A folk tale of Nordland
Stories that lampoon the ignorance of others are popular throughout this glorious Empire, set always in ‘the next village over,’ or happening to ‘the friend of a friend’s cousin.’ The teller of such a tale is always careful to stress that such a thing could never happen in their own village, or to anyone they know personally. Thus the details of these stories vary a great deal, though the message is always the same: however bad your own situation may be, at least you are not as stupid as those in the story!
This particular tale comes from Nordland. Nordland, of course, is one of only two states within our Empire that border the stormy Sea of Claws. The sea is a dangerous and unknowable thing, and thus it is hardly surprising that there are a great many legends and superstitions connected to it. - JWG
The village of Oberwesel is to the north of here, in a narrow inlet on the coast of the Sea of Claws. The high cliffs come around it to either side like a winter cloak, and the village itself clings along the rocky slope like a spider's web, all the way down to the beach. Every morning, the fogs strolls in off the sea and walks through the village. Every night, the dark streets are disturbed by the cries of seabirds, and the constant, plaintive murmur of the wind.
The people make their living by fishing, and also, some say, by setting lights along the rocks at night, so as to cause passing ships to wreck themselves there[1]. And when a wreck occurs, the villagers swarm over the shattered vessel, helping themselves to whatever they can. As for those unfortunate crewmen that survive the ruin of their ship, well, it is best not to let the mind linger upon their fates.
One evening, as the light was failing, a ship was glimpsed unexpected on the horizon. All at once, the wreckers rushed to set their lights, before retiring to the warm tavern to drink spiced ale by the fire, and sing, and laugh. Only a few heard the terrible noises - the splintering of timbers, the screams - that came from the wrecked ship. When dawn came, the fog had, as usual, shrouded everything in a yellowish blanket, so there was nothing to see of the ship. But as the sun grew hotter, the fog burnt away and the wreck was revealed.
The ship had been a rich one, and the villagers were overjoyed by the fine cargo their deceitful lights had brought them. Some prayed openly to Stromfels[2], others gave thanks to Mannan[3]. Better still, it seemed at first that not one of the crew had survived - indeed, not even a single body had escaped the sea. But at length, the villagers discovered a single crewman, alive, within the remains of a longboat.
This survivor was like no man they had ever seen. He was very short and hairy, and of unusual proportions. He wore baggy trousers and a waistcoat, both of garish, intricate fabric. When roused to wakefulness, his speech was rapid and guttural, scarcely like language at all. The villagers were astonished, and for a while no one spoke. But then Karl, who had once been to Salzenmund, and was thus the most worldly of the villagers spoke. "Surely," he said, "this is no man. Yet he came in a ship - and a finer ship I never did see! This creature can only be an elf!"
The assembled villagers gasped, and those at the back of the crowed pushed and fought to come near enough to glimpse the captured elf.
"Yes," said Stefan, who thought himself head man of the village, "it must be so! We have all heard the tales of the elf ships that come a-raiding along the coast of our homeland[4]. They burn our towns and carry our people off to slavery in some terrible foreign land. I think we have done a great service to the Elector by wrecking this ship!"
Some of the villagers cheered, and others chattered excitedly to their neighbours.
"We must send word to the Elector," said Hans, who ran the tavern, "Think of how he will reward us!"
"Sure enough," said Stefan, "but first let us drag this elf into the village, and see if he can be made to speak."
And so the poor elf was seized at once, and carried to the tavern, where they held him down upon a table. The villagers then took turns at the elf, to prod him with knives, to burn him with hot irons, to beat him with sticks. Although the elf yelped and cried in a most piteous manner, he said not one word the villagers could understand.
"Friends, let us send Karl to the Elector in Salzenmund," Stefan said at last, "and meantime keep this elf chained in Hans's cellar. It is plain he cannot speak our language, but the Elector will surely have men who speak his."
So it was. Karl set out for the capital, and the elf was kept in the damp cellar beneath the tavern. But he did not eat the food the villagers brought him, and by degrees grew weaker as the days passed.
At last, Karl returned to the village mounted on a fine horse, and with him a company of soldiers, likewise mounted, arrayed in the blue and yellow of the Elector's men. The villagers came out to greet them, offering food and ale and all the hospitality of their homes.
"Good people," said the Captain, "We have ridden a long way to see this elf of yours. Bring him out at once!"
The villagers complied, and soon they had produced the elf, barely alive, covered in suppurating wounds. The Captain looked at the elf, and his eyes went wide. Some of his men chuckled to themselves, but the Captain's face grew hard and sharp. "This," he spat, "is what you call us here to see? This is your elf?"
Stefan struggled to speak. Cold sweat ran down his back, as he said, "Y-yes, M'lord."
But the Captain no longer scrupled to control his anger. "This is no elf," he bellowed, "this is a monkey!"
And so it was. The villagers, in their ignorance, had taken a ship's monkey for an elf[5]. The Captain's fury was terrible to behold. For not only had the villagers wasted his time with their foolishness, but their greater crime - the wrecking of so many ships - had now been revealed. Karl, Stefan, Hans and many more were hanged immediately. Others still were flogged, and their houses stripped of valuables, and their fishing boats scuttled.
As for the monkey, the Captain took it back to the Elector, who kept it as a pet for many happy years. Thus is the judgement of Mannan upon those who live by the misfortune of others.
[1] Wrecking, as it is known, is a frighteningly common crime in such isolated places.
[2] The worship of Stromfels is rightly proscribed across The Empire, such is the evil he represents.
[3] Given the circumstances, such thanks would clearly be blasphemous.
[4] Coastal raids by the so-called ‘Dark’ Elves are an unfortunate reality, thought they occur only rarely.
[5] This may seem a incredible tale, but I have seen (admittedly scant) evidence of similar cases of mistaken identity. In 2245, a remote village in the Reikwald allegedly elected an escaped baboon from the Altdorf Zoo as mayor, believing the animal to be a dwarf.
copyright JRT 2007, all rights reserved.