Preface
Many of us have immersed ourselves in fantastic worlds of history or mythology through reading or study—be they knights, Vikings, monsters, or dragons. We have even gone to seek out their worlds and remnants through travel and personal encounter. But the whole time, we are basically secure in the knowledge that they are not, or at least are no longer, real on present-day, here-and-now Earth . . . right?
At the same time, more and more of us are on a quest to discover our roots—where we each come from, who our ancestors were. We find ourselves wanting to know not just their names or when they lived; but what they cared about, felt, and even experienced . . . to even be taken back to their lives and times, into their thoughts, at least through anything they may have written down or left behind.
So inspired by ideas and characters conceived of for 'How to Train Your Dragon' by author Cressida Cowell for her original book series, and brought to the screen by writer/directors Dean DeBlois and Chris Sanders and the team at DreamWorks Animation; join us as a man, disillusioned by the present, finds himself drawn to seek meaning, even his identity, in the past.
— Norwesterner
After a daylong train ride across Norway from Oslo airport, having to rent a car on top of that, and even take a ferry, I finally arrived after sunset on a mountainous peninsula of the Norwegian coast south of Bergen.
Dog-tired from basically two days of travel by plane, train, automobile, and boat, I reached my objective—the Drager Vertshus or 'Dragons Inn'. It was kind of an eclectic, even kitschy place, themed in dragon and Viking lore, which the area was rich in. After I had received a brochure a while ago in the mail, along with a remarkably personalized letter from the local tourism bureau, signed by the owner of this inn no less . . . well, I felt I just had to start my trip here.
"Check-in," I said upon reaching the front desk in the richly decorated, wood-panelled lobby, seeing no one behind the counter, and trying to get the innkeeper's attention. Even though my ancestry is largely Norwegian, I had never learned the language—modern Norwegian, Nynorsk or 'New Norse' as one of its versions is called anyway.
"Ahh, my NASA exobiologist!" the elderly innkeeper greeted me as he emerged around a corner. Clad in a grey cardigan sweater but with a full head of hair, albeit silver, and wearing half-rimmed reading glasses, he was surprisingly tall for the typical Norwegian.
"I'm the only guest from America you're expecting?" I asked, amazed he would have me so thoroughly pegged just from saying 'check-in'.
"The only one who is scheduled to arrive today," he smiled.
"Mister Johannsen, pleased to meet you at last," I greeted him as we shook hands. "I'm still wondering why you asked me what I did for work when I made my reservation."
"Vhat a person verks at tells me a lot more about them than their name does," the old gentleman warmly assured. "But in your case, your name possibly reveals much, too, Doctor Husa. Do you know vhat it means?"
"Excuse me, but you're mispronouncing it," I replied. "It's spelled H-Y-S-E and my family pronounce it 'Hise'. You're pronouncing it 'Husa'."
"I'm sorry," he apologised. "I am merely pronouncing it the vay ve would in Norvegian, my apologies. But I can understand how your name has become modified in English. I had forgotten you pronounced it that vay over the phone vhen you made your reservation."
"That's alright," I replied. "But in answer to your question, no, my paternal grandparents never really told me what my name means, although I do have an uncle who's starting to look up my family's genealogy."
"Vell, let me save your uncle some time," Johannsen offered. "It means 'Haddock' in Norvegian, a local fish. But vas there more to that? Perhaps a previous version of the name?"
"Well, my grandparents did mention something about my family once going by 'Ýsa' or 'Ésa'," I replied. "But even I could agree that Hyse, the way we pronounce it, sounds better in English. There is a great similarity between the names though, the way you pronounce them anyway, which explains a few things to me now."
"Ýsa," he nodded, smiling slightly. "It means 'Haddock', too—but in the old tongue, before Nynorsk. Vell before Nynorsk. But you vere never told anything more about it?"
"No," I replied, wondering what he now knew that I didn't.
"That family name vas once quite important here," he noted. "They ruled this very area as chieftains, in Viking times."
"You're kidding," I responded almost incredulously.
"I thought I might have a special guest in your case," the kindly innkeeper smiled.
"You know more?" I asked with interest, as another party of arriving guests now entered the lobby.
"I might remember a thing or two, tomorrow—once you have settled in," he hinted, seeing the other guests looking around for the moment, but obviously wanting to check in as well.
I suddenly felt he knew a whole lot more about my past, if not me as well now, than I did.
"But here is the key for your cabin, Number Eight," he continued. "It has an excellent view of the ocean and is somevhat off by itself, allowing you some peace and quiet. Ve offer breakfast and dinner in our dining room. Lunch is on your own, but ve'll be happy to provide you with a picnic basket or makings for a lunch at your cabin if you like."
"I look forward to hiking around," I said, "even seeing some historic sites, if that's possible."
"I vill see what I can do to help you with that," he smiled. "I vill just need your passport for a vhile for recordkeeping."
"Of course," I replied, familiar with the European custom among hoteliers of holding passports for a while. "Here," I offered as I pulled it out of my coat pocket.
"Interesting," he noted. "A Canadian passport. I thought verking for NASA and living in America, you vould be American."
"Nope, I just work in America," I replied. "There isn't much call for biologists who can study and theorize on new life forms on other worlds in my country, so I just signed up with the bunch who launches a lot of rockets looking for that kind of thing. They happen to be in America. I have fun with Americans though, needling them on how they mangle words like 'centre' and 'honour' just to prove they're not British. But with the Apollo Moon shots and even Skylab missions at an end now, nothing really showing up on Mars with the initial results from the Viking probe missions, and anything else a ways off, my programme is winding down. I'm actually on sabbatical here, to figure out what I want to do next with my life."
"By yourself?" Johannsen asked. "No vife? No children?"
"Nope," I replied. "I'm divorced. My wife left me and cut off all contact. No kids either."
"I think ve are a very good place for you then," the innkeeper assured. "Maybe even perfect, dare I say."
"I'm sure I'll have a lot to look at, just around your inn," I said. "Your lobby alone is practically a museum on Viking and dragon lore. You even have a dragon tooth here," I noted, looking at one display case on a wall next to the counter. "Probably a whale tooth though by the looks of it. Maybe Atlantic Orca."
"It has been passed down to me through generations as a dragon tooth," Johannsen smiled. "But you probably know better than I."
"Think I'll see any around here?" I joked as I looked at the tooth again. "Dragons, I mean."
"There should be a few around on nights like this," my host replied with a smile. "At least that's vhat people say."
"I'll keep an eye out then," I smiled in return. "As a biologist, I should know what I'm looking at, if I see anything."
"I'm sure you vill," Johannsen said. "A selection of coffee, hot chocolate, fruit, and pastries are already in your cabin to velcome you. Is there anything else you might like?"
"A bottle of your finest schnapps might be nice," I mused, "for my nightcaps. That should last me for my week here."
"Most assuredly," the old man said. "I vill be right back vith one from our bar."
I now looked around for a moment at all the drawings, maps, paintings, and artefacts that decorated the lobby. "Another world, another time," I mused aloud. This place was just what I was looking for to take my mind off of where I now found myself in life. I could indulge my interests, even fantasies, in a world of history, myth, and incredible scenery.
"Here you are," my host said, returning with a bottle for me.
"Thank you," I said gratefully accepting it from him. "I think I'll turn in now. It's been a long two days in getting here."
"Your cabin is out the door and to the left, down the path through the trees. Sleep vell," my host bid me.
"Goodnight," I said as I went out the door, and collected my two somewhat large suitcases out of my rental car. I was intending to stay in Europe, possibly just Norway, for a while; so I figured I might as well bring enough stuff along, even though I knew I wouldn't really be needing all that much of it.
"Hardly any lights on this path," I commented as I made my way through a fairly dense copse of fir trees to my cabin.
I then heard a brief whoosh above me as I walked through the trees. "Wind," I dismissed to myself. "A few minutes here, and you've already got dragons on the brain."
"Wow," I then said, emerging from the woods to find my cabin perched on a bluff at the edge of the forest with some coastal mountains and craggy inlets just beyond. Even at night here, the cabin had a commanding view of the ocean and some rocky cliffs and sea stacks around it. Looking back, I could see the lights of the main inn off to my left back along the bluff, but otherwise I was alone here, the forest providing me with basically complete privacy.
The cabin itself had a wonderful, rounded front patio, partially sheltered by an overhang of the roof. There was a circular outdoor dining table with four chairs, as well as an inviting wooden armchair with large outdoor cushions, which had a nice little side table next to it, along with an ottoman footrest. I unlocked and opened the cabin's front door and turned on the lights. Inside, it was warm, immaculately clean, and inviting as well. I dropped my luggage at the foot of the large, plush king-sized bed, then turning to quickly fumble through the kitchen area for a small glass. Finding one, I then briefly paused at a mirror on the wall. Thin, with short, wavy brown hair and at the average five feet, ten inches in height, I'd never pictured myself as much of a Viking, thinking they were universally blonde and well-built, or at least stocky. But apparently I was—well, at least a descendant.
I shrugged and continued back out to that inviting armchair out on the patio with my bottle of schnapps, sitting back and quickly downing a couple of shots, really wanting to relax and begin my sabbatical in earnest. With my divorce, and now my job seeming to be at an end as well, gods know I'd deserved it.
"Gods," I mused to myself out loud. In studying my ancestral Viking history, culture, and lore intensely in my off hours, I got into Viking spiritual views somewhat. It took my mind off the divorce. I liked that they had a choice of gods to pray or think to. If one god didn't answer your prayers, another one might. But I didn't take it all that seriously, and I couldn't escape the feeling that there was a unifying presence around everything, maybe with many aspects. After all, I was trained to look for life on other worlds. Who knows what they'd worship there.
In an increasingly hazy state—I don't know whether it was my fatigue, or the schnapps—I thought I saw something dark cross in front of the stars on this moonless night.
"It's time to go to bed," I concluded.