Bäckahästen

Bäckahästen meaning Brook Horse - Based on a traditional Swedish tale.

The Indalsälven River flowed down from the mountains, cascading over waterfalls, and weaving its sinuous way through the meadows. A white tailed eagle flew low over the fluttering heather, and on to the ancient forests. It hovered over the bristling canopy of elder and ash, before turning its course to the home of the Kingfisher beside the Baltic Sea. Under a dappled sky, a flaxen haired man, his son, and their mule sheltered beneath a willow tree, who trailed its apple green arms languorously in the babbling brook that fed the river. The youth, Fraener, had always fancied the brook’s gurgling tones were unseen voices of lost souls, whose earthly form had melted away like Echo beneath the southern sun. The water here too bore a strange, murky, bottle green hue, unlike the milky white tints of the glacial north.

“These lands lie deep with copper and zinc you know, son. Our forebears mined these lands before sailing forth across the seas. Far beneath the mountain grass and reindeer moss, iron axes struck the earths interior, and revealed her treasures.” The old man’s hoary head downcast as he spoke. “Where has the time gone? For it was on this night, the eve of midsummer, twenty years ago that I met your mother. She wore a circlet of forget me nots and daisies, and we danced, arms entwined beneath the maypole.” Silence fell between them, Fraener watching the olive green waters swirl and rush. An otter raised its head, breaking the old man’s reverie, as it dived once more, and was gone.

“Well, your mother will be pleased with our toil.” He said smiling as he viewed the baskets overflowing with greenery from the forest. Fraener was about to reply, when, out the corner of his eye he saw something stir beneath the water.

“Did you see that father?”

“Pay it no heed. It is just the playful otter.” The old man dismissed him, continuing to tether the wicker baskets to the mule before turning towards the village of Liden.

A stag crossed out of the forest towards the fringes of the meadow. It raised its tawny head, gnarled antlers raised to the sky as it bellowed into falling dusk. Red painted timber houses, bedecked with garlands of golden chestnut and mountain sorrel, began to encroach upon the road. Bonfires burned to ward of dark spirits, and ribbons were coiled around the maypole like a thousand snakes. Carts, barrows and villagers were heavily laden with the first pickled herring, strawberries, and potatoes of the year. Girls crowned with Alpine flowers, danced and skipped, their arms overflowing with plum blossom and lilac wood anemones. Father and son followed the revelry towards Liden’s old church, within whose shadow stood their cottage. Fraener’s mother, Clara helped them unload the mule, and string the garlands from the low pitched roof, around the windows and over the door. They were about to sever the end when the old man exclaimed, “Oh, son, I have left my finest hunting knife beneath the willow. I should be ever so sad if I were to lose it.”

“Worry not father I will go and retrieve it for you.”

“Do not be gone too long, my son, for I have placed alpine flowers beneath your pillow so that you shall dream of your future wife.” Fraener smiled at his mother’s superstitions, departing the village with haste.

The frost veiled mountains glittered in the moonlight, where far below he wandered along the river’s mossy banks, singing: “We go over dew sprinkled mountains which borrow from the emeralds their colour, and sorrows we have none, our merry songs echo as we go over dew sprinkled mountains.” He smiled at the words of the ditty, before a flash of white streaked past him through the trees, and charged into the brook with a colossal splash. The echo reverberated through the forest, and he was about to pursue it when the knife, with its handle of carved horn, glistened in the moonlight. He stooped down, wrapped the blade in his handkerchief, pocketed it and rose. Through the willows shady branches he watched the stars dance upon the placid waters. For a moment the brook had ceased to babble, and as earlier he sensed something stir and break the surface, soft singing reaching his ears.

“…spring breezes weave and whisper, all through the trees, now green, as young lovers be. Streams flow in a hurry…”

A sullen wind meandered through the meads, rustling the reeds on the brook’s sloping banks. A slender crane dipped its violet coloured beak into the glassy water, as a young woman passed by. Her hair was long and golden, water lilies like white stars woven through. She stepped lightly from one stone to the next, singing softly, “…streams flow in a hurry, no rest or worry until their foam meets the sea. Cry out my heart…”

“…Cry out...” Fraener echoed her song, “…and hear the herdsman’s horn now echo, then pale, river sprites playing…” The maiden showed no sign of surprise at his appearance, but he found he could not take his eyes from her.

“Are you heading to the village?” He asked softly as she nodded, her olive green gown, seemingly woven from the brook, rustling in the shadows. She accepted his outstretched arm but did not speak during their journey. How like the brook her green eyes reflect the stars he thought, and how the evening breath teases her curled hair like reeds about her sinuous frame.

Lights blazed from the wooden houses, alive with the hearty drinking songs of the millers and woodcutters. Under the evening sky, young girls danced beneath bowers of trailing azaleas, and around tables laden with strawberries and cloudberries.

“Father, here is your knife. I found it where you left it.” Fraener beamed at the old man, handing over the knife and turning to the maiden, but she was gone.

“Did you see the young woman with whom I entered the village?” His aged parents turned to one another.

“You entered alone son, we saw you.”

“No, I assure you, I accompanied a young woman from the brook.” His words unsettling his mother's thoughts.

“Be careful my son, my first and only born. Upon the eve of midsummer, magic burns brighter, such as gathered herbs are more potent.” He laughed at his mother’s words, popping a cloudberry into his mouth, and turning towards the outskirts of the village. When he reached the fringes of the forest he lingered for a moment, resting his back against the silver bark of a birch tree. A flash of white tore through the trees, as a snow white horse charged past him, reared up, and plunged into the heart of the brook. Fraener tore after it, but stopped short and hid behind a tree, for upon the mossy bank stood the young maiden, a white horse skin at her feet. Crouching down she folded it up and concealed it in the reeds. She proceeded to stretch out her languorous limbs, but his appearance startled her.

“Why do you linger in the shadows?” She fixed her murky green eyes upon him.

“Forgive me.” He stammered, placing a hand upon the trees knotted bark. “I saw a horse…at least, I thought I did.” He questioned himself. Creamy waterlilies unfurled their petals in her wild hair that hung long and loose about her pale face. That face, the melancholy wistfulness that hung about her features was captivating. He stepped forward, but she retreated into the darkness.

“Wait!” He begged, but she was gone.

With a sullen mind he trudged home, the merriment of the village ebbing away into the sapphire sky.

“Son, what has befallen you?” His mother greeted him sternly.

“It is nothing, mother…save…it does not matter.” He retreated to his room, dragged an oaken chair over to the window, and rested his arms upon the sill. He questioned the norns but he received no answer, and there he remained, reddened eyes stained with her image. By morning he had resolved his mind to return to the brook, and discover what had unfolded the previous night.

“Son, please do not leave my sight this day.” His mother met him at the door.

“Please, mama. I must be alone.”

“If that be the case then promise me that you will not go down to the brook.” He turned to her. “Recall the man who ventured into the wilderness and laid down with the wolves.”

He walked away from her, his mind closed to her words, for the madness of desire had taken root in Fraener’s heart, and on he hurried past the wooden dwellings, and down to the forest. Under a bower of sinuous trees, tortured voices rose from the brook, and on whose banks he saw her sleeping. Her head was crowned not with a bridal headdress, but a circlet of nix’s roses. Slowly he approached her, and she awoke, slipping into the water that began to rush and churn frantically around her. As the northern reaches of the land claw at the Arctic wastes, so she extended her hand to him, and dragged him down into the depths of the brook.

Towards the Baltic Sea, the river still flows on, and when summer melts in to autumn, the trees loosen their burnished leaves, and voices are heard in the rushing water. Copper and gold, the leaves fall upon the brook that will forever imprison Fraener's soul.

Images:

Top - The Neck as a White Brook Horse (The nokken (Neck) is a shape-shifting creature that assumed the form of a white brook horse.) - Theodor Kittelsen

Lower: Vasily Alexandrovich Kotarbinsky (Russian,1849-1921)

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