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Stellan was expecting a postage stamp but he was still shocked when he was deposited on a dock with his backpack and duffle bags. Jötunndal was tucked away in one of the less popular and wildest of Norway’s fjords, the Hjørundfjord. Stellan flew into Ålesund then took a ferry up Norangsfjord and across Hjørundfjord to the small town of Sæbø. From there, it was a short boat ride to tiny Jötunndal. Stellan was mesmerized by the emerald greens of the rugged, mist-covered fjords and the crystal clear waters but Jötunndal wasreallytiny.
“This is it?” He asked as he looked around but he’d been abandoned. The little tour boat’s motor hummed in the distance and Stellan was all alone. He was expecting a small alpine village but Jötunndal didn’t even qualify as a village. A handful of little cottages with flower-filled window planters and turf roofs were scattered around a larger cottage and what Stellan supposed was the town square. It was just a small garden, flanked by two picnic tables and a place for a bonfire but Stellan sensed that this was about as lively as Jötunndal got. He scratched his head as he turned on the dock and surveyed the inlet around him. It was eerily peaceful and the water sparkled a bright, tranquil blue as it reflected the clear sky overhead.
“Hello there! You must be Stellan Berg!” A warm, cheerful voice said in a thick Norwegian accent but Stellan jumped and gasped as he spun around.
“Whoa! Where did you come from?” Stellan said as he tipped his head back and shielded his eyes. The man smiling down at him blocked out the sun as he beamed down at Stellan. He was twice as wide as Stellan and his hair and mustache were alarmingly orange.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you!” He said with an infectious chuckle and gave Stellan’s shoulder a playful shake. Stellan glanced at the man’s massive hand and resisted the urge to press it against his own to see if it was twice as large.
“No worries,” he murmured, then raised his brows at the other man.
“Welcome to Jötunndal! I am Fritjof Jötunnsen. We talked on the phone,” he told Stellan.
“Oh! Right!” Stellan nodded as he offered his hand. It was engulfed in Fritjof’s and Stellan’s teeth rattled as his hand was pumped vigorously. “So… Your last name is Jötunnsen?”
“That’s me! Let me get your bags!” Fritjof insisted and easily swung both of Stellan’s duffle bags over each of his shoulders. He turned them toward the large cottage and whistled happily as he marched off the dock.
“You know the jötunn were—” Stellan started as he hurried to keep up and Fritjof cut him off with a hearty laugh.
“I do! Perhaps that’s where the name came from,” he said.
“Or your size,” Stellan mused and Fritjof’s wide, round belly shook as he laughed again.
“Possibly! We grow pretty large around here.” He winked at Stellan and gestured for him to follow him up the main cottage’s steps. The jötunn were a vague and widely varied class of mythical creatures. Some were gods like Odin and others were similar to giants or trolls and featured heavily in Norse mythology. “I’ll take these to your place after we’ve finished in here,” Fritjof explained to Stellan as he left his bags by the door then pushed it open.
“We?” Stellan asked as he stepped inside and was once again stunned. The interior of the cottage was open and appeared to operate as the village’s general store, a two-table pub and the post office. There was a loft above and Stellan noted the crisp white linens, oversized square pillows and a thick fur throw draped across the foot of the bed.
“There’s twelve of us Jötunnsens here in Jötunndal,” Fritjof said with a cheeky grin and Stellan’s brows pulled together.
“You’re all Jötunnsens here?” He asked.
“Oh, yes! Seems we’re the only ones mad enough to stay! You’re our only visitor at the moment but most of our guests are hikers and photographers. We don’t get many long-term lodgers like you. What did you say you were planning to do here?” Fritjof asked as he went around the long counter at the end of the room.
“I’m here to wrap up my doctoral thesis and write a book my dad dreamt up. His parents were from Øye but one of our ancestors supposedly went for a hike here in Jötunndal and was never seen again. The family legend is that he got eaten by Fenrir and dad wanted to turn my favorite bedtime story into a book,” he explained and Fritjof’s eyes lit up as he flipped open an old leather ledger.
“Oh! Well that’s exciting! Welcome back to Norway, Herr Berg! We’re used to folks laughing at us when we tell them to beware of the woods and stay indoors at night,” he said and turned the ledger and passed Stellan a pen so he could sign it.
“Thanks. It’s always been a dream to visit. I wish dad could have lived to come with me. He’d love this,” he said and Fritjof hummed sympathetically.
“I’m sure he’s here with you but I’m very sorry for your loss. Do you have any other family from Norway still in the area?” He asked but Stellan shook his head.
“I’m afraid I’m it. My grandparents and mom passed away when I was a kid and my dad was an only child. I’m used to being a loner so this shouldn’t be too tough to get used to,” he teased with a vague wave.
“Well, you’re one of us now,” Fritjof declared as he came around the counter. “I try to keep the basics stocked,” he said as he gestured at the shelves that lined the walls. “But you let me know if there’s anything I’m missing and I’ll have it here within a week!” He boasted and Stellan widened his eyes.
“Really!” He said excitedly and wondered if he’d found a corner of the world Amazon hadn’t yet corrupted. He’d been warned that he’d need to bring his own internet because Jötunndal didn’t have WiFi. “Oh!” Stellan reached into his coat and found the letter for Ted. It had been a few days since Stellan had last checked in. “Can I mail this? Have to make sure my friend knows I made it safely!”
“Certainly! I’ll have Gustav run it over to Sæbø this afternoon. And I can tell you all you need to know about Old Fenrir if you’d like,” Fritjof said and put his arm around Stellan as he led him back to the door so they could gather his things. Stellan nodded quickly and was even more excited.
“That would be amazing! I’ve been studying all the Old Norse legends and thePoetic Eddafor my thesis but it would be great to have a local perspective that’s practically firsthand!”
“I’m about as close to firsthand as you’re going to get,” Fritjof bragged as he easily hefted Stellan’s duffle bags onto each shoulder. They were from a military surplus store and stuffed with all of Stellan’s books and winter clothes but Fritjof handled them like they were as light as air. He pushed the door open and let Stellan go first then followed him out. “You’re right over here, next-door, so I’m just a shout away if you need anything,” Fritjof said and turned to take the stairs at the end of the long porch. The single-room cottage was stained a cheerful shade of red and there were white lace curtains in the windows. “I’m afraid we don’t have any keys here because we’ve never locked our doors but you’ve got a sliding lock for your comfort,” Fritjof explained as he let Stellan into the little cabin.
“I don’t mind. It’s kind of like camping,” he said but the inside of the cottage was clean and inviting. There was a double bed, a bathtub and a toilet in the loft. Downstairs, Stellan had a small kitchen, a desk and a gorgeous view of the dock and the shimmering inlet on one side and the mountain on the other. “This is absolutely perfect,” he whispered and let his backpack slowly slide off so he wouldn’t hurt his laptop. “I wanted to get away and immerse myself in my work and I couldn’t ask for a better retreat,” he said distractedly. Stellan went to the window over the sink and stretched to get a better look at the woods. “So, that’s Fenrir’s forest?” He whispered then jumped when he felt a breath against his ear.
“That’s the great wolf’s woods,” Fritjof said as he peered over Stellan’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you tonight,” he said and gave Stellan a friendly nudge. “I brew my own ale and middag is at 4 p.m. but we can make a night of it and I’ll tell you everything at kveldsmat!” He said, further enchanting Stellan. His father raised him around the American meal schedule but Stellan was aware of the Norwegian tradition of having an earlier dinner and then a later dinner that was more like a breakfast late at night. “You’re welcome to help yourself to anything in the garden and I have groceries for purchase next door. But family-style meals are included with your cottage and are served by the garden, as long as the weather is mild, or at my place,” he continued and Stellan was relieved.
“I’m great at foraging but I’m not a very good cook, I’m afraid. Always had my nose in a book and lived off of whatever I could find because dad worked a lot,” he said and Fritjof made a knowing sound.
