13
never was – and, what is more, consciously so.
As the tale itself says, this former parsonage
was located ‘either to the west or to the south
of the fjord.’ This is virtually a non-statement:
west and south are the two only possible
directions in which the church could have
been, given that it stood to the north of the fjord
in the present when the story was told, and that
to the east there is nothing but the North
Atlantic. Thus, the maximum openness
provided by this localisation ‘to the south or
west’ seems like a tongue-in-cheek way of
both denying and emphasising that, really,
there was no such other location of the church
within living memory. This lack of a memory
of the church’s previous site even appears in a
virtually explicit way when the tale states that
nobody remembers what its former location
might have been called. Memory is absent; a
memory approach, therefore, has little
explanatory power.
Even less explanatory power lies in
approaching the tale as a narrative referring to
questions of morality or as an illustration of
social norms. The moral of the story – if there
is one at all – seems to be that one should live
right next to the parish church. Yet this does
not help in understanding the tale, as in the
widely dispersed settlement patterns of
Iceland, this was not customarily the case and
thus is not a plausible, realistic moral message.
If anything, the lengths to which the dwarfs
went to live next to the church might in such a
social context have seemed a bit silly.
5
Neither,
furthermore, does the tale create meaning and
orientation in the senses postulated by Mircea
Eliade or Jürgen Mohn (see above), let alone
contribute to the sacrality of the land. If there
is any ‘message’, it does not seem to be more
than the provision of an example of ‘stranger
things have happened’, while offering some
sort of explanation for the place name
Dvergasteinn.
So, if we are trying to understand the
relationship
between
landscape
and
storytelling, the case of the Dwarf-Stone might
teach us some humility in our quest for deep,
serious, and profound meanings: these do not
seem to be what this tale is all about. Rather, it
seems to be about the simple pleasure of
storytelling for its own sake, for nothing more
(but also nothing less!) than the fun of it.
Artfully and cleverly,
it takes all the most eye-
catching elements of a micro-landscape and
turns them into a tale which combines them to
form a working (if utterly fantastic) plot;
whoever managed this little feat must have
been immensely proud of themselves, and
rightly so. Yet there is no indication that there
is more to this little feat of landscape
storytelling than the feat for its own sake.
Hypothetically speaking, there may have
been other versions of this tale in circulation.
Some people could also have believed that the
Dwarf-Stone was indeed inhabited by
supernatural beings rather than merely being
the object of an entertaining story. Discourse
about the meaning of landscape (and probably
any discourse about any meaning) is best
conceptualised as an ongoing phenomenon
rather than a static one;
6
it is, thus, not unlikely
that the Dwarf-Stone was ascribed different
meanings by different people at different
times. Yet in the form in which it was recorded
by Jón Árnason, this particular tale is not only
tailored to its local setting in the closest way
possible, but it also shows no indication of
having been meant as more than a story for
storytelling’s sake. Horace in his
Art of Poetry
states that
aut prodesse volunt aut delectare
poetae / aut simul et iucunda et idonea dicere
vitae (
Ars poetica 333–334) [‘poets either want
to be useful or to delight, / or say the pleasant
and the useful things of life at once’]. The teller
of tales who invented the story of the Dwarf-
Stone seems to have been firmly in the second
of these three categories: it is all about
delighting in a good yarn. Admittedly, there is
also an element here of enchanting the
landscape (cf. Macfarlane 2015: 24–26),
charging it with associations that transcend the
mundane and the everyday. Yet given the
overall structure of the tale, this enchantment
does not appear to be the intention, but rather
one of the tools of the storyteller. Drawing on
traditional motifs such as the motif of dwarfs
living in stones, the storyteller does to some
extent inscribe supernatural connotations into
the landscape. However, given the specific
relationship between the tale and the landscape
it is woven out of, these supernatural motifs
were not more than a narrative device used to
string together a series of landscape features
into a working plot. The aim seems to be the
14
working
plot,
not
the
supernatural.
Enchantment
comes as a by-product, welcome
perhaps, but secondary nonetheless – and is
certainly not taken very seriously.
In this way, the Seyðisfjörður tale of the
Dwarf-Stone serves as a reminder to put some
levity back into landscape theory: in trying to
understand the relationship between humans
and the landscapes they are inhabiting, we
should not forget that underlying the profound
there is also the everyday, and that there is a lot
that is done in everyday life which is simply
done for the joy it gives.
Place, Story, and Retrospective Methodology
All this, however, may also have consequences
for the use of Norse narrative material for
retrospective reconstructions. In a level of
detail that is achievable only very rarely, the
folklore of the Dwarf-Stone illustrates the
extreme interconnectedness between place-
lore and the specific landscape of the place in
which it is set. In the case of the Dwarf-Stone,
if one wants to understand the degree of this
interconnectedness, it is inevitable to consult,
in the words of Schama (1996: 24), “the
archive of the feet”: no textual analysis that is
unaware of the text’s landscape referent would
be able to make head or tail of this particular
story. Only with recourse to this landscape
referent can the tale be understood as a clever
and delightful play on real-world topography;
without this, it would have seemed quaint at
best. This situation constitutes an emphatic
warning about the interpretation of place
stories whose place referents are lost – and
such a warning is very pertinent indeed to the
study of Old Norse sources, as so much of this
material is (or purports to be) place-lore.
To illustrate this problem, another example
linked to the topic of stones can be taken from
Landnámabók [the ‘Book of Settlements’],
where it is told that certain boulders by the
name of
Gunnsteinar, which were located
somewhere in the valley Flateyjardalr in
northern Iceland, had a double function as both
boundary markers and as a cult site (ch.
S241=H206). It is not known today where
exactly these boulders might have been located
(Jakob Benediktsson 1968: 273n.6). Jón
Hnefill Aðalsteinsson, in his influential
Under
the Cloak (1999: 29), takes this reference to be
a historical one. But in assessing the historicity
of a report such as this, one should always
wonder: assuming that in the medieval
Flateyjardalr there really was
a rock formation
which was somehow striking enough to attract
attention, what reason do we have to believe
that it drew the religious attention of the
valley’s Viking Age inhabitants, rather than
that of a medieval storyteller simply in search
of inspiration for a good tale? Not every
narrative using religious or mythological
motifs also has a deep religious or
mythological significance.
Another aspect
of the Dwarf-Stone tale that
is also of relevance for retrospective
approaches is the importance of sheer enter-
tainment. Entertainment for entertainment’s
sake was also a major factor for medieval saga
writers; this is central to keep in mind when we
consider sagas and stories that appear oriented
towards
entertainment
as
sources
for
vernacular religion and mythology. Looking
beyond place-lore, one may think about tales
such
as
Bósa
saga,
Þorsteins
þáttr
bæjarmagns, or Snorri’s myth of Thor’s visit
to Útgarðaloki.
7
The motifs that are used and
manipulated in such texts may be conventional
and link to widely held (or once-held) beliefs –
as is the case with the Dwarf-Stone tale, which
uses some very old themes indeed, such as
dwarfs living it stones – but such motifs have
often been removed from their former
(‘original’)
contexts
and
have
been
recombined in unique, unexpected, and
entertaining ways. Thus, such texts may be of
interest for studying individual motifs, but may
hardly be able to tell us much about coherent
plot lines and larger narrative structures of
vernacular mythology: in constructing a new
tale with an agenda focused on entertainment,
the overarching plot lines are the first elements
to undergo far-reaching transformations whose
results may bear hardly any perceivable
resemblance to the vernacular mythology of
the Viking Age. The Seyðisfjörður folk tale of
the Dwarf-Stone constitutes an emphatic
reminder that stories (including place stories)
can always just be stories for storytelling’s
sake. The delight that this folk tale exhibits in
the sheer joy of storytelling reminds us that, if
we take narrative texts too seriously as
reflections of the period they pretend to talk