.  They found the bones of the woman’s husband inside.  The skeleton monster was back in his funeral box on the shelf.  Its mouth and hands were covered in blood.

“The spirits of the dead can be dangerous,” the old woman said.  She took out her medicine pouch and sprinkled herbs around the box.  Then the men placed dried wood in a circle around the bark lodge and set it a blaze. Soon the bark lodge itself was on fire.   “Whoo whot! Whooop!  Whooop!  EEEEK!  EEEK!”  the vampire skeleton howled as it encircled the lodge looking for an escape.  Just as the entire building was about to be engulfed in flames, an owl flew out the door.  The bark lodge burned to the ground and the vampire skeleton lived no more.

Afterwards, the women elders of the village, decided they should bury the dead underground so that evil spirits would no longer wander at night.  The young woman and her child stayed in the village with her family.  After some time, she married a kind and brave warrior and the three lived together happily.  The village slept peacefully at night.

Two things to consider before we begin.  First, this folktale was part of the Iroquois oral tradition.  The story was shared over and over again by different tellers, at different times and in different contexts.  It was an important story to the people which speaks to why many variants remain.  In these versions, the Iroquois storyteller ends the tale by explaining their burial customs.  Bodies were initially left in boxes above ground but then later that custom changed to being buried below ground.  This story explains the change in practice making it a “pour quoi” tale (that is, one that answers a “why” question). 

But this story also references their supernatural world.  Anthony Wonderley writes in his book Oneida Iroquois Folklore, Myth, and History, “Beyond tales of creation, heroes, wonder, magic, and humor, there lurked a world of supernatural denizens autochthonous to the deep woods.  Some were mostly benevolent, but the majority were dreadful most of the time.  They are among the most popular characters in Iroquois folklore.” This is an incredibly scary story and would probably top many of the ghost tales told around the campfire.  The dead are seen as dangerous, and they are scary.  It’s a fear that transcends any one culture.

Iroquois stories usually illustrate a moral or principle. Stories are medicine.  They are told for a particular purpose.  Joseph Bruchac says they are “teachers that bears lessons of the right ways to live in balance with the earth.” Native American storyteller, Dovie Thomason, speaks of her grandmother’s stories.  The old stories she told of beavers and wolves somehow were always engaged in the same naughty behavior that she was as a child.  These stories are teaching tools, not preaching tools.   They settle within us and change us from the inside out.  There is never a single interpretation.

And so, it is with great reverence that I now share my thoughts about this story.  I am hoping it is appropriate for this wise old crone to do so for the story strikes me as important for the days ahead.  

The story begins in the forest.  In Jungian symbolism, the forest is the realm of the unconscious.  This is what is unknown, unexpected and denied.  It is where our deepest emotions reside be it fear, anger, loneliness, or sadness. The characters are deep in this forest and soon faced with darkness.  This is very much a world of the unknown and the unexpected.

A small family enters the forest to find their way home.  This is the home of matriarchy.  It is a home of safety, support and nurturing. It is a place of cooperation and community, where the collective is valued.

The man doesn’t want to go.  He is lazy and self-centered.  He doesn’t help the woman.  He refuses to listen to her or help her and the baby.  We might see him as the ego self or as the displaced animus.  I prefer to think of him as representing the individualism of the West. This is a cultural value in which the individual is more important than society and the collective.  At extremes it represents self-obsession or as some describe it as “collective narcissism.”

Thinking only of himself, the man heads into the birch lodge, not valuing the intuition of his wife or the wisdom of the feminine. Clearly their relationship is not good.   Even in the matriarchal world of the Iroquois, this man sees his wife as less than himself.  She has no voice and is compliant to him.  She walks on eggshells.  She is lonely and fearful.  She longs to return home.

The family knows nothing of the birch lodge.  They don’t recognize the landscape they walk upon.  They haven’t heard the story of the evil sorcerer.  There is no evidence in the story that they should have known.  They are blindsided by what is to come.  It’s only the woman who feels the prickling, who tells him they should not stay.  It is her inner knowing, her intuition that cries out in warning. If the man had listened to her, everything would have been different.

If this story was a metaphor (which it is), I would say this is where we are today.  The collective world is in danger.  The “feminine” within all of us knows something is wrong.  We are losing our voice and our freedom. We are forgetting the past, ignorant of what is to come.

When the individual forgets family and the collective, we are destined to enter the forest and experience the horrors of the unknown. Selfishness dooms a family as it dooms a society. The man doesn’t listen.  He doesn’t try to understand.  He doesn’t explore or study his surroundings.  He doesn’t check it out. He thinks he knows better.  This is the “rational” mind that only takes in what is two feet ahead.  This is the patriarchy that put the hierarchical status quo first.

The man cozies up to the box.  He doesn’t look inside.  He doesn’t even think too.  He takes all the blankets for himself.  He leaves his wife and baby on the floor.  The moon rises in the night sky.  That is the time when magic appears.  It is the time of completion.  The woman sleeps fitfully.  She is on edge, waiting and watching.  Suddenly she hears the sound of gnawing bones.  It’s the sound of an owl eating a mouse; a predator eating the weakest of its prey. She looks and sees the unthinkable.  Her husband is being eaten by a monster.  What was once human is now devouring what is human.  What was her world, and its structure has now come to an end. 

The monster represents what should be dead. It’s our darkest fears coming back to life.  The destruction from the past returns to haunt us.  It’s the story of bigotry, misogyny and hate.  It is the history of all the dictators who sought to destroy freedom for their own individual power and gain, be it Hitler or Stalin or rulers living in this present day. These monsters rise from the dead to turn us into mindless zombies.
 
Quickly the woman thinks of a ruse to leave the lodge.  While she pretends she is talking to her husband, she takes the baby and leaves. But instead of getting water for the child, she runs to save their lives. It's not long before the vampire corpse is after them.  She hears it screeching like an owl, enraged by her deception.  It seeks to take her life.  It seeks to take her way of life.  It seeks to take her strength, cleverness and bravery so she can no longer resist. It wants to take everything that is precious to her. This monster will suck you dry without a single thought and gnaw on your bones until there is nothing left. It’s the spirit of death cannibalizing on the living.

There is a frightening chase.  It is only through the woman’s bravery and wits that they escape.  She strips herself and her baby naked as she flees this world.  In doing so, she almost dies from exposure and exhaustion. But she doesn’t give up. She never gives up.  As they say today, “and yet she persisted.”

Finally, she makes her way into the village. She is cold, naked and scared; stripped of what she has known and become.  She is a migrant. The tribe welcomes her and her child.  She is a visitor but still they gather around and care for her.  She is no longer alone.  The warriors rush out to defend their village from the monster. They bring light into the darkness and keep guard until daylight.

The old woman is a tribal elder.  She was probably a clan mother. She knows all the old stories and is the keeper of the wisdom that deserves to be kept.  She knows the story of the evil sorcerer who lives in the forest.  As the wise crone she knows exactly what to do in this moment. She has kept the history of the people safe within her where it cannot be rewritten or reinterpreted. 

What history are we forgetting in this moment?  What memories do our ancestors cry out for us to remember? There are few alive who remember the Holocaust or the dropping of the first atomic bomb.  There are few who learn the history of colonialism or slavery today.  What is lost when we are tricked into forgetting?  Do we recognize evil when we are faced with it? What happens to our freedom when history is rewritten?

And so, at daylight, the old woman leads them to the birch lodge where they find the vampire skeleton sleeping in its box, it’s mouth and hands covered in blood. She knows what to do and sets to work with her herbs and firewood.  The fire is set.  This is not the fire of warmth or food.  It is the white hot fire that burns out evil, for evil can never be ignored.  This evil can’t be placated or explained away.  It can’t be worked with or made “nice.” It can only be eradicated through the fire of rebirth and renewal. The wise crone knows that and so it is done. The vampire skeleton is transformed into an owl, only a shadow of what it once was.  But the owl still lives so we don’t forget.

The story ends with the woman and her child safe within the bosom of the village.  She finally finds love and family.  The village lives together in peace.  The collective is safe.

What does this story mean today?  I leave that for you to consider.  But for my women readers I give this advice.  Don’t ignore your intuition. Prepare yourself for struggle.  Be willing to fight against injustice.  Your intuition will guide you as to what you need to do now and in the future to protect yourself, your family and your freedom.

"Round the Yule Log" - Tales of the Norwegian Nisse

 

Photo from Norwegian store selling Julenisse decorations.

Stories about nissen, the Norwegian house "spirits," were not written down until the 1800’s and most of them are just snippets.  This story, “Round the Yule-Log” was recorded by two great Norwegian folklorists Asbjornsen and Moe.  It’s a story within a story.  The story is very much a product of its time, and there is much disparaging in the depiction of old women.  I provide the story as it was written rather than edit it for modern ears.  It’s important that stories are told and discussed instead of band aided and put away.   

However, this is a very long story, only one part concerns the nissen. To focus on that, I have changed the word “brownie” found in the English translation to the Norwegian word “nisse.” A “brownie” as found in English and Scottish folklore, was defined as a small industrious fairy that inhabited houses or barns. It was seldom seen but often heard at night.  Sometimes it would cause disorder in rooms. I would say that a brownie is a much more benign nisse.  But see if you agree.

Round the Yule-Log

 from the collection of

Peter  Christen Asbjornsen and Jorgen Moe

The wind was whistling through the old lime and maple trees opposite my windows, the snow was sweeping down the street, and the sky was black as a December sky can possibly be here in Christiania. I was in just as black a mood. It was Christmas Eve, —the first I was to spend away from the cosey fireside of my home. I had lately received my officer's commission and had hoped that I should have gladdened my aged parents with my presence during the holidays and had also hoped that I should be able to show myself in all my glory and splendor to the ladies of our parish. But a fever had brought me to the hospital, which I had left only a week before, and now I found myself in the much-extolled state of convalescence. I had written home for a horse and sledge and my father's fur coat, but my letter could scarcely reach our valley before the day after Christmas, and the horse could not be in town before New Year's Eve. 

My comrades had all left town, and I knew no family with whom I could make myself at home during the holidays. The two old maids I lodged with were certainly very kind and friendly people, and they had taken great care of me in the commencement of my illness, but the peculiar ways and habits of these ladies were too much of the old school to prove attractive to the fancies of youth. Their thoughts dwelt mostly on the past, and when they, as often might occur, related to me some stories of the town, its people and its customs, these stories reminded me, not only by their contents, but also by the simple, unaffected way in which they were rendered, of a past age. 

The antiquated appearance of these ladies was also in the strictest harmony with the house in which they lived. It was one of those old houses in Custom House Street, with deep windows, long dark passages and staircases, gloomy rooms, and garrets, where one could not help thinking of ghosts and nissen; in short, just such a house, and perhaps it was the very one, which Mauritz Hansen has described in his story, "The Old Dame with the Hood." Their circle of acquaintances was very limited; besides a married sister and her children, no other visitors came there but a couple of tiresome old ladies. The only relief to this kind of life was a pretty niece and some merry little cousins of hers, who always made me tell them fairy tales and stories. 

I tried to divert myself in my loneliness and melancholy mood by looking out at all the people who passed up and down the street in the snow and wind with blue noses and half-shut eyes. It amused me to see the bustle and the life in the apothecary's shop across the street. The door was scarcely shut for a moment. Servants and peasants streamed in and out, and commenced to study the labels and directions when they came out in the street. Some appeared to be able to make them out, but sometimes a lengthy study and a dubious shake of the head showed that the solution was too difficult. It was growing dusk. I could not distinguish the countenances any longer, but gazed across at the old building. The apothecary's house, "The Swan," as it is still called, stood there, with its dark, reddish-brown walls, its pointed gables and towers, with weather-cocks and latticed windows, as a monument of the architecture of the time of King Christian the Fourth. The Swan looked then, as now, a most respectable and sedate bird, with its gold ring round its neck, its spur-boots, and its wings stretched out as if to fly. I was about to plunge myself into reflection on imprisoned birds when I was disturbed by noise and laughter proceeding from some children in the adjoining room and by a gentle, old-maidish knock at my door. 

On my requesting the visitor to come in, the elder of my landladies, Miss Mette, entered the room with a courtesy in the good old style; she inquired after my health, and invited me, without further ceremony, to come and make myself at home with them for the evening. "It isn't good for you, dear Lieutenant, to sit thus alone here in the dark," she added. "Will you not come into us now at once? Old Mother Skau and my brother's little girls have come; they will perhaps amuse you a little. You are so fond of the dear children." 

I accepted the friendly invitation. As I entered the room, the fire from the large square stove, where the logs were burning lustily, threw a red, flickering light through the wide-open door over the room, which was very deep, and furnished in the old style, with high-back, Russia leather chairs, and one of those settees which were intended for farthingales and straight up-and-down positions. The walls were adorned with oil paintings, portraits of stiff ladies with powdered coiffures, of bewigged Oldenborgians, and other redoubtable persons in mail and armor or red coats. 

"You must really excuse us, Lieutenant, for not having lighted the candles yet," said Miss Cicely, the younger sister, who was generally called "Cilly," and who came towards me and dropped a courtesy, exactly like her sister's; "but the children do so like to tumble about here before the fire in the dusk of the evening, and Madam Skau does also enjoy a quiet little chat in the chimney corner." 

"Oh, chat me here and chat me there! There is nothing you like yourself better than a little bit of gossip in the dusk of the evening, Cilly, and then we are to get the blame of it," answered the old asthmatic lady whom they called Mother Skau. 

"Eh! good evening, sir," she said to me as she drew herself up to make the best of her own inflated, bulky appearance. "Come and sit down here and tell me how it fares with you, but, by my troth, you are nothing but skin and bones!" 

I had to tell her all about my illness, and in return I had to endure a very long and circumstantial account of her rheumatism and her asthmatical ailments, which, fortunately, was interrupted by the noisy arrival of the children from the kitchen, where they had paid a visit to old Stine, a fixture in the house. 

"Oh, auntie, do you know what Stine says?" cried a little, brown-eyed beauty. "She says I shall go with her into the hay-loft tonight and give the nisse his Christmas porridge. But I won't go; I am afraid of the nissen!" 

"Never mind, my dear, Stine says it only to get rid of you; she dare not go into the hay-loft herself—the foolish old thing—in the dark, for she knows well enough she was frightened once by the nissen herself," said Miss Mette. "But are you not going to say good evening to the Lieutenant, children?" 

"Oh, is that you, Lieutenant? I did not know you. How pale you are! It is such a long time since I saw you!" shouted the children all at once as they flocked round me. 

"Now you must tell us something awfully jolly! It is such a long time since you told us anything. Oh, tell us about Buttercup, dear Mr. Lieutenant, do tell us about Buttercup and Goldentooth!" 

I had to tell them about Buttercup and the dog Goldentooth, but they would not let me off until I gave them a couple of stories into the bargain about the nissen at Vager and at Bure, who stole hay from each other, and who met at last with a load of hay on their backs, and how they fought till they vanished in a cloud of hay-dust. I had also to tell them the story of the nisse at Hesselberg, who teased the housedog till the farmer came out and threw him over the barn bridge. The children clapped their hands in great joy and laughed heartily. 

"It served him right, the naughty nisse!" they shouted and asked for another story. 

"Well," said I, "I will tell you the story of Peter Gynt and the trolls. 

"In the olden days, there lived in Kvam a hunter whose name was Peter Gynt, and who was always roaming about in the mountains after bears and elks, for in those days there were more forests on the mountains than there are now, and consequently plenty of wild beasts. 

"One day, shortly before Christmas, Peter set out on an expedition. He had heard of a farm on Doorefell which was invaded by such a number of trolls every Christmas Eve that the people on the farm had to move out and get shelter at some of their neighbors." He was anxious to go there, for he had a great fancy to come across the trolls and see if he could not overcome them. He dressed himself in some old, ragged clothes and took a tame white bear which he had with him, as well as an awl, some pitch and twine. When he came to the farm, he went in and asked for lodgings. 

"'God help us!' said the farmer; 'we can't give you any lodgings. We have to clear out of the house ourselves soon and look for lodgings, for every Christmas Eve, we have the trolls here.' 

"But Peter thought he should be able to clear the trolls out —he had done such a thing before; and then he got leave to stay and a pig's skin into the bargain. The bear lay down behind the fireplace, and Peter took out his awl and pitch and twine, and began making a big, big shoe, which it took the whole pig's skin to make. He put a strong rope in for lacings, that he might pull the shoe tightly together, and, finally, he armed himself with a couple of handspikes. 

"Shortly, he heard the trolls coming. They had a fiddler with them, and some began dancing while others fell to eating the Christmas fare on the table —some fried bacon, and some fried frogs and toads, and other nasty things which they had brought with them. During this some of the trolls found the shoe Peter had made. They thought it must belong to a very big foot. They all wanted to try it on at once, so they put a foot each into it; but Peter made haste and tightened the rope, took one of the handspikes and fastened the rope around it, and got them at last securely tied up in the shoe. 

"Just then, the bear put his nose out from behind the fireplace, where he was lying, and smelt they were frying something. 

"'Will you have a sausage, pussy?' said one of the trolls and threw a hot frog right into the bear's jaws. 

"'Scratch them, pussy!' said Peter. 

"The bear got so angry that he rushed at the trolls and scratched them all over while Peter took the other handspike and hammered away at them as if he wanted to beat their brains out. The trolls had to clear out at last, but Peter stayed and enjoyed himself with all the Christmas fare the whole week. After that the trolls were not heard of there for many years. 

"Some years afterwards, about Christmas time, Peter was out in the forest cutting wood for the holidays when a troll came up to him and shouted —

"'Have you got that big pussy of yours yet?' 

"'Oh, yes! she is at home behind the fireplace,' said he, 'and she has got seven kittens, all bigger and larger than herself.' "

'We'll never come to you anymore, then,' said the troll, and they never did." 

The children were all delighted with this story. 

"Tell us another, dear Lieutenant," they all shouted in chorus. 

"No, no, children! You bother the Lieutenant too much," said Miss Cicely. "Aunt Mette will tell you a story now." 

"Yes, do, auntie, do!" was the general cry. 

"I don't know exactly what I shall tell you," said Aunt Mette, "but since we have commenced telling about the nissen, I think I will tell you something about them, too. You remember, of course, old Kari Gausdal, who came here and baked bread, and who always had so many tales to tell you." 

"Oh, yes, yes!" shouted the children. 

"Well, old Kari told me that she was in service at the orphan asylum some years ago, and at that time, it was still more dreary and lonely in that part of the town than it is now. That asylum is a dark and dismal place, I can tell you. Well, when Kari came there, she was cook, and a very smart and clever girl she was. She had, one day, to get up very early in the morning to brew, when the other servants said to her — 

"'You had better mind you don't get up too early, and you mustn't put any fire under the copper before two o'clock.' 

"'Why?' she asked. 

"'Don't you know there is a nisse here? And you ought to know that those people don't like to be disturbed so early,' they said, 'and before two o'clock, you mustn't light the fire by any means.' 

"'Is that all?' said Kari. She was anything but chicken-hearted. 'I have nothing to do with that nisse of yours, but if he comes in my way, why, by my faith, I will send him head over heels through the door.' 

"The others warned her, but she did not care a bit, and next morning, just as the clock struck one, she got up and lighted the fire under the copper in the brewhouse; but the fire went out in a moment. Somebody appeared to be throwing the logs about on the hearth, but she could not see who it was. She gathered the logs together, one at a time, but it was of no use, and the chimney would not draw, either. She got tired of this at last, took a burning log and ran around the room with it, swinging it high and low while she shouted, 'Be gone, be gone whence you came! If you think you can frighten me, you are mistaken.' 'Curse you!' somebody hissed in one of the darkest corners. 'I have had seven souls in this house; I thought I should have got eight in all!' 'But from that time nobody saw or heard the nisse in the asylum,' said Kari Gausdal." 

"I am getting so frightened!" said one of the children. "No, you must tell us some more stories, Lieutenant; I never feel afraid when you tell us anything, because you tell us such jolly tales." Another proposed that I should tell them about the nisse who danced the Halling dance with the lassie. That was a tale I didn't care much about, as there was some singing in it. But they would on no account let me off, and I was going to clear my throat and prepare my exceedingly inharmonious voice to sing the Halling dance, which belongs to the story, when the pretty niece, whom I have already referred to, entered the room, to the great joy of the children and to my rescue. 

"Well, my dear children, I will tell you the story if you can get cousin Lizzie to sing the Halling for you," said I, as she sat down, "and then you'll dance to it yourselves, won't you?" 

Cousin Lizzie was besieged by the children, and had to promise to do the singing, so I commenced my story. 

"There was, once upon a time—I almost think it was in Hallingdal,—a lassie who was sent up into the hay-loft with the cream porridge for the nisse—I cannot recollect if it was on a Thursday or on a Christmas Eve, but I think it was a Christmas Eve. Well, she thought it was a great pity to give the nisse such a dainty dish, so she ate the porridge herself and the melted butter in the bargain and went up into the hay-loft with the plain oatmeal porridge and sour milk in a pig's trough instead. 'There, that's good enough for you, Master Nisse,' she said. But no sooner had she spoken the words than the nisse stood right before her, seized her round the waist, and danced about with her, which he kept up till she lay gasping for breath, and when the people came up into the hay-loft in the morning, she was more dead than alive. But as long as they danced, the nisse sang," (and here Cousin Lizzie undertook his part, and sang to the tune of the Halling)—

"And you have eaten the porridge for the nisse,

And you shall dance with the little nisse!

"And have you eaten the porridge for the nisse?

Then you shall dance with the little nisse!"

I assisted in keeping time by stamping on the floor with my feet while the children romped about the room in uproarious joy.

"I think you are turning the house upside down, children!" said old Mother Skau, "if you'll be quiet, I'll give you a story."

The children were soon quiet, and Mother Skau commenced as follows:

"You hear a great deal about nissen and fairies and such like beings, but I don't believe there is much in it. I have neither seen one nor the other. Of course I have not been so very much about in my lifetime, but I believe it is all nonsense. But old Stine out in the kitchen there, she says she has seen the nisse. About the time when I was confirmed she was in service with my parents. She came to us from a captain's, who had given up the sea. It was a very quiet place. The captain only took a walk as far as the quay every day. They always went to bed early. People said there was a nisse in the house. Well, it so happened that Stine and the cook were sitting in their room one evening, mending and darning their things; it was near bedtime, for the watchman had already sung out 'Ten o'clock!' but somehow the darning and the sewing went on very slowly indeed; every moment 'Jack Nap' came and played his tricks upon them. At one moment, Stine was nodding and nodding, and then came the cook's turn—they could not keep their eyes open; they had been up early that morning to wash clothes. But just as they were sitting thus, they heard a terrible crash down stairs in the kitchen, and Stine shouted, 'Lor' bless and preserve us! it must be the nisse.' She was so frightened she dared scarcely move a foot, but at last the cook plucked up courage and went down into the kitchen, closely followed by Stine. When they opened the kitchen door, they found all the crockery on the floor, but none of it broken, while the nisse was standing on the big kitchen table with his red cap on and hurling one dish after the other on to the floor, and laughing in great glee. The cook had heard that the nisse could sometimes be tricked into moving into another house when anybody would tell them of a very quiet place, and as she long had been wishing for an opportunity to play a trick upon this nisse, she took courage and spoke to him,—her voice was a little shaky at the time,—that he ought to remove to the tinman's over the way, where it was so very quiet and pleasant, because they always went to bed at nine o'clock every evening; which was true enough, as the cook told Stine later, but then the master and all his apprentices and journeymen were up every morning at three o'clock and hammered away and made a terrible noise all day. Since that day, they have not seen the nisse any more at the captain's. He seemed to feel quite at home at the tinman's, although they were hammering and tapping away there all day, but people said that the gude-wife put a dish of porridge up in the garret for him every Thursday evening, and it's no wonder that they got on well  and became rich when they had a nisse in the house. Stine believed he brought things to them. Whether it was the nisse or not who really helped them, I cannot say," said Mother Skau, in conclusion, and got a fit of coughing and choking after the exertion of telling this, for her, unusually long story.

When she had taken a pinch of snuff, she felt better, and became quite cheerful again, and began: — 

"My mother, who, by the way, was a truthful woman, told a story which happened here in the town one Christmas Eve. I know it is true, for an untrue word never passed her lips." 

"Let us hear it, Madame Skau," said I. 

"Yes, tell, tell, Mother Skau!" cried the children. 

She coughed a little, took another pinch of snuff, and proceeded: — 

"When my mother still was in her teens, she used sometimes to visit a widow whom she knew, and whose name was —dear me, what was her name?—Madame—yes, Madame Evensen, of course. She was a woman who had seen the best part of her life, but whether she lived up in Mill Street or down in the corner by the Little Church Hill, I cannot say for certain. Well, one Christmas Eve, just like to-night, she thought she would go to the morning service on the Christmas Day, for she was a great church-goer, and so she left out some coffee with the girl before she went to bed, that she might get a cup next morning,—she was sure a cup of warm coffee would do her a great deal of good at that early hour. When she woke, the moon was shining into the room; but when she got up to look at the clock, she found it had stopped and that the fingers pointed to half-past eleven. She had no idea what time it could be, so she went to the window and looked across to the church. The light was streaming out through all the windows. She must have overslept herself! She called the girl and told her to get the coffee ready while she dressed herself. So she took her hymn-book and started for church. The street was very quiet; she did not meet a single person on her way to church. When she went inside, she sat down in her customary seat in one of the pews, but when she looked around her, she thought that the people were so pale and so strange —exactly as if they were all dead. She did not know any of them, but there were several of them she seemed to recollect having seen before; but when and where she had seen them, she could not call to mind. When the minister came into the pulpit, she saw that he was not one of the ministers in the town, but a tall, pale man, whose face, however, she thought she could recollect. He preached very nicely indeed, and there was not the usual noisy coughing and hawking which you always hear at the morning services on a Christmas Day; it was so quiet, you could have heard a needle drop on the floor—in fact, it was so quiet she began to feel quite uneasy and uncomfortable. When the singing commenced again, a female who sat next to her leant towards her and whispered in her ear, 'Throw the cloak loosely around you and go, because if you wait here till the service is over, they will make short work of you. It is the dead who are keeping service.'" 

"Oh, Mother Skau, I feel so frightened, I feel so frightened!" whimpered one of the children and climbed up on a chair. 

"Hush, hush, child!" said Mother Skau. "She got away from them safe enough; only listen! When the widow heard the voice of the person next to her, she turned round to look at her —but what a start she got! She recognized her; it was her neighbor who died many years ago, and when she looked around the church, she remembered well that she had seen both the minister and several of the congregation before and that they had died long ago. This sent quite a cold shiver through her; she became that frightened. She threw the cloak loosely round her, as the female next to her had said, and went out of the pew, but she thought they all turned round and stretched out their hands after her. Her legs shook under her till she thought she would sink down on the church floor. When she came out on the steps, she felt that they had got hold of her cloak; she let it go and left it in their clutches while she hurried home as quickly as she could. When she came to the door, the clock struck one, and by the time she got inside, she was nearly half dead —she was that frightened. In the morning, when the people went to church, they found the cloak lying on the steps, but it was torn into a thousand pieces. My mother had often seen the cloak before, and I think she saw one of the pieces, also; but that doesn't matter—it was a short, pink, woolen cloak, with fur lining and borders, such as was still in use in my childhood. They are very rarely seen nowadays, but there are some old ladies in the town and down at the 'Home' whom I see with such cloaks in church at Christmas time." 

The children, who had expressed considerable fear and uneasiness during the latter part of the story, declared they would not hear any more such terrible stories. They had crept up into the sofa and on the chairs, but still they thought they felt somebody plucking at them from underneath the table. Suddenly the lights were brought in, and we discovered then, to our great amusement, that the children had put their legs on to the table. The lights, the Christmas cake, the jellies, the tarts and the wine soon chased away the horrible ghost story and all fear from their minds, revived everybody's spirits, and brought the conversation on to their neighbors and the topics of the day. Finally, our thoughts took a flight towards something more substantial, on the appearance of the Christmas porridge and the roast ribs of pork. We broke up early and parted with the best wishes for a Merry Christmas. I passed, however, a very uneasy night. I do not know whether it was the stories, the substantial supper, my weak condition, or all these combined, which was the cause of it; I tossed myself hither and thither in my bed, and got mixed up with nissen, fairies and ghosts the whole night. Finally, I sailed through the air towards the church while some merry sledge-bells were ringing in my ears. The church was lighted up, and when I came inside, I saw it was our own church up in the valley. There were nobody there but peasants in their red caps, soldiers in full uniform, country lasses with their white head-dresses and red cheeks. The minister was in the pulpit; it was my grandfather, who died when I was a little boy. But just as he was in the middle of the sermon, he made a somersault—he was known as one of the smartest men in the parish—right into the middle of the church; the surplice flew one way and the collar another. "There lies the parson, and here am I," he said, with one of his well-known airs, "and now let us have a spring dance!" In an instant the whole of the congregation was in the midst of a wild dance. A big tall peasant came towards me and took me by the shoulder and said, "You'll have to join us, my lad!" 

At this moment, I awoke and felt some one pulling at my shoulder. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw the same peasant whom I had seen in my dream leaning over me. There he was, with the red cap down over his ears, a big fur coat over his arm, and a pair of big eyes looking fixedly at me. 

"You must be dreaming," he said, "the perspiration is standing in big drops on your forehead, and you were sleeping as heavily as a bear in his lair! God's peace and a merry Christmas to you, I say! and greetings to you from your father and all yours up in the valley. Here's a letter from your father, and the horse is waiting for you out in the yard." 

"But, good heavens! is that you, Thor?" I shouted in great joy. It was indeed my father's man, a splendid specimen of a Norwegian peasant. "How in the world have you come here already?" 

"Ah! that I can soon tell you," answered Thor. "I came with your favorite, the bay mare. I had to take your father down to Næs, and then he says to me, 'Thor,' says he, 'it isn't very far to town from here. Just take the bay mare and run down and see how the Lieutenant is, and if he is well and can come back with you, you must bring him back along with you,' says he." 

When we left the town, it was daylight. The roads were in splendid condition. The bay mare stretched out her old smart legs, and we arrived at length in sight of the dear old house. Thor jumped off the sledge to undo the gate, and as we merrily drove up to the door, we were met by the boisterous welcome of old Rover, who, in his frantic joy at hearing my voice, almost broke his chains in trying to rush at me. 

Such a Christmas as I spent that year I cannot recollect before or since. 

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I don’t holiday shop as much anymore, but even I could see that the stories were filled with “little old men.”  These weren’t real men but stuffed toys or plastic replicas of a folkloric character. To the untrained American eye, they appeared to be some kind of Christmas gnome.  They were everywhere, from big box stores to independent bookstores alike.  Stuffed toys were dressed in red or grey, dangling legs and a face with a round nose, small eyes, and a long white beard.  On top of his head was a pointed hat.  After Christmas I thought he’d go away, but “Oh, No!”  He’s now showing up with Valentines in his hands, and probably soon, this pagan character will hold an Easter egg.  Who is this mysterious figure? 

Not gnome, not troll, nor elf or brownie; this little old man is a Scandinavian house spirit. And I ask you kindly to be respectful to him.  As you’ll soon discover, there will be a price to pay if you are not. These mythological or folkloric creatures are called tomte in Sweden, tomtenisse in Finland and nisse in Norway.  For the sake of my long-ago Norwegian ancestors, I will stick to the word nisse. The plural seems to be nissen.  Norwegian scholars please forgive my attempt here, for I found few scholarly references written in English.  This is the perfect subject for a dissertation (hint, hint!). I hope someone will hear my cry and do the work. 

Nevertheless, the nisse is usually described as being a short man (from a few inches to three feet tall) and elderly.  He has a long full beard. Usually, he dresses in traditional farmer attire – a grey belted tunic with knee pants and stockings. On his head is a red knitted cap with a tassel.  In Norway, he has only four fingers and no thumbs, but that doesn’t hold him back at all.  

It was once believed that every house had a nisse.  But that’s just the start, for there are church nissen, and even ship nissen.  In houses, they usually lived in the barns protecting the livestock.  They were particularly fond of horses.  In the house, they stayed behind, on top, or under the stove.  There were other places too, but these were the most common.  When a nisse is respected, you will find your household prospers and is protected.  They help with the farm chores, for example, feeding animals, mowing grass, and grinding grain.  BUT, should you be rude around them, you will be punished. Perhaps you’ll feel a smack on your ear. Maybe your cows are mysteriously let out of their stalls, or you find them with their tails tied together.  In the house, objects can be broken or turned upside down. If it gets REALLY bad, the nisse will leave your house angrily.  Then you will be cursed to a life of misfortune - perhaps all your cows die, or you find your family penniless.  

Since no one wants that to happen, it’s best to know what might set them off.  They have rules, and here they are.  I suggest memorizing them.  Nissen are surely short tempered, especially when they are offended. The first rule is “do not swear.” That’s a hard one today but important, nonetheless.  The next is “never touch the nisse’s food,” certainly a hygienic reminder. Spilling something on the floor without cleaning it up is also disrespectful.  And finally, there will be “no quarreling.” Quarreling, you see, affects the peace and well being of a family, as does cursing, so none of that.  But understanding nissen food requirements is even more essential.  Families pay the nissen with clothes and beer, most often with a bowl of porridge.  See to it, that the porridge has a nice pat of butter on top, not on the bottom. One poor girl put the butter on the bottom, and the nisse killed her cow.  He later discovered the error and was so sad he searched the land for a cow to replace it.  Nissen for all their mischievousness, are honorable after all.   

Traditions are also important to them.  They don’t like change, so don’t be coming into the farm with some new-fangled milking machine.  What are you thinking? And mercy be, take care of your animals!  Animal neglect is unforgiveable (as it should be!).  Nissen are so strong; they could throw a door at you if they wanted, and receiving a bite from a nisse is deadly.  We don’t want that now, do we? Ah well, I don’t know about you, but I’m kinda liking these rules.  It would certainly be disrespectful for me to say anything otherwise. So, I’ll stay silent. 

It's hard to know the origin of the nissen. Some believe there is a mythic origin, while others think it is related to ancestor worship.  Nissen have been known as the master of the burial mound. Stories and folklore are alive in a culture long before they are written down. Reidar Thoralf Christainsen, a Norwegian folklorist, thought the nisse was brought to Norway from Denmark in the 17th century, but others argue that this character was found as early as the 13th or 14th century. This poor scholar doesn’t know.  Again, it’s the perfect topic for a dissertation. 

In more modern times, the nisse became associated with winter solstice and Christmas. In these stories, the julenisse comes to people’s houses, knocking on their doors and handing out presents.  In some tales, they ride on the Yule goat, and in others they are associated with a pig. Although few in Norway still believe in these house spirits, they are often given a bowl of porridge on Christmas eve, just as many leave out cookies for Santa Claus.  Please note these were not popular figures for the early Christians who believed they were connected to the devil.  Yikes! 

I have much more to say about this story. But to hear that, you must go to this month's podcast.

P. Chr. Asbjornsen. "Round the Yule-Log ." In Christmas in Norway. Boston, MA: Colonial Press, 1895. (Found at Project Gutenberg: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/31993/31993-h/31993-h.htm)

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