Flashback: tales from ages past

Europe: North

1839

Birgit leaped up to answer the knock on the cabin door. "Sveinung!" she greeted her brother. "Did you ski all the way from Eidsborg?"

Sveinung the Saddlemaker laughed. "It's not so far for one born with skis on my feet." He set the skis against the cabin wall.

Birgit ushered him inside. "Have you won any more races?"

"One or two. That young character from over the ridge stole the lead a couple times. Just when I was counting on the prize money, too."

"Sondre Auversson? He's only twelve!"

"Twelve, and a swallow on the slopes, I tell you. He cuts turns tighter than any I've seen."

"Is your farm going as poorly as the ones here in Morgedal? Is that why you counted on winning the prize?"

"You betcha," Sveinung said with a grimace. "Barley rotted in the field. Lambs and kids took sick. No one interested in my saddles or harness repair, unless I want to be paid in turnips. But we're getting by."

"How are Kari and the children? And Mother, is she well?"

"Mother is spry as ever. Wanted to come along today, but she'd slow me down. Little Guro just turned five. Yesterday she told us she made friends with a nisse, and the little fellow led her through the field to an overgrown pile of stones. He told her she could have what lay beneath for a birthday present."

"A nisse?" Birgit grinned at the child's imagination.

"Red cap and all. And you'll never guess what lay beneath." Sveinung flipped a brass disk, caught it, handed it to his sister.

"Coins? Bright, shiny, new coins!"

"A tidy little hoard. And sweet Guro wouldn't keep them for herself. She insisted I use most of them to pay rent on our fields." He snorted. "Our unproductive fields. Perhaps I should move back to Morgedal, see if they'll take me on at the smithy again. But that would mean leaving behind the ski races. And the friendly nisse."

Birgit narrowed her eyes at Sveinung. Was he serious about the Otherworldly creature? She passed the coin back. "I'd think brass from a buried hoard would be old and tarnished."

"Nisse magic." Sveinung bounced his brows at her.

* * *

A few weeks later, another knock came at the door. This time it was Birgit's 72-year-old mother and a servant girl propping skis against the wall.

"Mother!" Birgit cried. "What a surprise! Did you ski all the way—"

"Yes, and I need to sit down. Hot water to soak my feet."

Once the weary travelers were settled, Old Guro heaved a long growling breath. "Sveinung went and minted himself a bag of brass coins," she grumbled. "One of his creditors wasn't as dull as the rest, and reported him to the sheriff."

Birgit gasped.

"Not to worry." Old Guro shook her head. "He had notice, strapped on his skis, took off to parts unknown. Kari and the children have enough set by to tide them over the winter, but I've had enough of that foolishness. I'll have my old room back, if you please."

* * *

In the late summer of 1840, Sveinung Saddlemaker quietly resurfaced in Eidsborg and went back to tooling harness. When questioned about where he had disappeared to, he would only smile and say, "North."

Slightly embellished true story about my great-great-great-grandmother Birgit  ("BEER-yeet") and her enterprising brother Sveinung, maker of saddles, minter of counterfeit coins, and champion skier.  Sveinung probably was acquainted with the rising star of Sondre Auversson (later to be known as Sondre Norheim, "Father of Skiing").