The Lowland Games
Welcome to another adventure from the Thousand Acre Woods deep within Trollheim of the NJ Pine Belt! Tales chronicled by Jonathan Hulton. That's me. This week I tell the tale of our adventures at the Lowland Games.
I was having brunch in Trollheim with Bjorn's family and Helgi was cooking five quails in her cauldron. Slowly cooking them in a broth so the meat falls off the bones. After we ate, we were going to the Lowland Games.
I know some Scotts would be quick to correct me, but the Nattrolls used to live deep in the mountains of Norway and the name kind of stuck.
Karl was here for breakfast and was told to come back; he wasn't quite happy. One thing you learn quick, do not get between Karl and food. After Angrboða cast him to the moon, he wolfed it down and fell back to Earth. Too bad he was lactose intolerant.
We of Viking descent learned the hard way; what is worse than giving a Lenape whiskey is milk. Leif Erikson's brother's last written words were, 'don't give them milk' as he lay there with an arrow in his chest. Some think he took the feather from the arrow to write it. The natives didn't have any cows then and were all intolerant.
We were all getting hungry, and Helgi went to check on the foul. When she lifted the top, the quail made a dreadful noise and flew away.
We were all in shock. Then Gramps said after looking in the pot, "I wonder where all the spices went?"
Bjorn looked out the window and saw Karl laughing as he ran away from Helgi, who had jumped out the window yelling, "Just let me have one, you got two!" with a cleaver.
Well, brunch was ruined, so we grabbed some apples and left for the games. Angrboða was there already. She had a kissing booth set up. Bjorn wasn't too happy. Imagine if you had a pubescent daughter for five hundred years…She still had a hundred years before he could expect her to get married.
Bjorn's thick skull was infamous for battling the Giberson's Bulls. They were all from Auðumbla's stock after Gramps and Karl took one of Helgi's bulls drinking in Toms River. Today he was going against Dvalinn. Dvalinn butted heads with Thor once and they both slept for nine weeks.
I was going to tell some Piney tales later around the bonfire and play some tunes on my Cherokee courting flute. Unfortunately, it hasn't worked yet for me…
Gramps was going to bet on the ponies. Well, they weren't ponies; they were Belgian draft horses. It's that when a Troll grows to a quarter of his full size, he kinds dwarfs them. It isn't helpful that they drag their feet when they race these ponies, but it is funny. Kind of like watching the Mongols ride in and conquer Europe.
As we followed the Tuckerton Stage Road southwest, we saw one of the Iron Cat's kitten's head pass the summit in Halfmoon Hill's ass crack.
The Iron Cat still lives at the foot of the mountains of Jötunheimr, but some kittens snuck on Viking ships. The Vikings confused them with large Norwegian Forest Cats. Good thing those cats didn't make it to Maine; the coon cats would have kicked the moose out of the state.
Some believe Grafvitner, the dirt wolf, a large worm like dragon, burrowed his way in the middle of the hill making two ass cheeks. Karl still thinks Gramps made it.
As we got closer to Ong's Hat we met up with Helgi, who was carrying something in a small sack on her belt. Karl was nowhere to be seen. Passing through Mount Misericordia, we could feel the vibrations from the Jottun's mouth harp in the distance that were shaking the blueberries and cranberries from their branches as the scarlet oaks dropped their leaves.
Originally, Mrs. White sued them for loss of profits, then later she learned to drop baskets under her plants and saved on labor costs. We saw a vargr wolfing down the berries as we left the outskirts of her bogs. When he heard us, he jumped into the sky to chase the sun. My neighbor thought he had it bad when his dog chased the mail wagon…
At the festival we met up with John Bowker, "Hulton, I thought I saw you an hour ago standing by the fence and when I looked back five minutes ago I saw you walk to the tree line and turn into a bear?"
"It must have been his vardöger or fylgja?" Gramps answered.
"What?" asked John.
"His vardöger," Gramps explained, "is his spirit that goes before him, his reputation, and fylgja is his family's spirit animal. Hulton's family used to be some of the finest berserkers; I think they are related to the Geat Beowulf, but he doesn't have too much of that foul Swedish blood." Nobody in the crowd said much; there were more Finns in New Sweden than Swedes. The Swedes treated New Sweden like Australia for Finns and Nattrolls.
Bjorn left to get ready for 'Battle'! Then we saw Karl betting on the ponies, talking to Olaf. "How can you sell boars so cheap?" Olaf was asking. "I can't even after stealing their slop and paying my Jötnar late, if I even remember…"
"I just steal them from the folk in Chatsworth." Helgi left to check on her daughter at her kissing booth. I followed her with my eyes as I saw Angrboða slam her stall down on top of some young Troll who must have forgotten to pay or slipped some tongue.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Karl and chased after him, but he turned into a fox and escaped through the Pines before she could set off. "His fylgja!" Olaf yelled.
"Karl never shows up first," Gramps explained; "he owes too many bookies. He only comes in afterward to collect his winnings. If he loses, he just scurries back into the woods from the games."
We all got some pork-roll, egg, and cheese with a horn of mead and went to see Bjorn compete with the giant Dvalinn, which was Nobbi's hero.
He was with his harem and his young bucks. I had a bet with him. A bushel of apples if Bjorn won.
Well, his family would promise not to eat at least a bushel from my orchard. If I lost, they got a basket full on top of raiding my trees…as usual.
The Jötnar picked up the pace of the mouth harps as Bjorn faced off against Dvalinn and all went silent before Heimdallr blew his horn. As Bjorn ran, he grew larger than the Kittatinny to meet Dvalinn head on.
If you like this tale, hit the share button below or just even tell your friend the old fashion way, with your mouth. Come back next week for our next tale.
Share
