Díðrikur Doves and Other Hidden Treasures

Introduction

Depiction, the urge to re-image sights and experiences, be it visually or aurally, is an essential part of our existence. For our ancient ancestors, it did not suffice to simply find shelter and safety in caves, the caves had to be decorated with their experiences as well. Since the first sapiens began to tell stories, they also started to depict them with ochre and other materials on limestone walls.

A common trope in many of the stories we have told through the ages is the idea of a hidden treasure—a pearl of great price, a chest full of pirate’s loot, gold coins and gems in a dragon’s lair. We have always intuited that the earth on which we stand holds deep secrets within it, secrets worth seeking out, perhaps secrets that find their counterpart in deep crevices of our own consciousness.

In his work Díðrikur Doves and Other Hidden Treasures, consisting of ten luminous cave- painting for Sandoyartunnilin, the new sub-sea tunnel connecting the islands Streymoy and Sandoy, Edward Fuglø plays both on this ancient urge to depict what is seen and heard and on what wonders we might find if we only dare to dig deep enough.

What happens when we drill such a modern marvel of a hole as Sandoyartunnilin, through which cars can drive while ships sail the seas above them? As has happened so often before, secret treasures are found. This time, though, it is not coins, pearls and diadems that the subterranean world has hidden, but stories depicted in light. The lay-bys, cavernous enough that large trucks can turn in them, are the tunnel’s caves. When they are excavated, cave- paintings are found on the walls—though these are not ochre on limestone but luminous red, white and blue lines dancing over black basalt. Light pictures shining in dark caves.

Their motifs are the stories of the two places connected by the tunnel, the historical village of Kirkjubø and Sandoy. Stories laced with legend and myth—of powerful and wily clergy that suck the life-blood out of common people and of steely women finding their way in a world dominated by men, of angry witches cheated out of their gold and of huldres, those grey folk who live inside hills and boulders and who would leave ordinary humans alone if only they’d stop meddling in their affairs.

As you drive through the tunnel and discover these treasures on your own, you notice some birds trapsing through the various folkloric scenes. Most often they appear alone, but once in a flock, and in a couple of places so over-blown that at first you think they are but abstract flourishes. But these birds, what are they? Perhaps doves? Yes, doves indeed, but no ordinary doves, they are Díðrikur doves, something you realise when you see the last cave painting. Its strokes of red, blue and white light depict Díðrikur of Skarvanes and some of the multi- coloured birds he painted in the first half of the 19 th century. Díðrikur is the first Faroese painter that we know of—visual arts are young in the Faroes!—and all the extant works by him are of birds: hens and cocks, and many doves. To Fuglø, as he reworks Díðrikur’s magical many-coloured birds, they become their own unique species, Díðrikur doves—the colourful birds of the imagination that Díðrikur let loose as he unleashed Faroese visual arts. As Fuglø uncages them, lets them fly out of their allotted place, they roam the tunnel and travel back through time, settle in the various beaming depictions of villainous priests, fierce women and mythical creatures centuries older than the birds themselves. They are a leitmotif that binds the tunnel’s ten luminous cave-paintings together, making Díðrikur Doves and Other Hidden Treasures Fuglø’s homage to Díðrikur of Skarvanes, the humble farmhand who became the pioneer of Faroese visual arts.

Light is Fuglø’s medium. The technique he uses is well known from theatre, gobo lights. The image is cut out in a stencil and coloured. The stencil is placed in front of a light source, today often a LED projector, casting a razor-sharp image on the surface, in this case the uneven rock wall of the tunnel. In order to achieve the desired effect, getting the luminous image to play well with the lay-bys’ walls, Fuglø and his team tested the gobo images over and again in the tunnel, adapting the compositions, dimensions and colour combinations to precisely fit the images to the particular surfaces they are to occupy.

We who travel at high speed through the tunnel are like Díðrikur doves. As we drive though this marvel of modern engineering, back and forth between Sandoy and the mainland, we too journey back in time when these luminous cave paintings beam back at us. Most of us fly by them in a flash, notice only some bright white, red and blue lines that give shape to a picture. We enjoy it, glad for the amusing distraction and forget about it. And that is fine, it is part of the purpose. But perhaps some of us wonder: Who is that one wielding an axe or why does that crow fly off with a knife in its beak? And we want to settle down, like a Díðrikur Dove, and enter the picture, enter the magic of its story. Of course, neither an easy thing to do nor recommended when you hurl along at 80 km/h in a heavy metal box. But we still can let the images linger in our imagination and when sedentary again, look them up on the Internet or pick up this booklet and explore the tales these light paintings depict. Perhaps we also, like those doves, will find our place in the stories. And we are grateful that we do not only have clever engineers that can carve hi-tech holes under the sea for us to hurry through but also have artists like Edward Fuglø who dig deep into a collective imagination and unearth tales and depict them anew. For us as a species it is not enough to have caves and holes, it seems we cannot live without the tales that we can decorated them with.

Poul F. Guttesen

The original illustrations on this page can been seen at the Sandoy Museum.

King Sverri

1151-1202

Sverri Sjúrðarson (b. 1151, Norway; d. 8 March 1202, Bergen, Norway) was raised in the bishop’s palace in Kirkjubø, where he trained for the priesthood. He reigned as king of Norway from 1177/84 to 1202.

Of all who have ascended the Norwegian throne, Sverri is the most peculiar. Enigmatic, he is the king that has baffled and frustrated historians the most. Though his story is difficult to interpret, it is well documented because Sverri ensured it was chronicled. He employed an Icelandic clerk, Karl Jónsson, to write his biography.

Sverri’s Saga begins: “Bishop Rói was at that time in the Faroes. He had a brother called Unas Kambari, who married a Norse wife named Gunnhild late in the reign of the brothers Ingi, Sjúrður, and Eystein, the sons of Haraldur Gilli. Before long, Gunnhild had a son, who was called Sverri, and was said to be the son of Unas.” The saga tells us that “when Sverri was five years old he sailed from Norway to the Faroes, and was there brought up as the foster-son of Bishop Rói. The bishop put him to books, and admitted him to Holy Orders, and he was ordained priest.”

When Sverri was 24 years old, Gunnhild came to Kirkjubø and told him that his real father was Sjúrður Munn. She had travelled to Rome and received forgiveness from the Pope himself on the condition that she told her son the truth. The news troubled Sverri, the saga tells us. He wintered in the Faroes before he travelled to Norway. He continued on to Sweden, to an earl named Birgir Brosi, who was married to Sjúrður Munn’s sister. He also met his sister, Cecilia. In Vermaland, he met the Birkebeiners. Sverri thought little of the band that stood in front of him. He did not believe they could muster up much against Earl Erlingur. And as always in medieval tales about men offered great honour, he wants to excuse himself. “And for myself, brought up on an outlying rock, remote from other lands, I am incapable of enterprise,” are the tale’s words that Sverri placed in his own mouth.

But all the same, Sverri became the chief of the Birkebeiners. In an incredible struggle, together with his band of unpopular serfs and villeins, this man from the Faroes—uncommonly bright, an excellent organiser and very charismatic—became one of Norway’s most famous kings, whose descendants sat on the Norwegian throne until 1319.

Based on Føroya søga – Norðurlond og Føroyar by H. J. Debes (Tórshavn: Føroya Skúlabókagrunnur, 1990)

Excerpts from Sverri’s Saga are from J. Sephton’s translation (Sverrissaga: The Saga of King Sverri of Norway. London: David Nutt, 1899). The spelling of some proper names has been changed.

The Battle at Mannafelsdalur

A number of Friesians had settled in Suðuroy, in Akrabyrgi on the southern tip of the island. When the Black Death ravaged the island, all the Friesian households perished but one. The head of that house was called the Akrabyrgi Farmer. He was renowned for his strength and had eight brawny sons.

During the farmer’s lifetime, so the story goes, the foundation for the St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkjubø on Streymoy was built. The bishop of Kirkjubø at the time was nicknamed Mouse. He imposed heavy taxes on the Faroese in order to build as spectacular a cathedral as possible. The people grew restless, and all who lived south of Hórisgøta, that is in the southern part of Streymoy as well as in Sandoy, Skúvoy and Suðuroy, refused to pay the tax and banded together to oppose the bishop. But Bishop Mouse convinced all the northerners to join him against the southerners. The bishop’s allies were to gather in the north of Streymoy and form a band to attack the others and submit them to the bishop by force. But when the southerners heard rumours of this, they also banded together and travelled north as quickly as possible.

In Mannafelsdalur (The Valley of Slain Men), north of Kalbaksbotnur, the two clashed. The southerners were on the losing side and had to retreat. Many fell. Even today, hummocks dot the valley, and they are said to be the graves of those slain in battle. The grass is red, tainted by the blood that flowed on that day, it is said. Just north of the valley stands a boulder called Brynjumannaborð (Table of Armoured Men). Legend has it that the northerners held their victory feast there when the southerners fled. A large stone rests on top of the boulder. The northerners used it as a lifting stone—the man who was not able to lift it from the boulder could not join the fight.

The next year, the southerners returned to avenge their defeat. Now they fought in a valley near Kollafjørður. This time the southerners were victorious. They had enlisted the Akrabyrgi Farmer and his sons to lead them into battle.

They allied themselves with two Viking ships, which had visited the southern region. They sailed north to attack and plunder far and wide. Therefore, many northern men could not leave their villages; they did not dare leave the womenfolk alone during these dreaded raids.

…

Bishop Mouse

And so the southerners proved victors this time and slayed many. The bishop fled and returned to Kirkjubø unscathed. But the southerners pursued him, vowing not to disband before they had slain the bishop. But nobody dared to break into the palace and lay hand on him—they all feared being excommunicated by the Pope. Therefore, they asked the Akrabyrgi Farmer, who was pagan, to kill him. He stood outside and shouted into the hall: “Is that clever mouse hiding in this house?” The bishop answered:

Mouse at table sits his supper to eat
He faced a greater foe up north but kept his seat
So know this, you raging villain
Mouse will dine in peace, his belly fillin’

The bishop finished his meal, put on his bishop’s robe, and climbed up the cathedral wall, axe in hand to defend himself. The Akrabyrgi Farmer and his sons dared not chase up after him because he was armed, and the wall was consecrated. But they would not leave him alone, stayed put by the wall, and hindered Mouse from coming down before he gave up.

This continued for three nights and days, but when evening came on the third day, the bishop fainted of hunger and thirst, and fell off the wall. He regained consciousness when he hit the ground but was immediately killed by the farmer. After the Akrabyrgi Farmer died, his sons settled down in Sumba and became Christians.

Hammershaimb, V. U. (1891) Færøsk Anthologi I.

Símun of Kirkjubø

Símun Símunarson, nicknamed Huldre Símun or Troll Símun, was the grandson of Jenis Símunarson, a farmer from Sumba, well known from other tales. Símun was given the copyhold farm in Kirkjubø. His wife was the sister of the farmer in Skúvoy, Jógvan Ólavsson. Símun was not known to be kind to his wife, though he did not quite mistreat her. He was big and tall; his homespun shirt measured three cubits of double width. He was both strong and sure-footed. Fearing for their life, none of his farmhands dared to rush ahead of him when they were working the hills. If a sheep escaped when a flock was driven down a hill, Símun was the first to chase it up.

A huldre man lived in Kirkjubøreyn (huldres lived in mounds and rocks and usually eluded humans). He let his flock of grey and black sheep roam in Símun’s outfields, chasing the farmer’s sheep from the good pasture up to the tableland’s rocky ground, leaving them all skin and bone while the huldre sheep grew big and fat. Símun got wind of the huldre sheep and promised that if ever he got a hold of the huldre man, he would get his revenge. One day, when he was out fishing, a storm blew up, and Símun and his men strained against the oars to return to Kirkjubø. When they arrived, Símun saw another boat at the landing. He recognised the huldre man immediately. And they began to quarrel. The huldre man claimed equal rights to the landing. “Then you make equal claims in other matters too, don’t you?” answered Símun. “You must be the one that spoils my outfield with that grey and black flock that roams Kirkjubøreyn.” The huldre man retorted that his ancestor used the fields before Símun’s, and he was going to do likewise. Heated words were exchanged, and in the end, Símun attacked the pagan. They jostled but Símun won. He was going to kill the huldre man, but the latter begged for mercy. Símun relented but on the condition that the pagan would leave Streymoy with all he had, never to return. The huldre man acquiesced and moved into Mt. Froðbiarkambur in Suðuroy. And nothing was heard of him for the next three years.

Just off the northern tip of Sandoy is Trøllhøvdi (the Troll’s Head), an islet belonging to Kirkjubø. They kept sheep and at times cattle there. Three years after the huldre man went to Froðba, a strange ox with a greyish hue was found grazing on Trøllhøvdi. Three years in a row, Símun made note of the oxen at Ólavsøka, the annual assembly of the islands’ leaders. But to no avail, no one claimed the oxen. The third time Símun said he would take and kill the oxen since no one seemed to own it. Then Jógvan Ísaksson of Skúvoy, a fine and wise man, a sage and historian at the assembly, advised him to leave the oxen in peace. Whoever had put the oxen there would likely return for it. He suspected a huldre man owned it. But Símun paid no heed to his advice. He was going to fetch the oxen in the fall. An early morning as winter approached, long before dawn, Símun arose and woke up his farmhands and told them to come with him to Trøllhøvdi. Some advised against the journey, others thought it a fine idea. Baraldur, known as Troll-Baraldur, one of Símun’s tenants, lived in Úti á Bø. Símun always asked him for advice because Haraldur had second sight. He asked Baraldur to join him this morning, but Baraldur did not dare to go and told Símun to abandon the venture. But Símun told him, “I pay no heed to your advice, damned troll-face.” Símun must have had a bad night. And so they went, seven of them, heading straight for the islet to fetch the oxen. Símun was hungry. His wife had not cooked breakfast for him. Bad blood was between them because he had knocked her about. And he had not said his Lord’s Prayer. When they came to Trøllhøvdi, the oxen, usually so tame, sensed something was not right. Feral, they could not get a hold of it and were about to give up. But as evening approached, the oxen stood stock-still before them. They tied it down and eased it into the boat. They sat by their oars to row home, and Símun was in a good mood—but now he glances sideways and sees a boat steaming through the Trøllhøvdi sound, heading straight at him. As he could not flee because the other boat was nearer land, he came up alongside it. The leader of that boat jumped into Símun’s boat. And Símun recognized the huldre man that he already had fought and beaten. The huldre man immediately took hold of the oxen to transfer it into his boat. But Símun jumped up from the boat’s thwart and they clashed. Símun threw him down into the sole of the boat and told a boy to pass him that which is sharp. The boy didn’t understand him and asked: “What?” This irked Símun, and snarling at the boy, he shouted: “the knife!” But no more had the word left his mouth before the huldre man thrashed about and found his footing. He took a red silk ribbon and tied it around Símun’s wrist and proceeded to haul both Símun and the oxen into his own boat, where he tied both down. From there the huldre rowed south. The Kirkjubø boat was smashed to pieces; only one man, named Torbergur, holding on to a piece of wood, drifted with flotsam up to the shore in Kirkjubø, and told what had happened.

The huldre boat continued south. When it was off the coast of Skúvoy, Jógvan Ísaksson, Símun’s father-in-law, was in the outfields and spotted the boat—and he knew what he saw and said: “It would have turned out better for Símun today had he only been kind to his wife.” Nevertheless, he thought, why not tarry the huldre man a little. And down from the cliff, he threw a limpet into the sea in front of the boat. Then he went home and said: “Tonight Kirkjubø is headless.” The huldre boat was stuck by the cliffside as the tide turned thrice. Then Jógvan sent his son out with a sheath and asked him to throw it off the cliff so it landed behind the boat. And so the boy did. Then the boat was loosened and the huldre men were able to continue their journey. Their chief took Símun with him up into Mt. Froðbiarkambur, where he lived. He was not mad at him now that he had gained power over him. Not so the other huldre men, they always treated him badly when their chief was not close by. In Símun’s shelter they hung their wet work clothes, drenched rags, and newly washed lines from which water still ran.

Any way they could, they made life miserable for him. Every night Símun was allowed to go out, and then his habit was to go down on his knees and look up to the moon. The pagan chief saw him like this one night, crying. He drew near to comfort him, telling him that from now on the others would do him no harm. The chief scolded his men—but to no avail.

One day the villagers of Froðba were in the hills driving sheep for the autumn slaughter. When the sheep were bound and carried to the village, one man tarried in the sheep pen. There, he sees a man heading straight toward him, calling for his attention. As the man approaches, the villager sees it is the Kirkjubø farmer. Símun greets the villager, seeking news: how are things in Kirkjubø? has the widow remarried? and so on. The villager tells him it as it is: the widow has married one of the farmhands, who now has become the copyholder of Kirkjubø Farm. The villager asks Símun how his life is now and if he does not want to return to Kirkjubø. Símun answers that he neither wants to nor can leave those he now is with. Life is hard except when the huldre men are gone; then it is better for the chief’s wife is kind to him. The huldre men are often out fishing, and whenever they return, he is sat under the water running from their lines.

Símun asked the villager for advice for what he could do against them. The villager didn’t think he could do much to improve his condition; and yet, Símun received a small knife to keep on him at all times and use when needed. If they wanted to commandeer him, he should show them the knife. As they were conversing, two huldre men came for Símun. But he shows them the knife and they can do nothing to him. The villagers met Símun in the hill twice after this, and Símun said life was better now for he had gained the upper hand over the huldre men, teaching them manners and moderation. Now they didn’t dare harm him. One day the same villager is up in the hills below the mountain. Here he meets a man, but he thinks he knows of what kind he is and does not want to talk with. He leaves the path but the huldre man gets in his way and tells him he should be ashamed of the little knife he had given Símun, who now was his master. He and his people would pay him back, and with vengeance. The villager told him to try: “If I have given Símun the knife, I too may have my own, and it will be my help. From then on, nothing was heard of either Símun or the huldre folk in Mt. Froðbiarkambur.

Jakobsen, Jakob. (1898-1901; 1984-85). Sagnir og ævintýr. 2 nd edition.

Lord Klæmint

Many a tale is told of Lord Klæmint, who long ago was a priest in Sandoy. Profit was more on his mind than sermons. A mere pauper when he arrived in the Faroes, he had nothing to his name but what was found in his knapsack. But he knew well how to stack his loot. When he was old, he was exceedingly wealthy, owning land equalling the size of a largish island. He never accepted money as payment, only land.

Sandoy was poverty-stricken during Lord Klæmint’s time on the island and people often turned to him in their time of need. Once, a man, faint from hunger, came to him at Todnes Manse, begging him for a few morsels. Klæmint offered him a Válgari (a cut consisting of a part of a lamb’s breast and the upper three ribs)—but only if he gave him a piece of land. To this day that lot is called Válgarateigur, three strips of a larger field by Todnes Manse, one strip for each rib of a Válgari.

Lord Klæmint acquired Biskupsjarðir (Bishop’s Land) from Sakansson, son of Sakan of Dímun. Klæmint and Sakansson co-owned some ledges in a bird cliff. Once when Sakansson had gone to fetch young Manx shearwaters from the ledges, he fell and died. The priest claimed Sakansson had been dishonest since he had gone alone to catch the birds even though both owned the ledges. As recompense, he took possession of Sakansson’s fields, only leaving a small plot for the dead man’s widow.

Andras undir Brekkuni owned a plot that Klæmint had his eyes on. On his deathbed, the priest came to grant him absolution – but he wanted the plot in return. But Andras would only give him a fraction of it for the absolution, which the priest had to accept in the end.

A widow with two daughters owned a largish field. Klæmint lured the land’s deed of tenure from her and did not return it but brought it to the sheriff. Klæmint wanted to hand the deed over to his grandson. Both daughters were dim-witted, Klæmint claimed. The sheriff asked the girls if they were betrothed or had any suitors. They both said no, and so the sheriff turned the deed for the land over to Klæmint’s grandson, named Klæmint á Klettum.

A village man, nicknamed Braggart, was tilling a field one spring. Lord Klæmint kept nagging him, offering him meat and other things if only he let him have the field known as Braggart’s Field. The priest owned an adjacent field and desperately wanted to expand it. One day, the priest met Braggart in the field and started to work on him. They quarrelled and raised their voices. The priest hit Braggart and invited him to hit back. The priest’s plan was to get Braggart to forfeit his land by a misdeed. And Braggart started to beat the priest black and blue. The priest threw himself on the field and started to cry for help. People came but Braggart was able to appeal to witnesses that the priest had hit first. So, this time, the priest was not able to get his way with him. But after this, Klæmint was always scheming how he could get back at him, and the next time he proved successful.

There was a thief in Sandur called Runti. Once he had stolen a cow and hid it in a ditch, which he covered with turf. People went looking for it and heard it lowing under the turf and dug it up again. Runti hid among rocks under some crags, where he could see the village in the gap between two large boulders. Magnus, a shepherd, found him there; he had seen smoke rising from the spot as Runti had lit a fire for cooking. Runti was arrested and sentenced to be hanged from gallows raised outside the village. The priest hurried the trial along because he feared that his sons might be implicated. The sons of Klæmint were unpleasant and had a bad reputation. The word was that they had been in cahoots with Runti. The custom of the day was that if thieves about to be hanged could lift themselves up three times over the gallows’ cross beam, they would go free. Runti lifted himself twice over the cross beam and was about to do it the third time when Braggart shouted, “allow me!” and jumped over and hit Runti hard over his wrist with a staff. It is said that it was the priest who had egged Braggart on so he could have a case against him. And it went as the priest had planned: Braggart stopping Runti in attempting his feat was illegal. And this cost him his possessions. And what about Runti? He was still hanged. For the next three years, not even the smallest coalfish fry was to be caught off the coast where Runti had been hanged. People said it was because Runti had been hanged illegally.

Klæmint’s scheming did not always turn out this well as his dealings with the farmer of Útistova (Outer Hall) in Skúvoy show. The priest schooled the farmer’s son. One year, when the farmer had been in Tórshavn and was on his way back to Skúvoy, he stayed with the priest. He spent two nights at the manse before weather allowed him to return to Skúvoy. The food was bad, he thought—mouldy lamb, dry fish, tallow and unleavened bread. The farmer asked what he owed the priest for the two nights. Two small plots of land, Klæmint answered, one for each night. There was nothing for the farmer to do but let the priest have what he demanded. Some time after this, the priest went to visit the churches in his parish, and he came to Skúvoy. The weather turned bad while he was there, and he had to find a place to lodge. At the time, there were only two farms in Skúvoy, Stórastova (Grand Hall) and Útistova. The farmer of Stórastova had no housekeeper, and the two of them, priest and farmer, were not on friendly terms. So, Klæmint’s only option was to go to the Útistova farmer. And he was fed dry fish, sperðil (a sausage made from a lamb’s rectum, filled with tallow and meat) and unleavened Faroese bread. The priest complained: Considering everything the farmer had, why let him starve out here in Skúvoy. When the weather turned for the better and the strait could be crossed, the priest asked the farmer what he was owed for putting him up. “Two small plots of land” was the answer. And so the Útistova farmer got the land back that the priest had taken from him.

Klæmint once had the three headmen in Skálavík over to drink: Antis í Dalsgarði, Jógvan í Skála and the wealthiest yeoman in the village, Hanus undir Hagabrekku, called Frænd-Hanus (Hanus the Friend). After some time had elapsed, Klæmint wrote a bill each to their wives, demanding land. Antinis’ wife was as good-natured as her husband and did not answer. But Frænd-Hanus’ wife told him he could have a few stocking legs or nothing. Jógvan’s wife asked him if it were proper for a priest to sell booze, adding he could sue her if he wanted.

Klæmint relented. Hanus and Antinis quit drinking. Hanus became one of the best men in the Faroes to clear land for cultivation. But Jógvan would not give up the drink, and it became his end.

Klæmint’s sons were a band of ruffians and as willing to steal from their father as from anyone else. Once they stole lambs from one of their father’s fields and lied to him, blaming some field hands. Klæmint believed them and planned to excommunicate the thieves from the pulpit. But Jógvan Mortansson, a local farmer, told him he better be careful, for it was his own sons who had stolen the lambs. On the Sunday when the excommunication was to be pronounced, Jógvan the Farmer went to church, he was the parish clerk and so known as Priest-Jógvan. On his way to church, he met a poor woman who came out of Todnes Manse with an apron full of meat (eight cuts as well as another choice morsel). Jógvan told her to give him the meat so he could throw it away, preventing her from suffering any harm. For the meat was stolen. She would receive a whole lamb from him instead, he promised. So she gave him the meat, and he immediately went and threw it into a river and then went on to church. Four candles were lit, burning on the altar while the priest declared the excommunication. When he finished, Jógvan took the four candles and threw one in each corner of the choir. “Now the excommunication has been pronounced,” he said, and told people to take care when they left the church. A priest’s prayer is to be effective, and effective it was. When people left the church, one of Klæmint’s sons walked blindly into the last bench; he couldn’t find his way out because he had lost his sight. Another three of Klæmint’s sons sat around the pot at home, cooking meat. But at the moment the excommunication was pronounced, the pot cracked. One of them was severely burned, and the other two were hurt as well. The priest mounted his horse and rode home, but as he came to a river he fell and broke his leg. From that day on he was lame and was known as Limping Klæmint.

Klæmint and his son Pætur (called Lord Per) were always set against one another. Símun við Á from Húsavík had been possessed by a devil. Lord Klæmint tried to drive the evil spirit out him but to no avail. Símun only turned worse. So Lord Per, who was his father’s curate, came to Símun’s farm. When he arrived, everything was turned helter-skelter, bedding slung up under the ceiling. The curate acted quickly, holding his hands down on Símun’s shoulders, he said: “Depart, you evil spirit, and give room for the Holy Spirit!” Then three black ravens flew out through the window, and Símun became better. “This I have studied more thoroughly than my father!” said Lord Per. But when a year had passed, Símun turned mad again, worse than ever, and jumped into the sea. The corpse drifted up on the beach and was buried in a bog.

One year, Klæmint’s sons set out to accomplish the feat of making one hay rick out of all their father’s hay. And it was a lot of hay. And they made a monster rick in the hay yard of Todnes Manse. Three of them were on top of the stack, Dumb Símun being one of them. They had come high up, it was going well, and one shouted: “Now I see the isle of Koltur!” But when it came time to make the ridge on this rick of hay, the stack collapsed, the hay being too loosely packed. And the fall was great. Two of them died, but Dumb Símun survived.

Jakobsen, Jakob. (1898-1901; 1984-85). Sagnir og ævintýr. 2nd edition.

Calf Little

The last Catholic priest in Sandoy was called Calf Little, often just called Calf. He was an embittered creature, a scoffer, a stubborn ass of whom many tales are told.

Two fields, belonging to the farm Norðuri í Bø in the village of Sandur, were adjacent to a field belonging to Todnes Manse. The Norðuri í Bø cattle made life difficult for Calf, wandering as they did into his field. He did not like it a bit. So he laid foothold traps just inside the gate, which he left open, hoping to entice the cattle into his field. The next morning, as he looked out the window, he was delighted to see a heap of fallen cattle just inside the gate. Thumping his chest, mission accomplished, he went laughing into the front hall and said to his farmhands: “See how those striped Norðuri í Bø cows twitch and kick inside the gate this morning!” Sure-footed, he walked quickly out the door, looking forward to seeing the farmer’s cattle caught in the traps. But, stopped in his tracks, aghast, he saw his own cattle lying there, and most of them already dead. Then Calf wept. This was both the first and last time anyone heard of him weeping.

Calf built a storehouse on the islet in Sandsvatn, a lake. Here he kept meat and other food. He placed stepping stones in the lake between the islet and the spit by Todnes. But his sons were keen to steal their father’s meat. One winter they went over the frozen lake, aiming for the stepping stones. But their aim was off and the ice thin. It cracked open under them, and all drowned, six of them – the seventh had stayed at home, he never joined them in their foul play. When news reached Todnes, Little Calf did not cry (though, the story goes, his eyes turned a little moist).

One time when Calf’s men herded sheep down a mountainous outfield, Calf trapsed to the infield sheepfold of Slavansdalur to meet them. While he was inspecting the sheep, a farmhand who had something against Calf, aimed the ram he was holding straight at Calf and let go. The ram butted the priest hard in the chest, flattening him. Calf got up and said nothing. But as he left the sheepfold, he told the farmhand: “For the dirty trick in Slavansdalur, I will have my revenge.”

The next summer, Haraldur, Calf’s son, and said farmhand went up a nearby steep coastline and abseiled down a bird cliff. On the day they were to be hauled back up from the cliff, they saw Calf walking to and fro along the edge. Haraldur said to the farmhand: “Today, I believe, father intends to pay you back for that feat in the sheepfold last fall. But let us see. Let us swap clothes!” And so they did, and Haraldur tied himself to the line. When he had ascended as far as that Calf recognised the farmhand’s clothes, the priest retrieved a sharpened axe hidden under his cloak, planning to cut the line in two. Haraldur, who had kept an eye on him, shouted: “Strike if you want to! I am still your son.” Calf recognised his son’s voice and hid the axe. But when the son came up in one piece, and was untied, he was so angry that he beat his father severely. The farmhand was also lifted up out of the cliff, but he never returned to serve Calf.

Árni lived in Nes, in the outskirts of Sandur, north of Hersá (Horse River). Calf approached him, asked him for help to take young shags in a scree below a nearby cliff. They rowed out to the scree, but Árni had no sooner gone ashore before Calf took back to the oars, leaving him stranded. There was no way to return on foot back from the scree at the time (today, however, since the surf has taken so much of the scree, you can reach the village on foot). There Árni perished, and Calf took over his possession. Árni’s Ruins, where Árni lived, are still visible today. After he died, Árni’s children always went down to the landing to beg for fish. One day, Todnesbáturin, Calf’s boat, had been out fishing with Rasmus, Calf’s son, leading the crew. On their return, Calf told them to carry the fish up to the storehouse, and he asked Árni’s children to enter the boat, docked at the landing. When they were onboard, Calf gave the boat a good shove, thrusting it out to sea. Rasmus heard the children’s loud wails and immediately got another boat ready to save them. But it was stormy, the tide was going out, and the distance to draw the new boat to the sea was long. Thus delayed, he was too late to save them. He watched as the boat was swept under Árnaberg cliff and shattered. Calf did not dare set a foot outside his doorstep for two days in fear of his son.

One of Calf’s housemaids was kneading bread one day. She had pinched a little dough to bake a small bread for herself. Calf was walking by the door and saw what she was doing and quietly disappeared again. A short while later, when he thought the bread was just baked, he returned to the kitchen. As he entered, the maid quickly bundled her red-hot bread up under her bosom. Calf saw it but pretended not to. He asked her to come with him right away, to carry him across the river. She suspected nothing and went. When they reached the river – he walked quickly – she lifted him up on her back.

He crossed his hand over the place where he thought the bread was hidden, and then pushed down as hard as he could. She howled, but he only asked why she shouted so loudly. Then she told him what she had dared to do. The place where the hot bread had touched her chest burned so badly that she died from it.

Bad blood was between Calf and his daughter-in-law (Haraldur’s wife). One morning, when her husband had gone out in his boat, the older man asked, what the weather was like. She answered, “Fair is the weather, gold crunching under foot!” She was referring to the frost. “If you mock me, I will ridicule you,” said Calf, resenting her for having fun at his expense. He asked the Todnes housemaids to light a large fire north of the house. He planned to burn his daughter-in-law alive. Reluctant, the maids went about the task half-heartedly, used dirt, dung and rubbish to light the fire so it would not quite take but produce a wealth of smoke that was seen far and wide—so the boats at sea would take notice. Calf’s son was in the Shallows, a fishing ground near land. When he saw the smoke rising up from the village, he grew worried: “Methinks father is up to something today!” he said and asked the boatsmen to row back home. He told them to make haste, and they rowed as hard as they could and landed at the rocky shore of Grótvík. And just as Calf and his men undressed Calf’s wife to throw her on the fire, Haraldur came with his crew, and he took the oar grommet and flogged his father’s back. And so his wife was rescued. “Were you not my father, it is you who would be fed to the fire,” he told Calf.

Once Calf complained that the blood sausage the Mistress of Húsavík had served him was not fatty enough. The next time he visited Húsavík, she placed a piece of horse rumen she had filled with leaf fat before him. Then Calf said: “A balanced sausage is always best, be it of cow or horse, no jest.”

One evening, many years after Calf had died, Lord Klæmint, who was now the priest of Sandur, approaches the village over a pass. He sees three men walking northward on the path up the hill from the church, one of them in clerical garb, heading the party. The other two do not look like people of any tribe. Klæmint asks who they are. “I am Calf Little, once priest in Sandoy, and my companions are devils out of hell.” “Whither are you going,” asks Klæmint the priest. “We plan to go up toward the pass; some men have invited us for a game of cards there, and we have come to join them.” “Wait here a moment until I return!” says the priest and goes home and puts on his vestments. They wait until he returns, and all go up toward the pass. There men sit and play cards, cursing and swearing. An unknown guest has joined the game and is winning. One man’s card falls on the floor, and as he picks it up, he looks under the table and sees that there is no rhyme or reason to the stranger’s lower body. The priest enters and reprimands the card players severely, takes the cards, throws them into the fire, and tells them in no uncertain terms that while he is priest in Sandoy there would be no playing of cards under the pass. He then drills a hole through the wall and chases the devil out. The men cry out in fear or faint, but the priest announces God’s peace over them and blesses them and then returns out to the three that stand waiting outside. “You shall follow me back to the same place where I met you,” he tells them. And they follow. “Now, stop!” says the priest; and with recitations, he drives the devils down through the bedrock. It goes well, only Calf is left. It proves more difficult to get him down. When he has sunk down up to his eyebrows, he is stuck, and the priest is weakening. He looks up to God for help. Then Calf sinks under the stone. At that moment he strikes Calf in the head with the counter of his shoe and tells him to return to hell from whence he came. The hollow where the counter hit the rock is still visible. When the priest returned home, he was soaking wet, as if he had just been pulled out of the sea.

Calf Little grew tired of the Faroes. He heard that the priest at the king’s court had died, and he travelled to Denmark, having the post in mind. But he arrived too late, another had already been appointed. So Calf pretended to be a barber and became the court tonsor. One day, as he was shaving the king, the king told him that if he drew the king’s blood, he would lose his life. When shaving the king over his vocal cords, Calf asked him: “Who rules the land now?” “You and I,” answered the king. “If you had not said so, I would have cut you open,” replied Calf. “So I thought you would if I had answered otherwise,” the king retorted. Calf was arrested and condemned to death.

Jakobsen, Jakob. (1898-1901; 1984-85). Sagnir og ævintýr. 2nd edition.

The Mistress of Húsavík

There was once a poor girl named Sissal (Cecilia) who lived in Skúvoy. She stayed with the farmer there; a pauper, she spent the night under the mill in her rags. During the day, she was sent into the outfields to tend to the cattle so they wouldn’t fall of the cliff or get trapped somewhere they couldn’t help themselves out of.

One day, while tending the cattle, she grew tired, fell asleep where she sat and toppled over, face down. In a dream, she heard a voice tell her: “You are sleeping on the gold! Dig under the ridge between the two ponds. There you will find what will make you rich!” She woke up, overjoyed for this good dream; but, alas, she saw neither ridge nor ponds, so she thought there was nothing to the dream; what it had promised her, she had no way of finding. She returned home and laid down on her bed under the mill as was her custom. The next day she returned to the same outfield; again she grew tired, and toppled face-down. Asleep, she heard the same voice tell her: “You are sleeping on the gold” and so on. The same happened the third day. She marvelled at this, and comforted herself, perhaps there was something to the dream after all, and she went and told an old woman in the village everything that had happened to her. The woman pondered a long time over this message in order to interpret it for the girl. At last, she told the girl to dig where her face had rested on the ground: the ridge she had been told about in the dream was probably the ridge of her nose and the ponds her eyes. If she dug there, she was likely to find the gold. The girl did as the woman had told her. And she found the gold bugle that Sigmundur Brestisson, the man who made the Faroese Christian, had owned.

She went straight home, took the bugle to the farmer, showed him what she had found and told him everything. The farmer realised that fate would give her a good turn, and sent the bugle to the king, telling him who had found the horn. Its gold is said to have been so pure that the king didn’t own its like in his whole kingdom. He paid her what the bugle was worth in coins and gave her land in Húsavík as well. With the money she bought all the land that belonged to both Húsavík and Skarvanes. And she is believed to be the wealthiest woman ever to live in the Faroes.

The logs for the house she built in Húsavík drifted, intact, all the way from Norway to the Faroes, each log cut exactly, so the house could be built at once. The only thing missing was the truss for the smoke hole. This house was called the Great Hall and was a majestic building.

The stone wall she built around the churchyard is still standing as well as the ruins of a boat house and the cobbled courtyards between the houses in the village. It all speaks of the greatness of the Mistress of Húsavík. She had a Nykur (a horse nix) carry the large stone that you still see in the village today down from the hills. But he didn’t fare well. Once when he walked along a bog with a large rock, his tail was pulled off as he dragged the rock, and you can still see the mark of the tail on the stone there. The nix disappeared into Lítla Vatn (Little Lake), where he has lived ever since.

The mistress had a dark heart. A legend says she buried two of her maids alive, one at á Teigi, and another, whose name was Brynhild, at Brynhildarheyggur (Brynhild’s Mound). When her farmhands came down from the hills, their spades slung over their shoulder, they were ill received and got little to eat. She thought they must have been lazy and not have accomplished much. But if they pretended to be tired, dragging their spades behind them, or if they were wet when returning from fishing, she smiled, welcomed them with open arms and praised them.

At Skarvanes she cultivated land for growing vegetables and built barns above the fields. She had other fields for bleaching. She charmed the fields, so no rock rolled down on them. Even if rocks are thrown from the crags just above the fields, they halt on the steep hill, never reaching the fields.

Some call the mistress’ son Ólavur the Shepherd, and her grandson was named Einivaldur, and he was the father of Herborg the Rich. Herborg had a child with the son of Róaldur, who was chairman of the Thing, the annual assembly of the islands’ leaders; and he was the farmer in Dalur, Sandoy. Róaldur’s son died at sea when his boat capsized off the shore of Skarvanes. When the news reached Róaldur’s house, Herborg was there. And she asked the chairman whether a child in the womb was still a rightful heir if its father had passed. “Yes, fully and wholly,” answered Róaldur. “All who have heard, remember what has been said,” she replied and fainted. Only then the chairman suspected that she had fallen with child with his son out of wedlock.

She had a son named Ásbjørn. He grew up with his grandfather, Einivaldur. But they did not get along because the grandfather could not forget he was a bastard. Ásbjørn settled in Skarvanes and inherited a large swathe of land in Húsavík, from mountain to shore.

One day, the two of them, Einivaldur and Ásbjørn, met up in the hills and started to quarrel about the border between Húsavík and Skarvanes. They fought hard, and still today, you can see the deep furrows they left on the hill under Mt. Vestfelli. The end of their long struggle was that the older defeated the younger and set the boundary between them.

Ásbjørn built a rock fence along the boundary (though this is not the boundary today). While he was gathering rocks for the fence, he saw another man, in leg-warmers, doing the same. At first, he thought it was a huldre man because he did not recognize him. But then he realised who it was—he had seen his own apparition, and before the year had passed, he died.

Hammershaimb, V. U. (1891). Færøsk Anthologi

Gívrinnar Hol in Sandoy

Gívrinnar Hole is a cave in Sandoy.

To the west of Sandur, there is a large hole in the ground, known as Gívrinnar Hol—The Witch’s Hole. A witch is said to live in it.

A tale is told of a man from Sandur who ventured down into the depths of the hole to find the witch. He descended safely and saw an overgrown witch grinding gold at a mill. A small child sat by her side and played with a log of gold. The witch was blind. So the man dared to approach the mill to help himself to some of the gold she was grinding.

The witch neither saw nor heard him, but she sensed that something was amiss. So she said: “Either a mouse is scampering, a thief is thieving – or something is awry with this old hag.” The man moved away from her with his loot, took the gold log from the child, and hit it over its head. The child shrieked in pain. When the witch heard this, she knew something was afoul. She jumped up, fumbled all over the cave but found no one, because the man had hauled himself up and out of the hole, jumped on his horse, and galloped as fast as he could home with the gold.

The witch shouted as hard as she could to her neighbour, told her of her misfortune and asked her to help her catch the thief. The neighbour did not tarry, sped after him, trampling so hard over the lake that her footprints are still there on either side of the lake. They are called Gívrinar spor, the witch’s footprints.

He had a good head start and reached a bog close to the village before she caught up with him and was able to grab hold of the horse’s tail. She held fast, so the horse was stopped in its tracks; the man pushed the horse so hard that it leapt up high, the tail snapped off, for the witch held on, keeping her footing. The horse fell, and the man with it – but then the church came in sight, and the man was saved since the witch had no power over him now and had to return to where she came from.

To this day, you can hear the rumble from the Witch’s Hole as the old blind witch grinds gold in the deep cave.

Hammershaimb, V. U. (1891) Færøsk Anthologi I.

The Seal Woman of Skálavík

There are two seal woman legends in the Faroes. The better known is about the seal woman in Mikladalur in the Northern Isles. The tale told here, though, is about the seal woman in Skálavík, whose husband was Demmus.

Demmus has heard that on the eve of the Feast of Three King’s, the seals come ashore to dance in a cave north of Skálavík.

He has in mind to head north in the evening of the Feast of Three Kings to see if he can get hold of a beautiful girl from the pod.

When he draws near, he hides behind a large rock, where he can see the cave.

And yes, as evening draws near, the seals hurry onshore, shed their skin and start to dance.

He sees where an exceptionally beautiful woman lays her skin. He fetches it and silently returns to the rock and hides.

The seals dance and play, enjoying themselves.

As the sun rises, each goes to fetch their skin. But when the beautiful woman goes to retrieve hers, it is gone, and she is left behind. Then Demmus approaches her, tells her not to mind the lost skin. He has hidden it. She begs and entreats him to return it to him. Back and forth they go until he convinces her to follow him home. They settle down, live well together and have children.

Now one day this happens: Demmus is out at sea, the ocean brimming with fish. As he reaches out for one, his hand brushes his belt where the keys usually hang. And he realises the keys are gone and says to his men: “For me this day spells disaster.” One of the boatsmen responds: “What is wrong, brother?” “Today I have become wifeless; draw in the lines, take to the oars, and row as hard you can.” And so they do, row as fast they can, but still too late. When they reach the bay, a seal stands before them at the southern shore.

They tie the boat up in a hurry, and he runs as fast he can. When he comes to the house, no one is there except the children, the fireplace is ashen-cold, and every sharp object, knives and such, she has locked up in the chest where her skin had been kept—and she is gone. So she had done, so no harm would come to the children.

…

The legend says that the seal standing by the shore was his wife. And there she has remained since that day.

The fingers of some in that family, it is said, are partly webbed, their hands flipper-like. William Tindskarð, the source for this legend, also says: A large chest was at the house á Hamri, made with wooden nails. When my grandmother came to the house, her mother-in-law, Malan, told her that this was the chest in which the calf skin had been hidden. [I remember] that the chest was well- built, but it is now lost.

My father, Melkir, took it and built a pram out of it during World War One, when wood was scarce. I also remember that grandmother was furious that father had destroyed the chest, and she told him what it had been used for.

The seal, though it is unlikely it was the same one, remained at the bay’s southern shore until it was shot only a few years ago.

Informant: William Tindskarð, Skálavík. From Søgur og søgubrot by Jóannes Dalsgaard (1978)

Comment: The story is here told as William narrated it on 8 January 1969. Anna á Hamri, William’s grandmother was the daughter of Melkir í Kirkjugarði and married to Demmus Nicodemussen. They had Melkir á Hamri, who was William’s father. (J.D.)

Óli the Shepherd

“The Shepherd of Sand
knew his knife in a faraway land,”
goes an old Faroese saying.

Óli the Shepherd lived in the village of Húsavík, Sandoy, son of the renowned Mistress of Húsavík.

One day he went up into the outfield under Mt. Vestfelli to the west of Húsavík to see how his sheep were doing. As he walked, one of his shoe's eyelets split open. He sat down to cut a new one. He left his knife on the ground as he laced the shoe back up. No sooner had he done so than a hooded crow snapped up the knife and flew away. Óli looked up and saw the crow fly east, knife in its beak. As soon as he had returned home, he was filled with a longing to go to Norway, and this desire only increased as the days passed. This was in summertime, and that fall he took a ship to Norway. When he arrived, he sought lodging and came to stay with a widow. She was kind and hospitable, and she set a table with choice food before him and laid a knife beside it. He picked up the knife and look at it, turning it this way and that. She asked him why he did so. He told her that this knife once was his. She asked him how he lost it, and he told her a crow stole it from him as he laced up his shoes one day. Then she cackled, and immediately he knew it was she who had done it—taking the form of a crow, she had stolen the knife and drawn him to herself by magic.

One day he visited the neighbouring woman. She asked him why he looked so scrawny. He ought to have grown fat by now, as he had nothing to do. Did he really get so little bread? He thought he was well-fed: fish, bread and butter as well as meat. She asked what kind of fish he got. He told her. And did the lady of the house tell him anything before he started to eat? Yes, she asked him not to break the fish’s spine when he had finished eating, Óli answered. “Oh, I see! Everything you eat is but fish; what you have eaten, she fills back around the spine. The next time you get fish to eat, break the spine into three.” And so he did. When the lady of the house retrieved the plate, she said: “Shame on the one who taught you this.” After that, the man’s complexion turned ruddy.

When winter gave way to Spring, Óli planned to return to the Faroes. And again he visited the same neighbouring woman whom he had seen before. She asked him if the lady of the house had not given him a gift now that he was about to go home. She had indeed, a beautiful saddle for his horse. Nothing else? she asked. A comb, he said. “Ah, so, but did she not tell you something when she gave you the comb?” “So she did; she said: you must not take the hair off the comb when you have used it, but let it stay on it.” “So I thought,” she replied. “Take the hair off the comb and burn it. Then comb the furry hair on the calf hide under the saddle and leave the calf’s hair on the comb. Then hang the saddle under the beam where you sleep on the ship.” Óli thanked her for her advice. Then he took the ship back home to the Faroes, taking his knife with him. When they had journeyed far enough to see the Faroes, Óli washed himself and combed his hair. Then he combed the calf’s hair and stuck the comb back into the calf hide. When he was dressed, rumbles rose up from the cargo hold so loud that they thought the ship was about to sink. The captain asked them to open the hatch to see what was going on. They took it off—and woosh, out flew the saddle. When Óli went back to his quarters, the comb had disappeared as well. No doubt this was her doing, the witch’s, to take him back to Norway, he thought. Nothing else is to be said of the journey other than that they arrived home safely.

Jakobsen, Jakob. (1898-1901; 1984-85). Sagnir og ævintýr. 2nd edition.

Díðrikur of Skarvanes

1802-1865

Stóra Dímun is quite inaccessible. High up, between the ocean and the heavens, nature has created a beautiful, flat valley. Here lies a farmhouse protected by high, thick stone walls, set against bad weather. This must be one of the world’s most isolated dwellings. Thanks to a helicopter, the current residents have contact with the outside world, but it was not so long ago that the only connection was by boat, weather permitting. Then you had to walk from the boat landing to the farm up through a narrow cleft. In this lonely stone fortress, a boy named Díðrikur was born in 1802. Here of all places, the first Faroese painter we know of was born. Díðrikur was a farmhand most of his life in a small place called Skarvanes in Sandoy, a short distance from Stóra Dímun. This was probably where he painted his bird pictures.

The farm is in ruins now, but villagers from Skarvanes used to say that several pictures by Díðrikur were in the house, but only five remain, and they have been painted with gouache paint on paper. These bird pictures are exhibited in the National Gallery of the Faroe Islands.

Legends are told in Sandoy about this strange bird painter, who drove an old worn-out horse into a lake and shot it. Then he positioned himself out of sight to paint the birds that would come to feed on the carcass. He enjoyed hunting and shooting. How a farmhand’s son from Stóra Dímun could take up painting at that time and how he got hold of paints, brushes, and paper - not even for sale in the capital - is a mystery. It was probably connected to a journey to Copenhagen in 1828 - we do not know on what business. He can be viewed as a Faroese representative of the rich bird-painting tradition that was flourishing in Europe and North America in the 18 th and 19 th centuries. We do not know whether other Faroese dabbled at painting at this time, as there are no records. Díðrikur's fascinating, bright pictures most likely do not represent any wider visual art culture in the Faroes.

Jákupsson, B. (2000) Myndlist í Føroyum/ Visual Arts in the Faroes. Sprotin 2000.

Díðrikur of Skarvanes

Cock and Hen, ca. 1830

One of his works depicts a cock in bright yellow, black and other colours, and a multi-coloured hen with a markedly black belly. Both birds are skilfully drawn. They are in profile, each standing on their own rock. They stand out from the background with their bright colours. Díðrikur has played with colours in such a way that the birds seem magical, brighter than normal. They are also unrealistically flat and unnaturally staged. It is hard to know what Díðrikur intends. Perhaps he just wants to point out the artistic license he takes.

The original images can been seen at the National Gallery of the Faroe Islands.

Díðrikur of Skarvanes

Moon Doves, 1840

Díðrikur was a farmhand in Sandoy. For a while he worked for a priest who was interested in nature. When at his house, the young farmhand had seen some bird books, and he transformed the illustration into folk art.

One of the sheets bears the title Moon Doves—this is what rock doves, which lay one egg a month during spring, used to be called.

The original images can been seen at the National Gallery of the Faroe Islands.

Sunleif Rasmussen

The music

Recognized Faroese composer Sunleif Rasmussen dreamt of this melody in his sleep: a diverse choir singing beautifully in harmony. As he listened, the chorus revealed itself—taken from the song 'Tvey hjørtu, tveir skuggar, tvey andlit' (Two Hearts, two shadows, two faces) by The Snowflakes. The lyrics felt fitting, prompting him to jot down ideas over months to bring his dream to life.

The basic tracks capture the drips from the tunnel to Sandoy being drilled, as the tunnel was not yet seaworthy and the roads were in an un-asphalted state. The second track mirrors the sound of a jeep navigating a rugged road. From these sound sources, the dripping notes appear, weaving through the entirety of this musical composition.