Forleikur

"No warm blood in me doth glow,
Water in my veins doth flow;
Yet I'll laugh and sing and play
By frosty night and frosty day–
Little daughter of the Snow.

"But whenever I do know
That you love me little, then
I shall melt away again.
Back into the sky I'll go–
Little daughter of the Snow."

- An extract from Little Daughter of the Snow by Arthur Ransome.

Aftur

The Christian Rus slavs where found belowdecks. They huddled close to each other for warmth but also out of fear, their eyes were white and they kept murmuring words sounding like "Snegurochka" and "Baba Yaga."

Some were hung as sacrifices to Óðinn, the others were slaughtered. Obviously they had revolted, murdering their captors. Justice came swiftly with sword and ax, though some said it was a shame to waste such cargo. There were some fine men and boys for working the fields and some good girls for breeding.

But it was not to be helped. If they were to be let to live, who knows what trouble they would have stirred up if they were to see weakness, rise up and revolt again, killing how many more?

Not one was left alive.

There was talk of a flash of light leaving the ship as it guided itself to port, the rudderman tied fast to the helm, the captain gutted atop the mainmast. Some said it was a sign from Þórr, but was the sign an omen, and if an omen did it tide well or ill?

None could tell, although there was some serious talk of it ashore, and some called the talkers fools, practicing seiðr, always looking for signs and portents, when, in fact, there were none: just the earth, the sea, the sky, and the cold.

It wasn't always cold in Iceland, aptly named, but when it was cold, it was cold, regardless of the clothes. And when it got dark in Iceland, it got dark, and it stayed dark, depending on the season, for days.

And some said there were things in the dark. Huldufólk and álfarnir, always hiding, always causing mischief. It was said they were never seen. It was said if you saw one, you died.

Nobody laughed at those tales. Everyone had a wife, or an uncle, a brother, a daughter, or a friend who went out one day to the fields, and went out to the rocks because they saw something.

And never came back.

Or they went out, and things were ... not as they were. Food was disturbed, but not eaten, as an animal would have. Clothes were folded, or arranged fancifully. A helm was crushed once. Crushed. And not by a rock. There were imprints of fingers on the helm, crushing it like ...

Crushing it like an álfur had grabbed it, played with it, like a ball, and then cast it aside as useless.

One person had seen an álfur and lived. One. They said he was mad. He talked about it to anyone who would hear, or, when he got (too) drunk, to anyone who wouldn't. He said he saw a woman, a beautiful woman, but she wasn't. Her eyes were red as blood, and when she smiled at him, his blood ran cold. She walked right up to him from afar, and touched him.

Her hand was chiseled ice.

Then she smiled and said, "You're funny." She laughed, and it was lilting, a bubbling laugh that wasn't funny, it was unearthly, and she became the wind, and disappeared.

Gunnar was his name. Mad Gunnar.

He was always going back to the hills, always looking for that fae girl.

One day, he didn't come back. No trace of him was ever found.

There were only so many people on Iceland. The huldufólk were the huldufólk, and men were men, and the twain should never meet.

Some argued that the flash at sea on the slav-ship was an álfur, but that was laughed off. The huldufólk were in the hills and mountains. After all: they hid. How could one hide on the open ocean?

But there were those nagging comments from the Rus of the fiercesome, angry child "Baba Yaga" of long, flowing hair and red, red eyes, eyes as red as blood.

And what had happened to the rest of the crew? Why were the Rus unharmed, but not a single Norse man survived?

Were the Æsir angry with the Islanders?

Years passed, and these stories were forgotten. Or they were told to children, not yet of age, to scare them into staying in the villages and towns.

Don't wander off, children. Don't wander off, or the huldufólk will find you, and then were will you be, crying for mommy, who cannot hear you now, you being so far afield?

Or where will you be without your left sock, then, walking all the way back home across the cold earth, your little toe freezing off, as happened to little Magnús. He thought it was so funny, the tales, until one day he washed himself in the river, alone, and he reemerged, and lo, his left sock was gone. Just his left sock.

He called out, but nobody was there.

Nobody.

Walking home, his little toe turned black, and it eventually had to be cut off to save his foot.

The huldufólk are real, children. Don't look for them. Don't laugh at the tales.

Eftirmáli

Seven hundred years later, Icelanders still believe in the huldufólk.

Seven hundred years after the little girl of long, flowing hair dived away from the ship bearing her from the Rus land is when this tale begins.

Seven hundred years. The loneliness, hiding in the hills, ... it could drive one to do things. Things one normally wouldn't contemplate otherwise.

But it had been a long, long time.

And this little girl was lonely.

And curious.

And she had such a lovely, lilting laugh.