Rural Routes, Blog Version

When I lived on the farm, my Christmas cactus bloomed predictably twice a year – once before Christmas and then again a few weeks before Easter. Since moving to the city, however, it has never bloomed. In fact, it has looked quite unhappy. After more than two years, I began to despair.

Imagine my surprise then to discover one morning that several stems had stretched from the back of the plant to a secluded spot between the drapes and the patio door. At the ends of two of these were brand new buds.

Perhaps the plant thrives on seclusion. Perhaps the problem has been that I have been paying it too much attention, instead of too little, as was often the case in my old home.

GHOST STORIES IN THE LAND OF FIRE AND ICE

After reading numerous ghost stories for my Icelandic folklore class, I made up one of my own.

There was a young woman named Guðrún.

A sorry tale, she died too soon.

But her spirit lingers on and on

And in the dark, you hear her song.

Gonna get that man who did me ill.

His sheep will die; cow’s milk turn swill.

He’ll want to die; he’ll scream and weep.

But as he sowed so shall he reap.

The words are clearest Christmas Eve

For so the townsfolk do believe

That húldufólk all join the throng

To add their voices to her song.

Gonna get that man who did me ill.

His sheep will die; cow’s milk turn swill.

He’ll want to die; he’ll scream and weep

But as he sowed so shall he reap.

No man alive with reckless boast

Can best a vengeful Iceland ghost.

I do not know what Guðrun’s man did, but he probably should have thought twice before doing it. I feel guilty about my name choice since both my Ammas were named Guðrún and this would be a eulogy neither of them would deserve.

But the doggerel does illustrate one of the most common elements in Icelandic ghost stories – a desire for revenge. Ghosts get even in a variety of ways; they can be vindictive tricksters. They haunt individuals and their families from one generation to the next. In one case, a ghost chewed incessantly on a farmer’s socks. The farmer put on a new pair each morning, but he knew he would be barefoot by evening.

Revenge is not the only reason for the dead to hang around. Take the case of the Deacon of Mýrka who died on the road to his sweetheart Guðrún (there’s that name again) and for several weeks attempted to bring Guðrún to the grave with him.

In another example, the ghost returned to the land of the living to protect the treasure he had hidden on his land.

The most gruesome cases, however, involve the zombie-like creatures brought back to life with magic. This is where things can get weird. I am reminded of the book ‘Pet Sematary’ by the American horror writer Stephen King. Be careful what you wish for.

Take the case of Móri, the ghost of Írafell. A group of rejected suitors brought Móri back to life as retribution against the woman who turned them down and married someone else. Móri was instructed to haunt the family for nine generations. Because he was brought back to life so soon after his death, he still required human food. He haunted the dairy barn and, if no one fed him, he splashed milk around everywhere and even threw manure and gravel into every batch of milk product.

Another time the farmer noticed that a new foal was racing round and round a rock. When he investigated, he discovered that Móri had stuck the foal’s innards to the rock and the poor foal tore all its insides out before finally dying.

Maybe my Guðrún doesn’t sound so bad after all.

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Who needs a purse? Not me.

The purse is one of several personal belongings I have done without for months and months. There was a time I would not have ventured far without it.

But nowadays my pockets are quite large enough to carry anything I need on my infrequent and brief forays into the outside world.

Has a year been long enough to break a decades-long habit? We will discover the answer when COVID restrictions finally come to an end.

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