Told in the old tongue of Trollgur Drek, who still remembers the song…
Let us read the story for you:
Now listen well, young pebble-brain, an’ I’ll tell ye a tale truer than thunder and twice as loud. A tale from before yer grandpappy’s bones were dust, when the gods still stomped across Midgard and the land breathed with magic thick as goat cheese. Aye, this be the tale of Earl Steinar the Proud, and the Nøkken who waits beneath still waters.
Part the First: The Boast of the Earl
Long ago, in the days when men still feared the deep woods and their own shadows, there lived a human earl named Steinar. A puffed-up sausage of a man, full of gold and glory, and not a lick of sense to weigh it down. He ruled a cold, sharp valley where the snow whispered at night and the wolves knew not to howl.
Now, Steinar had a hunger. Not for meat, mind ye—though he could empty a whole elk’s ribcage on his own—but for songs. Aye, he fancied himself a collector of voices. He had the harp of a dead skald from Jotunheim, the whistle of a drowned sailor from the eastern fjords, and even the laughter of a captured Huldra, bottled and sealed with runes. (Foolish thing, that. Huldra laughter curdles milk and curses pigs.)
But there was one voice he lacked, one tune he craved like a bear craves berries before a long sleep: the song of the Nøkken.
Part the Second: The Lake of Silken Death
Deep in the forest beyond the ridge of Bjarn’s Tooth (aye, I’ve cracked me toe on it once), there lies a lake as black as a raven’s eye. No name on maps, no path worn by boots. Only the trees know it, and they don’t like to talk. That lake, friend, is where the Nøkken lives. A water spirit, shaped like a man but smooth as eel-skin, with eyes like wet glass and a song that can steal your soul right out your ear.
Now, the Nøkken don’t sing for sport. Oh no. He sings to lure. To drag ye under with a smile so sweet it’d make a mountain melt. Many a fool has followed that tune, thinking they chase beauty, only to find a cold grave and lungs full of regret.
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But Earl Steinar, with all his pride stacked high like goat droppings in spring, said to his court:
“I shall bring back the song of the Nøkken! I will make him sing for me!”
The court gasped. The ravens left. Even the jester farted nervously.
Part the Third: Fool’s Errand
The Earl set off with a dozen men—each braver than senseful. They carried silver instruments, binding ropes made of woman’s hair (old magic, that), and a mirror of polished moonstone, said to trap any reflection that stared too long.
They reached the lake at dusk, when the light bleeds slow and shadows start creeping like gossip. No birds. No frogs. Just the breath of water and the trees holding theirs.
Then… a ripple. A sigh. And music. Not music like yer minstrel-boy playing a lute with chicken fingers—real music. Low, sweet, and sad enough to make a troll tear up (not me, of course… just got dirt in me eye).
The Earl stepped forward, enchanted. The men tried to hold him back, but the song wound through his ears like a snake in heat. He walked into the lake—boots, belt, and all—until only his head remained.
Then, out he came. Or what was left.
A figure rose from the black water, wearing Steinar’s face, but the eyes… oh-ho-ho… they were glassy and wrong. Like a mirror cracked on the inside.
The men screamed, and the forest screamed with them. Most ran. A few were dragged under. One tried to kiss a tree. Madness. The Nøkken’s gift.
The Earl’s body washed up three days later, smiling.
Part the Fourth: The Troll Who Watched
Now, ye may ask—“But Trollgur! How d’you know all this?”
Ah, ye thick-skulled mushroom, because I watched it happen! I was napping on a rock not far from the lake (nice spot, good lichen), and woke up to the sound of that cursed song. Even I had to stuff moss in me ears to stop me feet from wanderin’. I’ve known the Nøkken since he was but a slippery tadpole with a tune, and I’ll tell ye true—he sings only for the desperate and the vain.
Earl Steinar? Oh, he was both, wrapped in gold and stupidity. Wanted a song he couldn’t keep. That’s the thing, ye see—some voices ain’t meant to be bottled. Some songs belong to the wild.
And some waters… sing back.
Trollgur’s Final Grumble
So what’s the point o’ this tale, ye wide-eyed whelp?
Don’t go messin’ with old magic, that’s what. Don’t go chasin’ songs in still lakes, don’t bottle laughter, and for the love of Thor’s sweaty armpits, never trust anything that smiles without blinking.
We trolls—we know. We’ve watched ye humans dance too close to cliffs, chase shiny things, poke sleeping beasts, and drink from wells with teeth. You’re like curious goats with swords.
But that’s fine. Keep doing it.
Gives me stories to tell.
And moss to laugh in.
Now off with ye. Trollgur’s tired and the moon’s fat tonight. Maybe I’ll sing a song of me own… one that ends with stew.
Speaking of famous earls in folklore, you might be interested in learning more about them through this Wikipedia article on Earls. Additionally, intrigued by the story of the Nøkken? Discover more about this mythical creature in this insightful Wikipedia article on the Nøkken. Trolls have also piqued your curiosity, you can explore more about these fascinating creatures on Troll’s Wikipedia page. And if you’re keen to understand the rich history of Norse Mythology like the one from Midgard, delve into it here in this Wikipedia article.
