A saga of trolls, Vikings and ancient hockey
Alexandra Kopstals explores folkloric history of Iceland
SKOGAFOSS, ICELAND— It was my second troll sighting. Perched on a grassy cliff above the dazzling Skogafoss waterfall, I couldn’t deny it this time; trolls did indeed live in Iceland. My first sighting was more questionable.
As I dug my boots into the black pebble beach of Reynisfjara, I listened to my guide explain how two rocky anomalies ended up just offshore. It wasn’t the geological story I was expecting.
The black towers of rock were in fact mischievous trolls who, being so distracted by their nighttime caper of pulling the Faroe Islands toward Iceland, didn’t notice the coming sun, and were turned to stone upon its rise.
I laughed the tale off, until I found the troll at Skogafoss: a rock face that looked so eerily, so convincingly like a face, that I started to heed the remarkably strong tradition of Icelandic folklore and sagas. What I found was that the tales gave me an unveiled glimpse into this Nordic country’s soul.
A few days earlier, I stepped off the plane at Keflavik Airport, and kept having to remind myself that I was still on planet Earth, or at least, still in the 21st century.
Iceland’s stark and primitive landscape was extraordinary, shaded in the colours of volcanic black, moss green and misty silver.
Driving into Reykjavik, my Canadian eyes spotted something familiar. Inukshuks? No, they were “watchers,” piles of stones thought to hold the spirits of dead trolls. I’m not superstitious, but something in me vowed to stay away.
Over a dinner of freshly caught Arctic char (salad was the most expensive menu item in this harsh climate), I heard of a road construction project being rerouted to preserve suspected elf dwellings. With sagas and folklore already permeating my experience, I decided to go on a Viking-inspired quest and discover who and what these tales were all about.
Striking out on the Ring Road, I drove to the Settlement Centre in Borgarnes. The little gem of a muse- um gave me prolific insight into the arrival of the ninth-century Norse and Celtic settlers, and also introduced me to Iceland’s most famous Viking: Egil (pronounced “ale”) Skallagrimsson.
An “intriguing combination of violent Viking and sensitive poet,” Egil is the focus of many sagas, which recount family histories, struggles and battles in medieval Iceland. Both loosely told by locals and studiously recorded by academics, the canon of sagas are world renowned for their style and subject matter.
Just outside the museum, the cold North Atlantic broke against the black mountains of Brakarsund. Joining me, my guide recounted a saga that occurred on that very spot.
As he told it, a local woman, named Brakar, saved Egil’s life by distracting his “berserk” father (a Viking term for the frenzied rage men would achieve in battle), after a particularly intense game of primitive ice hockey. To save her own life, she leapt into the ocean, but was pinned to the bottom by a rock that Egil’s father threw after her. Neither the women nor the rock (evidently an important detail) were seen again.
Satisfied with his gruesome tale, my guide happily asked if I was ready for lunch.
Poking at my lamb stew, the grim realities of medieval Iceland, as well as the trademark blunt storytelling, descended on me. Who was the sagas’ thus-far mysterious author? That was how I found myself knocking at Snorri’s door.
A 13th-century bard, and Iceland’s most prolific writer, Snorri Sturluson recorded the bulk of the sagas. His house still stands today and wouldn’t look out of place in Hobbiton. Compelled by some strange curiosity, I gingerly knocked on the door.
Suddenly, I felt as though time was somehow thinner here, and the likelihood of Snorri answering became increasingly high (perhaps the light from the midnight sun was getting to me).
Nobody answered of course, which may have been for the best, as Sturluson was assassinated inside the stillstanding underground halls.
Nearing the end of my quest, I went for a ride on the country’s famed Icelandic horses. Ruffling the fuzzy mane of my pony, I reflected, not on sagas, but on the imaginative genre of folk tales.
Featuring trolls and wizards, they are special glimpses into Iceland’s humanity: the magic and demons reflecting the awe and fear that the early settlers must have felt in this strange environment.
As a traveller, the tales mirrored my own experiences of awe and discovery.
As my Icelandair flight left the ground, I happily opened my new book of Icelandic folk tales, taking a bit of the magical world home with me. Alexandra Kopstals is an Aurora, Ont., writer.