A Night With the Mouse's Brother

“ And houseless men, who have lain down with the fowls, open their dim eyes, and behold the beauty of the night.”

HANS KRISTOFFER had stacked the last piece of peat in the grot-hus. I had caught trout enough for breakfast, and we were resting from our labors, seated on the banks of Sorvags-vatn. It was eleven o’clock at night; but that matters little in sixty-three degrees north latitude. The sun disappears for a few hours behind the northern mountains, and there is a clear, silvery twilight, just the right light for fishing. Hans Kristoffer glanced at my string of trout. “ They are good fish,” he said, “but you could get larger ones at Fjalla-vatn, seven miles to the north. But it is a lonely place, there is no shelter, and you could not go and return the same day.” And Hans Kristoffer shook his head doubtfully ; for I was convalescing after a long illness in Italy, and so far a three-mile tramp had been the extent of my powers.

“ But we can go two of the seven miles by boat on this lake,” I pleaded, “ and if the weather is good, we need not return the same day. I can curl up in a sheltered hollow, with plenty of wraps, and rest most of the night, and then it would not be too hard.” I added craftily, “ Heine too would enjoy the fishing.” (Heine is our youngest, and a born fisherman.) So before we started homewards it was decided that we would go the first sure day.

“ A sure day ” ! That was the difficulty ; for this group of mountain islands, the Faroes, moored in mid-ocean between Iceland and Norway, draw to their rugged summits the wandering mists, and there are influences, not yet well understood, which make them the land of sudden changes and fierce storms.

But only three mornings afterwards I was awakened by a voice saying in Faroese, “Kona-folka vedur.” (Real women-folk weather.) In a twinkling I was at the window. Hans Kristoffer and his brother Jegvan were examining sea, sky, and fjord with a critical eye, and the above phrase was their verdict. “ Can we go, Herr Hans ? ” I called.

“ Yes,” answered Hans Kristoffer. “ It is a clear day, dry and warm ; the glass is high and rising. One seldom sees such a day in Faroes.”

“ I can be ready in an hour! ” I exclaimed. “ Please ask Heine to dig some worms.”

“ He’s digging them now,” replied Hans Kristoffer as he disappeared around the corner.

We made quite a procession as we started, two hours later, — Hans Kristoffer, Jegvan, Heine and his friend Sigmund, Fru Hans and Fru Jegvan, who, according to the Faroe custom, were to go “ a piece of way ” with us, knitting long gray stockings as they walked. Provisions and wraps were packed in two loyper, or oblong wooden crates, borne on the shoulders, and supported by a broad woolen band around the brow. Heine carried all the fishing rods, and I was in light marching order with fj eld-staff in hand. So we filed out through the B6 and passed into the Hage.

The Bó and the Hage — the infield and the outfield—these are the two divisions of land in the Faroes, seen best when looking from the sea. The Bó shows as a patch of lively green surrounding a cluster of turf-covered cottages. Here grow hay grass, potatoes, and a little barley. All the rest is the Hage, a confusion of rocks, short grasses, peat bogs, and marshy pools up to the bare summits of basaltic rock. On the nearer slopes live the cows six months of the year. Beyond are the half - wild sheep, never watched, never fed, living or dying as the storms determine. Desolate as death in the winter, the Hage on a fine summer day is joy enough for sinful human nature.

Perhaps some weak souls amongst us know that peculiar lightness of spirit that comes when a rather bad-tempered loved one is pleased, for the hour, to be in jocund mood. So one feels on a fine day in the Faroes. One knows it will storm to-morrow, but now how good to feel the warm hand of the sun, to see the fog drawn back across the sea levels, and the fjelds clear-cut against the sky ! Below my window a northern wren is pouring out his soul in thanksgiving. The “mouse’s brother” the Faroe folk call him, and indeed, except as to tail, he is much like a mouse in size and color ; the same bright eyes and darting motions ; the same fashion, too, of whisking in and out between the slats of the kjoeld, or outside store, and stealing the dried meat. He is seen on the moors and fjelds and bird crags as well as near the houses, and more than any other Faroe bird is associated in my mind with the free outdoor life of the light summer nights.

When we reached Sorvags-vatn, a mile from the house, Fru Hans and Fru Jegvan said farvel, and we started northward for the two-mile row.

“ I am glad that Jegvan and I could go with you,” remarked Hans Kristoffer, as he dipped his oar leisurely in the water, “ for you ought to see where the huldre-koner (mountain witches) live, at Fjalla-vatn, and the young folks of to-day seem to have little interest in such things.”

“ Did you ever really believe in huldre folk, Herr Hans ? ” I asked.

Hans Kris toff er smiled as he thought of past years. “ Never since I was a boy,” he replied, “ but there are many who do still. I’ve heard that across the lake there once lived a large family of huldre folk who made much trouble for the people, until the bishop came and rolled a stone in front of their cave, and marked it with the sign of the cross, and that they could not pass.”

“ I wonder if they are there now ? ” I mused.

“ Of that,” said Hans Kristoffer, “ naturally no one dares to make sure. They say that all the other huldre folk have moved away to Fjalla-vatn.”

On reaching the head of the lake, we left the boat, and began our four-mile tramp — not an easy one — over stones, marshes, matted grass, and little watercourses running deeply in the peaty soil. At last we came to a hill above the lake.

“ It is an ancient custom to rest here awhile,” said Jegvan, and most gladly I observed that ancient custom.

We could see the lake from end to end, stretching sombre and quiet for a mile between the fjelds, whose gray and purple cliffs rose in bold heights, six hundred to fifteen hundred feet. The water lapped on rocky shores and coarse black gravel. There was not the smallest bush or rush or water plant to rustle in the wind. One felt a hush, an emptiness in the air, though innumerable wild fowl wheeled and hovered with shrill clamor. At the north the fjelds sank lower, and there the sky gleamed cold and green.

“ On the other side,” said Jegvan, “are the cliffs where young Jegvan is bird-catching to-day.”

He spoke softly, lest Heine hear ; for Heine’s soul was bitter within him because his big brother was allowed to go, and he was thought too young.

“ Jegvan loves to go to the bird crags as much as I did at his age. The boys’ uncle, their mother’s brother, was killed at the same place, and she is unhappy when Jegvan goes. But it is part of his life-work, and he is eighteen, and one should not forbid it. They are difficult crags. When I was a little boy, I knew two men, a young and an elderly one, who went egg-hunting there. We often make the line fast above, go down by it to some good place, fasten the line to a stone, and creep along the edges, gathering eggs. This time, by some accident, the line got loose, and swung out so far that it could not be reached from the ledge on which they stood. There was no way of ascending without it. Five hundred feet below them the sea broke over jagged rocks. Their only chance was for one of them to jump out over the sea and catch the swinging rope.

“ ‘ I will try it,’ said the older man. 1 You have your life yet to live. My children are grown, and will not need me.’

“ ‘No,’ said the other, ‘I have no wife at home to grieve for me, and I am young and strong, and my chance of success is greater than yours would be. If I miss it, you can still try. Now, with God’s help, I go.’ He sprang out from the ledge, caught the rope, and they were saved.”

Half an hour later we stood on the shores of Fjalla-vatn. In three minutes Heine was fishing. Heine is sixteen, tall and slim, with strong and active legs. His nose turns up a little, and a lint-white lock curls upwards from the borders of his hugva, or long, drooping cap. He walks with head high in air, like a fine young colt, always wears wet moccasins, and is indifferent to such trifles as cold, damp, and fatigue. A fat mitten full of worms hung from his neck, and reposed gracefully on his breast like a choice locket. It shows how fair-minded I am, for a woman, that I recognize and appreciate Heine’s charms, even though he scorns me (and all women), and has never,of his own freewill, spoken tome.

I noticed that Heine, after he had arranged a worm on his hook, spit upon it. Now I have fished with various small boys in eight countries, and every one did the same. This subject has never, to my knowledge, been discussed by the Folk-Lore Societies, but it surely is deserving of consideration.

“ Do you always spit upon your worms, Heine ? ” I asked.

“ Naturligvis ! ” (Of course) replied Heine, with crushing brevity.

Close to the lake was a rat, or open inclosure of short stones, where the sheep are driven at the wool-gathering, and on the lee side of the wall we made our camp. As the only woman of the party I had domestic duties to perform, and found that a loyp turned on its side serves admirably as a sheltered kitchen, and the top as a dining table.

After our late dinner, Hans Kristoffer and Jegvan strolled along the shore, smoking, and I rested, seated on a low mossy hillock, with my head propped up comfortably on a higher one. During dinner I had noticed a low twittering sound, and now it came again, and looking up I saw close by, on one of the stones of the rat, six fluffy baby mouse’s brothers. All in a row they sat, eyeing me with shining eyes, in the friendliest fashion. Harmless sheep they knew ; also their enemies, the hooded crows and ravens ; but this queer animal ? Perhaps it was a new kind of sheep, and they edged closer and closer with confiding peepings, while the parent birds cried and called piteously at a little distance. I rose cautiously and drew nearer. The father bird, seeing me move, flew away; but the mother came and placed herself between me and the nearest baby. Brave little mother ! Her form quivered and shrank, her dark eyes dilated, but she kept her post. I could have caught her in my hand, but it would have been too cruel, and I withdrew softly. And then the father, evidently feeling that he had cut but a poor figure in the affair, came bustling up, and proceeded to feed the babies with great show and demonstration, as though their present safety was due entirely to him.

I had come to Fjalla-vatn to catch a big fish, and was just getting out my tackle when Hans Kristoffer returned.

“ Do you feel like walking a little way to see the huldre-koner’s homes ? The evening sun rests on them now, and you can see them well.”-

So along the lake shore we walked until we came in sight of two great clefts, one on each side of the lake, running deeply into the solid rock. Dark and grim, with water dripping from their depths, they seemed especially suitable as homes for huldre folk. Seated on the slope below, Hans Kristoffer told me a story of their inmates : —

“ There was once a shepherd of Sandevaag (the next hamlet to ours) who was cleverer than any other in the Faroes. He knew every sheep in the Hage, and he had a fine red horse that was very swift. One beautiful morning the shepherd thought he would go north to Fjallavatn to look after the sheep. Now at that time there lived here two huldrekoner sisters, one in Husa-gjov, just above us, and the other in Tormens-gjov, across the water. Both these huldrekoner had dresses of scarlet cloth, and it happened that the very morning the shepherd left home the huldre-kona in Husa-gjov put out her dress to sun. A long way off the shepherd saw the bright dress with its trimming of golden buttons shining in the sun. He turned his horse to where the dress lay, took it up, and, placing it behind him on the saddle, rode away. The huldre-kona sat by her fire, and it occurred to her to go out and turn her dress. But when she came out, she gnashed her teeth with rage, for it was gone. She looked around the hills, and there, near her sister’s house, was the shepherd riding at full speed with her dress. ‘ Sister ! Sister ! Help me ! ’ she cried. ' Make long strides after him ! ’ But her sister called back, ‘ I cannot! Both my legs are lame ! ’ And so the huldre-kona herself started in pursuit. When the shepherd came to a little stream, Vatn-soyrar, which flows in Sorvags-vatn, his horse was exhausted and could hardly go. He stopped to drink at the stream, and by that time the huldrekona was close at hand. But then the horse was so refreshed that he flew on again and up the hill. ‘ That stream was my salvation,’ said the shepherd, and it is called the Stream of Salvation to this day. On they went, until the horse was trembling and the sweat poured down his sides. Nearer and nearer came the huldre-kona, and reached him just as he came to the church wall. He threw himself from the saddle and over the wall; but the dress caught on the stones, and the huldre-kona seized one end. ‘ Now I hold it! ’ she cried. ‘ Hold it as you will,’ he answered, ‘ here is God and the Church ! ’ They struggled for the dress, and then it tore, and all the shepherd got was one of the sleeves ; but so large was it that it made a stole for the priest, and in the Sandevaag church it is to this day.

“ And here I am,” added Hans Kristoffer, “ taking up your time with huldrefolk stories, and it’s almost nine o’clock and you have n’t caught a fish. Heine has a good string already.”

“ Herr Hans,” I replied, “ I am really too tired to fish now. That was a long walk here, you know. I think I ’ll light the spirit lamp, heat water for my hotwater bag, and sleep for a few hours. Two o’clock is the best time for fishing, anyhow, and I ’ll be rested by that time.”

“ Yes,” approved Hans Kristoffer, “ that’s a good idea; for you will have all that way to go back again to-morrow.”

A few steps above the rat I found a cosy little hollow, soft with moss ; very damp, indeed (a Faroe fjeld side is generally like a soaked sponge), but first I put down a rubber camp-sheet, then rolled myself in a pair of Jaeger blankets, pulled a soft wool hood over my head, hugged tight my hot-water bottle, and surveyed my surroundings with much satisfaction. “ This is much better than a stuffy house,” I said to myself, “and I never did like a puffin-feather bed. It’s cold, to be sure, but the air is so sweet and fresh, — and I wonder how many kinds of flowers there are right around me. Ragged robins, white bedstraw, tormentillas, wild geraniums, St. John’s-wort, two kinds of heather, lady’s-smock, and eye-brights close to my head; on that hillock to the right sibbaldia, lady’s-mantle, butterwort, crowberry, meadow-rue, and a marsh violet; on the shore silver-weed, starry saxifrage, creeping buttercups, sea-thrift, and stonecrop — but all low-growing, as if they were afraid of blowing away if they grew tall. Then up on the rocky slopes I know there are nice little subalpines, at least a dozen, and possibly an Icelandic poppy. I ’ll climb up in the morning and see. But now it’s almost ten o’clock, and I must sleep.” A drowsy twittering among the stones of the rat told me that the baby mouse’s brothers were settling for the night; but on the crags across the lake the black-backed gulls laughed and screamed, and Arctic terns flashed like swallows to and fro across the quiet water. The last thing I saw, as I closed my eyes, was Heine fishing.

I awoke with a start. A large drop had plashed down on my nose. Heine was still fishing, and Hans Kristoffer stood by me with a troubled face. “ I am sorry to disturb you,” he said, “ but we must start for home. We shall have bad weather, — cold wind, rain and fog. We are used to it, but it won’t do for you to stay here in the wet. In walking it will not be so bad ; you can go as slowly as you choose, — it is only eleven o’clock now, — and then by morning we shall have shelter and warm food.”

I sat up, and looked about me in dismay. The fjelds opposite were half lost in dense clouds which sank lower every moment. It was bitterly chill. Alas for our “ sure day ” !

We packed up the loyper again and started. Hans Kristoffer and Jegvan had half a dozen good trout, and Heine all he could well carry. They ranged from one pound and a quarter to two pounds and a half. And I had not caught one.

The rain fell heavily as we left the lake, but ceased as we passed over the hills at the south. Though the dense clouds darkened the air, I could still see the golden tormentillas shining in the moss at my feet, and the heather bells heavy with rain. We were in the clouds. They swept around us, shutting out all landmarks from view. The men walked on ahead, talking in cheerful hushed tones and keeping a watchful eye on me, — holding out a helping hand at treacherous places, putting something under my head when I lay down to rest, and saying, " Now the worst is over,” or " Now it will soon be day ; ” and once I heard a voice — was it Heine’s ? — saying, " We shall get to Sorvags-vatn at just the right time for fishing.”

I was well knocked up by this time, and could go but a little way without stopping. Then I lay, stretched out at full length in the wet moss, while the mists drifted over my face, and scores of birds hovered and cried around me. They had shown little alarm as we passed in the morning, but they now thought that this nocturnal expedition boded no good for them. The curlews first gave the alarm ; the oyster catchers and golden plover took up the cry ; ravens and crows, gulls and terns, hurried from the cliffs; wrens, stonechats, titlarks, and wheatears hopped nearer and nearer, and remonstrated with me for this intrusion. Then there was a strange sound, half a whir, half a tremulous cry, like that of a lost lamb or a young child. It seemed to have a ventriloquistic quality, also : now it sounded close to my face, now at the side, now quavered downward through the air.

“ Herr Jegvan,” I called to him as he sat at a little distance, “ I hear a cry like that of a little child. Perhaps it is a huldre-kona ? ”

“ No,” replied Jegvan gravely, “ it is a myra-snipa“(marsh snipe).

“ But I heard many myra-snipas when I was on Myggenoes, and they all said ' a-chik ! a-chik ! a-chik ! ’ ”

“ That,” said Jegvan, “ is their goodweather cry. They always cry like this when it is stormy or foggy.”

There were large dusky birds, — a dozen or more, — much bolder than any others, that swooped down at me so fiercely that instinctively I put up my hands to guard my eyes.

“ Herr Jegvan,” I called again, “what is this dark bird that is so bold ? ”

“ That is a kjogvi ; an Englishman, who was here once, called it an ‘ Arctic skua.’ This is the smaller kind : the larger ones kill lambs, and can be dangerous to a man on the bird crags by beating his head with their strong wings. But they are rare now. I doubt if there are a dozen pairs in all the islands. The last ones here were killed a few years ago, by an Englishman, at Fjalla-vatn. (That was before the law protecting them was passed.) It was a fine pair, male and female, and the Englishman was very glad and proud; they were to be stuffed and sent to his home in England. Coming home he was tired and went slowly, and he told his guide to go on ahead with the skuas and take good care of them. The guide did n’t understand English, but he was a faithful man, and he hurried off home. The Englishman arrived about an hour and a half afterwards. His dinner was being put on the table: his two skuas, brown and shining, served with new potatoes, and cranberry sauce.”

We reached the lake at two o’clock, and I fished from the boat, using a light coachman fly, and catching fifteen good trout as the men rowed slowly homeward. A dense silvery fog was milling up from the sea. Like hoarfrost it rested everywhere, making the men’s rough clothes, their hair, beards, and eyebrows, white as snow. The ends of the long oars dipped in the drifting clouds; we glided on in a still whiteness, guided only by the hushed booming of the surf against the Sorvag sea cliffs.

At the landing I left the men to house the boat, and started on alone for the mile home stretch. The cows were sleeping by the trail. They woke, as I passed, and looked at me with wondering eyes, and a big calf arose, and followed me with blandishments, apparently thinking that the early hour might have softened my heart, and I would let him through the village gate to the longed-for infields, where he had spent the days of his infancy.

We had been gone only twenty hours, but so long seemed the time that, as the silent village came in sight around a sudden turn, it was with a vague surprise that I saw unchanged the familiar grassy roofs, the quaint weather-vane on the church, the same old white whale moored out in the bay and awaiting the coming of the whaler. I stole into the house softly (we seldom lock the doors in Faroes), lest I awake Fru Hans and Fru Jegvan. My own particular mouse’s brother was on my window sill. “ Oh, mouse’s brother,” I exclaimed, as I gave him his morning crumbs, “ this little room is better than a wet fjeld side, and how good, how very good, looks that bed of puffin feathers! ”

Elizabeth Taylor.