Answer: the ljúflingar, lovers of mortal women from among the hidden folk population.
Or at least that’s what people were saying.
Apparently, these sensitive men - ljúflingur means “a gentle man”, not to be confused with “a gentleman” - not only made love to the mortal women and got them pregnant, but were also there in the sel to assist during the child’s delivery. Still, it was a doomed kind of love, what with the man being hidden and everything, so the woman generally returned to the farm with the child and carried on with her life. However, the ljúflingur (according to the stories) would be unable to forget his mortal woman from the sel, and typically returned many years later, hoping to revive the romance, by which time the child was grown and the sel woman married. This, however, tended to end badly for the ljúflingur, as he would generally wind up dying in the process.
(And you thought trashy Harlequin romances were invented in the 20th century? Ha, NO.)
In some stories, however, the hidden man would take the child with him and raise it in the hidden world. In still others, the child was born in the sel and left outside to die, resulting in the sel becoming haunted.
In our day and age, it is easy to dismiss those stories as fantasies conjured up by women who craved love, tenderness and romance in a world starkly devoid of all those. But it might be more sinister than that. I think we can safely rule out the involvement of supernatural beings, since, as we know, hidden people don’t exist and therefore do not go around knocking up women. We can therefore assume that these women became pregnant through their entanglements with some very real mortals - gentle or not. They might have been outlaws who lived in the mountains, or men from nearby farms. Wherever they came from, and whatever their involvement (rape is one possible scenario), we know that there were harsh punishments doled out for having children out of wedlock. It is highly probable, therefore, that tales of the gentle lovers from the hidden world were made up to avoid punishment in the very real physical one.
Incidentally, the word “ljúflingur” is still very much a part of the Icelandic lexicon, but these days it is used to describe (mortal) men who are kind, gentle, and liked by most people.
17 Spring
After being cooped up in their turf houses all winter in the dark, it is easy to imagine the sense of longing that the Icelanders must have felt for spring and summer.
Back then the year was divided into only two seasons: summer and winter. That was according to the old Icelandic calendar, which is still observed today, though in a less official capacity than before. The First Day of Summer fell - and still falls - on the last Thursday in April each year. Back then it was a festive day of celebration - and as a testament to its importance it is still a public holiday today. There was a superstition attached to it (quelle surprise), which held that if winter and summer “froze together” - that is, if there was frost during the night between those two days - then the summer would be good. This belief is still very much a part of the day’s festivities, although today it is certainly more for amusement than scientific observation - kind of like the groundhog seeing its shadow in North America.
Some years, summer (otherwise known as “spring”) was a long time coming, with the weather staying cold well into the season that today we do think of as summer. Sometimes the pack ice, which the Icelanders refer to as landsins forni fjandi - “the country’s ancient enemy”, would drift precariously close to shore. This was Bad, not only because it made fishing impossible and occasionally brought polar bears from the Arctic, but also because when the wind blew across it, it caused the air to cool drastically. This had some pretty serious consequences, like that the grass in the fields wouldn’t grow. Consequently the haymaking would be severely impacted, which obviously was disastrous because what were the animals going to eat all winter?
A major concern for farmers at this time of year was getting their animals out of sheds and into the fields for grazing, since by then the hay from the previous summer was inevitably almost all gone. And yet this had to be carefully timed because if the animals were put out too soon they could perish if an unexpected blizzard blew in - which could easily happen, what with Iceland’s capricious weather conditions at that (and any) time of year.
The main chore during the spring season was to work the big pile of manure that had been shovelled out of the shed during the winter. Manure, of course, was far more than just a pile of poop to the Icelanders of old. One, it was a fertiliser for the fields, and two, it largely replaced firewood, which was virtually nonexistent for centuries, as we know. When the Icelanders burned manure in the hearth they tended to hang meat above it for preservation. This resulted in smoked meat (obviously), and this taðreykt - “manure smoked” - meat is considered a delicacy today, as it was then. Come Christmas, when Icelanders traditionally like to eat smoked lamb, taðreykt is what you want to look for, because it is the best.
18 Making hay
With spring tasks out of the way, the Icelanders geared up for the biggest job of the year: the haymaking. In fact this job was so big that an entire month in the old Icelandic calendar was named after it: Heyannir, literally “hay busy-ness”.
The haymaking officially began at the end of July, when the blowballs had formed on the dandelions. This work was executed in systematic fashion: 1) the men went ahead and cut the grass with a scythe, 2) the women and children followed, raking the cut grass into neat rows.
Apparently the pinnacle of humiliation for the menfolk was if the women or children caught up to them. Naturally, then, the men busted their butts to make sure they were well in front. If the women managed to catch up to them it was either called að raka þá upp að rassi, “raking them up to their asses”, or að gelda þá, “to castrate them”. Whoa. Not hard to imagine how much male pride hinged on this, then. In some instances the men were even known to grab the women’s rakes and snap them in two - particularly if the women were making fun of them, which apparently was part of the game.
After being raked into rows, the grass was turned over and then over again to dry, while everyone begged and prayed that it wouldn’t rain. When it was dry (and “grass” had turned into “hay”) it was bundled up in bales that were put on horses and transported back to the farms. A hundred bales transported was considered a decent day’s work.
A major challenge in this whole haymaking business was stashing the hay so that it would stay dry and thus fit for animal consumption. Proper barns for storing were a major luxury, and very few farms had them. And boy, how easily that hay could turn bad - like if it became wet it could wind up toxic, and if toxic hay was fed to the animals they’d die. Similarly, the hay could become toxic if a dead mouse or other small animal got inside and started to rot.
On the other hand, if the stack of hay became too hot in the middle it could self-ignite. Obviously that had to be prevented. One way to do so (or so people believed) was to place the head of a dead horse in the middle of the stack of hay. How this would not poison the hay while a dead mouse would poison the hay is a leap in logic of which I am simply not capable. The last time I checked, the head of a horse qualified as a dead animal.
Given that the haymaking was such a crucial task, it was imperative to get it done as quickly and efficiently as possible. This is where the aforementioned freelancers came in. They hired themselves out during the haymaking season, and could apparently make some excellent dosh doing so. But only if they were male. The glass ceiling was very much alive and well in the Iceland of old, and women earned a paltry one-third of what the men earned. (No wonder the menfolk became so humiliated if the women caught up to them.) And there was no slacking off when it came to the work. Folks pulled eighteen-hour days, quitting at 11 pm and getting up at 4 am. Wimps need not apply.
19 And of course, those ubiquitous superstitions
So haymaking was immensely important, and its success hinged on a number of things beyond human control. We know what that meant, right? Yep: breeding ground for s
uperstition.
For instance, haymaking could never begin on a Monday. If you wanted a good crop you had to begin on a Friday or Saturday. As far as I know there was no sound logic to this, but I have heard the following explanation proposed: haymaking could not begin on a Monday because the work was so physically taxing that after the first day or two people were barely able to move. Hence a Friday beginning was auspicious - that way people worked Friday and Saturday, had Sunday off to rest, and could return with a vengeance on Monday. (Having of course spent Sunday resting their weary bones on those oh-so comfortable wooden church pews.)
Also, haymaking should begin under a waxing moon. That way the hay would last longer. (For that I have no explanation whatsoever and can’t even speculate.)
Another superstition concerned the so-called álagablettir, literally “spell spots”, areas that allegedly had some kind of spell on them and which you should absolutely, definitively, never ever mow. If you did, something really bad would happen, like the farmhouse would catch on fire, the best dairy cow would die, or you would be forced to eat only putrid shark for the rest of your life (not really). Bizarrely, sometimes those spell spots were right smack in the middle of a field, and would have the most juicy, verdant grass on them - but heaven forbid that you should touch it. Sometimes they had some connection to the hidden folk, like being on top of hillocks inside which hidden people were believed to be living. Sometimes they were on top of an ancient burial place of some chieftain or other, who would surely rise from the dead and slaughter your whole family if you mowed the grass on his grave.
Lastly (but not exhaustively, for there are lots more that we don’t have time for here), it was a big no-no to take the last armful of hay with you when you were done. It had to be left behind. Either that, or burned. The reason was simple: you had to show God (or whatever powers were up there watching, and judging) that you weren’t greedy. That you wouldn’t take everything. That you were humble and gracious enough to leave a little behind.
20 Kiddie workers
Back in the day, everyone had to work, and work hard. Men, women ... and children, from about the age of five.
In the winter, the children did whatever was within their capacity - working the wool, tending to animals, emptying the chamberpots, or whatever. My grandmother, for example, used to tell us about being sent outside in bitter cold and frost at the age of seven to clean the household spittoons in a nearby brook. Her family had been dissolved when her father drowned (that’s what normally happened when the man of the house died) and my grandmother was in foster care. More on that later.
As I mentioned earlier, children were often put to work watching over the sheep in the mountain pastures in the summer. They were usually about seven or eight years old when this started, and sometimes even younger. It is hard to imagine today, sending such a small child out alone to spend entire nights (yes) on the edge of the highlands, those dreaded places that everyone feared, as they were believed to be haunted by ghosts and evil apparitions. To say nothing of the outlaws that lived there, who had usually committed some heinous crime or other and had been banished from society as a result.
All this struck terror in the hearts of children, as you can likely imagine. All winter long during the kvöldvökur (plural of kvöldvaka) they had listened to stories of ghosts and outlaws, and even though the summer nights were bright, they were only really bright in the days around the summer solstice. Otherwise there was always dusk in the middle of the night, and such twilight hours could easily strike immense fear in the hearts of the little kiddies, of what might lie in the shadows.
Exacerbating this was the fact that the demands made on children were incredibly harsh. If they performed badly, they were often severely reprimanded. And by “performed badly” I mean that they might doze off so that the sheep would wander away, or fall prey to predators like foxes, or even hawks. “Losing” an animal like that often resulted in cruel physical punishment for the child.
All that said, watching over the sheep was not something that all children dreaded. In some instances the demands on the youngsters were not so severe. They were not always made to spend entire nights in the mountain pastures, for instance. Sometimes they only had to stay there during the day, and then they often enjoyed being on their own, letting their imaginations run wild in their own little world, playing with the lambs, or whatever struck their fancy. Indeed, it was often far preferable to being under the watchful eyes of the adults back at the farm, who more often than not had some chore or other for them to perform.
21 Whipped into love
Speaking of punishment, when the children in the Iceland of old were reprimanded, it could be pretty horrific.
Íslenzkir þjóðhættir describes the treatment of children in no uncertain terms, claiming that the work ethic imposed on them was so extreme that many of them never reached a full level of maturity. They had become physically disabled before they even reached adulthood. Discipline was merciless, and no allowance was made for any shortcomings. When the children failed to measure up they were slapped on the face so hard that they bled. They were also whipped daily with brushwood. “This made the children obstinate and cold, cultivated in them stubbornness and deceit, and ruined their minds,” writes the book’s author Jónas Jónasson. He should know, having been both a minister of the church and a teacher.
Perverse as it may seem, this abuse did not spring from hatred, but from love. Clearly bereft of psychological insight, folks believed that this harsh treatment of children was the best way to make them into strong adults. As a rule, people were made to believe that God was a merciless tyrant and that committing any sin would bring on the full weight of His condemnation, thus propelling them into hell and damnation for eternity. This “fear of God” was designed to frighten people out of committing sin.
(Incidentally, I’m pretty sure this way of thinking was not confined to Iceland, but was common practice in Europe and elsewhere.)
Similarly, children were supposed to be frightened out of their mischief and bad behaviour. “Children should be whipped into love” was a common idiom of the time. The church preached that people should “kiss the rod” of the Lord - meaning the rod with which they were whipped. Thus children were often made to literally kiss the wand of brushwood after they had been whipped with it.
There was in this a brief respite, in that beatings stopped during Lent. But it was short-lived, since punishment for all the “sins” committed during that period was saved up for Good Friday, when “payment” was due. In that way children were literally and quite intentionally made to mirror the plight of Christ.
Such beatings were especially common among children who were dependents of the district - the so-called niðursetningar, who had been fostered out. They suffered a multitude of abuse. Also, in families where there were many children, some of them held favour with their parents, while others did not. The ones that did not were called olnbogabörn - literally “elbow children”. (Why this term I don’t know.) Finally, stepchildren were commonly mistreated ... which shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who has ever read a fairy tale.
22 The farmers who rowed
But let us move on to something else entirely: the Icelanders’ longstanding relationship with the sea.
The Book of Settlements tells the story of Hrafna Flóki, one of the original settlers, who arrived in Iceland at Barðaströnd, on the West Fjords. At that time the sea was teeming with fish, and old Flóki went hog wild, shovelling seafood into his nets like there was no tomorrow.
This kept him so busy, in fact, that he completely forgot about tomorrow - that is, the vital task of harvesting hay for his animals so they wouldn’t starve to death in the winter. Or maybe he thought he’d reached the land of eternal sunshine and verdant fields - after all, the place was covered in forest back then, or so we’ve been led to believe.
In any case, he failed to make the necessary arrangements to keep his livestock alive, so soon afterwar
d he moved on, undoubtedly cursing the Land of Ice profusely until the end of his days.
Now, given the amazing bounty of the sea, it seems a little odd that fishing didn’t catch on properly in Iceland until several centuries after Flóki had made his grumbling exit. Perhaps his story was such a shocking lesson to posterity that people didn’t even try to follow his example, or perhaps it was because they knew that the sea is a treacherous place and the waters around Iceland are especially dangerous and unpredictable.
Whatever the cause, Iceland remained primarily an agricultural society for a very long time, or until farmers finally came to the realisation that they could supplement their income very handsomely by fishing.
But this lucrative activity was soon subject to stringent laws and regulations. Not just anyone could hop in a boat and go out fishing (much like today, though for a different reason). If you wanted to fish legitimately you had to be in possession of land, and that land had to border the sea.
So not all farmers qualified, but those who did soon began to set up little fishing stations next to the seashore. If these were near the farm, they were called heimaver, or “home station”. If they were far away, they were called útver, or “out station” - essentially camps for people who couldn’t go home in the evenings because of the distance.
Initially, these out stations were really unpleasant. They consisted of ramshackle structures where the fishermen slept in makeshift beds, among their fishing gear and clothing. But as people spent more time there and realised how important these places were to their livelihoods, the shacks began to improve. They became more like dorms. People who provided support services began to move in, like women who prepared the fishermen’s food, washed their clothes, and suchlike. Thus the útver morphed into something called votbúðir, or “wet camps”.
The Little Book of the Icelanders in the Old Days Page 4