9
place and space frequently found in the study
of religions. For Mircea Eliade, whose works
have become classics of the discipline in spite of
their notoriously crypto-theological tendencies,
sacred space was a space in which ‘the sacred’
had revealed itself in an act of theophany,
investing the place of this self-revelation with
immense significance and turning it into a
sacred centre from which everything around it
took its meaning and orientation (Eliade 1998:
21–60). If one takes such an approach,
virtually nothing can be more significant than
place.
1
More recently, Jürgen Mohn (2007)
abandons Eliade’s quasi-mystic emphasis on
‘the sacred’, but still approaches sacred space
as a central source of orientation: place
continues to be analysed under a perspective
which primarily sees it as a medium of deep
existential importance.
A Tale from the Shores of Seyðisfjörður
Fjord
None of this is wrong: all of human life is set
in places and ‘landscapes’, and the interaction
between these settings of human life and
human life itself is of obvious import. Yet if
one leaves the library and, on a bright late
summer’s day, takes a stroll along the north
coast of the Seyðisfjörður fjord in eastern
Iceland, life might easily seem too pleasant to
ponder deep thoughts of desire, meaning,
ethics, and orientation. There is just too much
there to occupy the idle wanderer with much
lighter thoughts. Picturesque cast-concrete
ruins offer sheltered space to do some not-
really-rough camping; the mountains could
have been painted by W.G. Collingwood (and
some of them, in fact, have been); and the sky
and the sea compete with each other to be the
most blue (unless a cloud passes and turns the
competition into one of shades of grey). Even
the saga-traveller and historian of religions
will not be disappointed, as the north coast of
the Seyðisfjörður fjord was the site of a church
of literary fame. About a third of the way along
the fjord’s northern shore lies the farmstead
Dvergasteinn. Formerly, Dvergasteinn was the
site of the local church and the seat of the priest
serving it. In the mid-19
th
century, the great
collector of Icelandic folktales, Jón Árnason,
included a short story about this place among
his ‘church tales’ (
kirkjusögur). According to
this tale, the church had
once stood to the west
or south of the fjord; this had been so long ago,
however, that nobody remembered what the
place where it had stood had been called. At
that time, there was a big boulder next to the
church. People believed that this boulder was
inhabited by dwarfs; hence it was called
Dvergasteinn [‘Dwarf-Stone’]. But as time
went by, people came to think that the location
of the church was really rather inconvenient,
and decided to move it to the northern side of
the fjord to the place where it was still standing
when Jón recorded his tale. Yet while the
parishioners were engaged in erecting the
church
in its new location,
suddenly they were
astonished to see a house sailing across the
fjord to the very place in which they were
building the new church. This house continued
on its way until it hit firm ground and lodged
itself on the foreshore: this was the big boulder
which had been standing next to the church in
its old location and that had always been
thought to be inhabited by dwarfs, but which
of course had not been taken along when the
church building was moved. So now people
knew that the dwarfs had not liked being far
from the church, and had therefore relocated
their house-stone. Jón’s account concludes by
stating that the vicarage was given the name
‘Dwarf-Stone’ to memorialise the dwarfs’
piety.
2
Place and Story
Jón Árnason published this little tale in 1864.
Since then, the church has been moved (again)
and now stands close to the harbour in the town
of Seyðisfjörður. Yet while the church is gone,
the stone is still where it used to be (Figures 1–
3). It is a grey boulder as tall as a man that faces
the water of the fjord with a ‘facade’ which
strikingly recalls the facade of a house: it has
the exact triangular shape of a house’s gables,
and is nearly plumb-vertical. Furthermore, it
also catches the eye because of the unusual
erosion patterns which the salty sea water has
eaten into the rock: the Dwarf-Stone’s ‘facade’
has dissolved into an
almost organic pattern of
vertical bowls separated by narrow, cardboard-
thin ridges; its whole structure is suggestive
more of soap bubbles than of solid stone. What
is more – and this may be very important – the
Dwarf-Stone seems to be the only isolated