Norwegian Folk Tales

Folk tales from South
and East Norway

This first section is mainly a selection of stories from the iconic collection of Asbjørnsen and Moe. Some I have retold faithfully; others are retold with a more contemporary twist.

SEVEN-YEAR-OLD PORRIDGE

When I was about to get married to a Norwegian, someone warned him: 'English women don't know how to clean.' Luckily neither he nor I was worried about this, but moving to Norway I was made aware time and again that I was gravely lacking in hygienic talent. However hard I tried, I could never seem to clean the floor like a Norwegian. I attribute this to two cultural phenomena: the necessity to do things thoroughly in Norway otherwise one would die in the cold winter, and the fact that going to 'housewife school' was a normal educational choice for women until the 1960s.

There was once a boy who wanted to marry a girl. In his house everything was spotless. 'Everything should be as clean as if it had been boiled,' said his mother. The boy wanted to check if his girl was as germ-conscious as his mother, for he thought this must surely be the most important quality in a wife.

But how was he going to find out whether the girl he had fallen for was clean? He pondered on this and at last found a solution. He cut a long strip of an old but very clean sheet, wrapped one hand in a bulky bandage and went off to visit his girl's family. When he arrived, they received him in the usual way, with beer and strong drinks, with food and chat. Of course one of the first things they asked about was his hand, what in the world had happened?

Oh, he had a finger with a devilish infection in it. Water trolls it was called, he said; he had been to the doctor and the wise woman, but there was nothing that could be done.

Was there really no cure, would he die? the family asked anxiously.

'There is just one thing they say might help,' said the boy.

'What, what?'

'A poultice of seven-year-old porridge, but sadly no one has any,' he said.

'Phew, nothing worse than that?' said they. 'That's no problem; our cooking pots and gruel troughs contain porridge that is at least seven years old, if not fourteen,' they assured him.

Yes, very hygienic people.

ST PETER AND THE OAK TREE

One day St Peter and God were out strolling over the earth to see how things were. That day the sun was shining and sparkling on the leaves and the birds were tweeting blissfully, but St Peter was in a terrible mood. I don't know why he was angry; maybe he had blisters on his toes or had missed breakfast.

He stomped along, past animals and trees.

At last they came to a meadow where a herd of deer sat in the shade of a large oak tree stretching its branches up towards the light. The deer disappeared in a moment. St Peter marched over to the tree and threw himself into the shade.

'Would you like a drink?' asked the Lord. 'I have a bottle of milk. It's a bit sour but it's not bad.'

'No!' said St Peter irritably, and stared up at the large oak leaves.

It went quiet. St Peter lay and thought how rubbish the world was. He was hungry and thirsty and all he could see was inedible grass and stupid acorns.

At last he blurted out, 'You made so many blunders when you created the plants! Someone should tell you. Look at this oak tree, for example. Absolutely useless, ridiculous little nuts that taste disgusting. Then you made melons, which are so much work to grow in the garden. This huge tree would be so much better if it grew melons. Why, just this one tree would have more melons than a whole farm does. How could you make such a stupid mistake?'

'I didn't make the oak tree for the sake of the acorns,' answered the Lord quietly. 'I made it for itself. But pigs think acorns are delicious and even people used to eat them. The bark is used to tan leather and the wood is used for both ships and floors. If an oak tree is left alone, it can live 1,000 years and be home to vast numbers of other species. I would say oak is a king of the forest.'

St Peter sighed deeply. 'Well, obviously it can be handy for this and that, but why don't you listen to what I say for once? An acorn is an acorn - you must admit that. And melons are melons, something quite different. And which is the biggest is pretty obvious. If only acorns were melons they would be a suitable fruit for a tree like this. The tree must be really ashamed of those pitiful small nuts.'

'Hmm,' answered the Lord and touched the tree. The oak trembled, the crown whispered, the branches sank and suddenly the tree was full of melons. Hundreds of melons - watermelons as big as car tyres and honey melons the size of footballs - hung all over the tree. St Peter gasped.

'Was that what you had in mind?'

'Y-y-yes!' stammered St Peter.

'Are you satisfied now?'

'Am I satisfied? This is fantastic! This is the best tree I have ever seen. Just perfect!'

'You don't think the melons are a bit on the big side?' asked the Lord. 'Not at all, not at all,' said St Peter, and jumped up to pick one.

At that moment one of the largest melons came loose and began to fall. It hit St Peter and since it was perfectly ripe, it cracked open over his head down to his shoulders. There it sat like a massive bucket stuck on his head, covering his eyes, mouth and ears. He ran around, swishing his arms here and there and banging into the tree.

At last he gave a desperate tug while kicking out like a wild horse. It looked like he was pulling off his whole head, but the melon flew off and dropped to the ground.

He spat out the melon pips and took a deep breath. 'Get those melons down! Another one might fall and kill someone!' He stood trembling and shivering, with melon juice running down his face. 'Quickly, I tell you! I was wrong. It was a very bad idea.'

'Very well,' said God quietly and laid his hand on the trunk. 'Let it be.' There stood the oak tree quietly, with its green leaves and round small acorns.

Every acorn sat in its own little cup, peeping out between the twigs and glorifying the tree in its simple way.

'How lovely,' thought St Peter. 'Actually, the acorns really suit the tree.'

THE SPOILT BRAT

A challenge of telling Norwegian stories today is that many seem patriarchal. In fact, for centuries here many women ran farm and family alone as husbands were absent. This was especially true along the coast when men were out fishing for months at a time or drowned as so many did each year in the treacherous seas. There are lots of stories with active heroines, but the majority stick to boys winning a princess. One way to meet this is just to gender switch as I did with this story. This tale, by the way, is popular with young audiences and is the classic recycling story.

In a valley between the steep mountains of Norway there lived a prince. The king and queen fussed over their little diddums every day. The handsome boy got piles of new toys and ice cream for breakfast. So, he grew up as a spoilt brat who was never satisfied with anything.

'The sun is too hot! The wind is too cold! My new cape is half a centimetre too short, and my pantaloons are half a centimetre too long - you idiot!' said the prince, no matter how carefully the royal tailor had worked.

'Luckily it's ages before he will rule the kingdom,' thought the people. 'Maybe he'll get nicer as he grows up.'

But the day after the prince turned 18, the king collapsed out jogging and died of a heart attack. The poor queen was left with an almost grown-up son who did nothing at all except argue and moan. The queen was desperate. She told all the journalists in the kingdom that any girl who could put a stop to the prince moaning and groaning would get half the kingdom and the whole prince thrown into the bargain.

That evening the palace courtyard was full of girls and women who wanted to try. They rang the gilded bell endlessly; the queen didn't get a moment's peace and the prince was even more grumpy than usual. So, the queen sent out a proclamation that girls who tried without success would be tattooed with the words, 'I failed miserably'. It wasn't long before the whole city smelt of roasted skin.

Far off in the countryside lived a poor widow. Her three daughters thought the prince looked very cute in the pictures, and how hard could it be to stop him moaning and complaining? The two eldest girls put on their best dresses, glued on false eyelashes and argued about who should use the last bit of nail varnish. Soon they were ready to totter away on their high heels.

'Wait for me,' said the youngest girl.

'There's no way you're going to traipse along after us making us look stupid,' said the older girls. 'Stay here with Mum.' But the younger sister grabbed her old school satchel, gave her mum a hug and walked barefoot after the other two.

The two older girls marched off as fast as they could in their high heels. The younger one took her time, sniffing the delicious fresh air and the smell of spring. Suddenly she called out, 'Girls, look what I've found!' The others looked back.

'Yuk, a disgusting dead bird! You can't be serious. Put it...