Their father and mother made search for them in vain, for the girls kept hiding themselves; they had grown to be true mountain dwellers, keeping far from the places of men. Only the reindeer hunters saw them now and again, but the girls always refused to go back to their kin.

And when at last the time came when they must die of hunger, they turned into evil spirits, and became thunder.

When they shake their dried boot skin, then the gales come up, the south-westerly gales. And great fire is seen in the heavens whenever they strike their fire stone, and the rain pours down whenever they shed tears.

Their father held many spirit callings, hoping to make them return. But this he ceased to do when he found that they were dead.

But men say that after those girls had become spirits, they returned to the places of men, frightening many to death. They came first of all to their father and mother, because of the trouble they had made. The only one they did not kill was a woman bearing a child on her back. And they let her live, that she might tell how terrible they were. And tales are now told of how terrible they were.

When the thunder spirits come, even the earth itself is stricken with terror. And stones, even those which lie on level ground, and not on any slope at all, roll in fear towards men.

Thus the thunder comes with the south-westerly gales; there is a noise and crackling in the air, as of dry skins shaken, and the sky glows from time to time with the fire from their firestone. Great rocks, and everything which stands up high in the air, begin to glow.

When this happens, men use to take out a red dog, and cut its ear until the blood comes, and then lead the beast round about the house, letting the blood drip everywhere, for then the house will not take fire.

A red dog was the only thing they feared, those girls who were turned to thunder.

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The many brothers went out after him, but when they had nearly come up with him, he made his steps longer, and thus got farther and farther away from them, and at last they ceased to pursue him any more.

On his way he came to a house, and this was just as it was beginning to get light. He looked in, and saw that the hangings on the walls were of nothing but reindeer and foxes’ skins. And now he said to himself: “Hum — I may as well go in.”

But as he went in, the hinge of the door creaked, and then a strange, deep sound was heard inside the house, and it began to shake.

At the same moment, the master of the house came in and said: “Have you had nothing to eat yet?”

Makite said: “I will eat nothing until I know what are those things which look like candles, there in front of the window.”

Then the lone-dweller said: “That is no concern of one who is not himself a lone-dweller. Therefore he cannot tell you.”

But then Makite said: “If you do not tell me, I will kill you.”

And then at last he told.

“It may be you have seen today the great hills away in the blue to the south; if you go up to the top of the nearer hill, you will find nothing there, but he who climbs that one which lies farther away, and reaches the top, he will find such things there. But this cannot be done by one who is not a lone-dweller.”

And not until he had said all this did Makite eat.

Then they both went to rest. And just as he was near falling asleep, the lone-dweller began to quiver slightly, but he pretended to sleep. And before Makite could see what he was about, the lone-dweller had strung his bow, and Makite, therefore, seeing he was preparing to kill him, pretended to wake up, and then the other laid aside his bow so quickly that it seemed as if he had not held anything at all. At last, when it was nearly dawn, the lone-dweller fell asleep, and then Makite tried very cautiously to get out, but as he was about to pass through the doorway, he again happened to draw the door to after him, and again it creaked as before with a strange sound. When he looked in through the window, the lone-dweller was about to get up.

Now Makite had laid his great spear a little way above the house, and he ran to the place. When he looked round, he saw that the man from the house was already in chase. Then he came to a big rock, and as there was no help for it, he commenced to run round. When he had run round it for the third time, he grasped his harpoon firmly, and without turning round, thrust it out behind him, and struck something soft. He had struck the other in the side.

Having now killed this one, and as there was no help for it, he wandered on at hazard, and came to a great plain. And in the middle of the plain was something which looked like a house. And he went up to it and found it was the house of a dwarf, and no end of people coming out of it. One went in and another came out, and so they kept on. He tried to get into the passage, but could not even get his foot in.

Then he heard someone inside saying: “Heave up the passage way a little with your back, and then come in.”

When he came in, it was a big place, and the old creature spoke to him, and said: “When you go out, look towards the west; the inland-dwellers are coming.”

And when Makite went out, he looked towards the west, and there he saw a great black thing approaching, and when he then came in again, the old man went to the window and called out: “Here they are; they are close up now.”

And then the dwarfs went out to fight, and took up their posts on the plain, one party opposite the other, and none said a word.

But suddenly the dog that was with the inland folk gave a great bark, and there came a mighty wave of water, rolling right up to the dwarfs.

But when it had come quite close to them, it suddenly grew quite small. And then the dwarfs’ dog gave a bark. And at the same time the dwarfs’ wave arose, and washed right up over the inland folk, and drowned them, and only few of them escaped alive.

When they came home again, Makite built himself a house, and from the high hill fetched some of those things which looked like candles, and hung them up in his house. And he lived there in his house until he died.

And here ends this story.

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“I was hunting a little fjord seal which I cannot hit,” he said.

“Let me try,” said the other. And so they waited until it came up to breathe. Hardly had it come up, when the harpoons went flying towards it, and entered in between its shoulder-blades.

“Ai, ai — what a throw!” cried the dwarf in astonishment. And the man took the seal and made a tow-line fast.

Then the two kayaks set off together in towards land.

“Hum — hum. Wouldn’t care to… come and visit us?” said the dwarf suddenly. [The story-teller speaks the dwarf’s part throughout in a hurried and jerky manner, to illustrate the little man’s shyness.]

But this the man would gladly do.

“Hum — hum. I’ve a wife… and a daughter… very beautiful daughter… hum — hum. Many men wanted her… wouldn’t have them… can’t take her by force… very strong. Thought of taking her to wife myself… hum — hum. But she is too strong for me… own daughter.”

They rowed on a while, and then the little one spoke again.

“Hum — hum. Might perhaps do for you… you could manage her… what?”

“Let us first see her,” said the man. And now they rowed into a great deep fjord.

When they came to the place, they landed and went up at once to the house of the little old man. And those in the house did all they could that the stranger might be well pleased. When they had been sitting there a while, the old man said: “Hum — hum… our guest has made a catch… he comes to us bringing game.”

Now it was easy to see that they would gladly have tasted the flesh of that little seal. And so the guest said: “If you care to cook that meat, then set to work and cut it up as soon as you please. Cut it up and give to those who wish to eat of it.”

The little old man was delighted at this, and sent out his two women-folk to cut up that seal. But they stayed away a long while, and no one came in with any meat. So the little old man went out to look for them.

And there stood the two women, hauling at the little fjord seal, which they could not manage to drag up from the shore. They could not even manage it with the old man’s help. They hauled away, all three of them, bending their bodies to the ground in their efforts, but the seal would not move. Then at last the stranger came out, and he took that seal by the flipper with one hand, and carried it up that way.

“What strength, what strength! The man is a giant indeed,” cried the little folk. And they fell to work cutting up the seal, but to them it seemed as if they were cutting up a huge walrus, so hard did they find it to cut up that little seal.

And people came hurrying down from the houses up above, and all wished to share. The women of the house then shared out that seal. Each of the guests was given a little breastbone and no more, but this to them was a very great piece of meat. When they held such a piece in their hands, it reached to the ground, and their hands and clothes were covered with fat.

Inside on the bench sat an old hag who now began trying to make herself agreeable to the guest. She squeezed up close to him and kept on talking to him, and looking at him kindly. She was old and ugly, and the man would have nothing to do with her. Suddenly he gave a loud whistle.

“Ugh — ugh!” cried the old hag in a fright, and fell down from the bench. Then she stumbled down into the passage way, and disappeared.

And now after they had feasted on the seal meat, those from the houses up above cried out: “Let the guest now come up here; we have foxes’ liver to eat!”

And as he did not come at once, they cried again. And then he went up. The house was full of people, all busy eating foxes’ liver.

“It is very hard to cut,” said the dwarfs. “It is dried.”

And the dwarfs worked away as hard as they could, but could not cut it through. But the guest took and munched and crunched as if it had been fresh meat.

“Ai, ai — see how he can eat,” cried some.

But all those in the house were very kind to him, and would gladly have seen him married into their family. And the young women had dressed their hair daintily with mussel shells, that the guest might think them the finer. But he cared for none of them, for the little old man’s daughter was the most beautiful.

And therefore he went down to that house again when it was time to go to rest. And he said he would have her to wife.

And so they lived happily together, and soon they had a child.

And now the man began to long for his own place and kin. He thought more and more of his old mother, who was still alive when he started off.

And so one day he said he was going to visit his home.

“We will all go with you,” said the little old man; “we will visit your kinsfolk.”

And so they made ready for the journey, and set out.

Now when they came to the place of real people, all these were greatly astonished to find their old comrade still alive. For they had thought him dead long since.

And the dwarf people lived happily enough among the real men, and after a little time they forgot to be troubled and afraid.

But one day when the little dwarf grandmother was sitting at the opening of the passage way with the little child, she dropped the child in the passage.

“Hlurp — hlurp — hlurp,” was all she heard. A great dog, his face black on one side and white on the other, lay there in the passage, and it ate up the child on the spot. “Ai — ai,” she cried. “Nothing is left but a little smear on the ground.”

And now the dwarf folk were filled with horror, and the little old man was for setting off at once. So they gathered their belongings together and set out.

And whenever they came to a village, they went up on shore, and the old man always went up with his tent-skins on his back.

“Are there any dogs here? Is there a great beast with a black-and-white face?” was always the first thing he asked.

“Yes, indeed.” And before they could turn round, the old man was back in his boat again, so great was his fear of dogs.

And at last the skin was worn quite away from his forehead with carrying of tent-skins up on to the shore in vain. [A heavy burden carried on the back is supported by a strap or thong passing over the forehead.]

One day they were lying-to, when a wind began to blow from the north.

“Are there dogs here?” asked the old man, and groaned, for his forehead was flayed and smarting, so often had he borne those tent-skins up and down. But before any could answer, he heard the barking of the dogs themselves. And in a moment he was back in his boat again.

The wind had grown stronger. The seas were frothing white, and the foam was scattered about.

Then the old dwarf stood up in his boat and cried:

“The sky is clearing to the east with crested clouds.”

Now this was a magic song, and as soon as he had sung it, the sea was calm and bright once more.

Then the old man went on again. So great was the power of his magic words that he could calm the sea. But for all that he had no peace, by reason of the dogs.

And he went on his way again, but whither he came at last I do not know.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page