Читать книгу Foul Finnebog: A Norwegian Tale - Rosemary Ph.D. Olson - Страница 4

Chapter I: A Wooden Box

The hot, summer sun shown down on a land far away. The tall grass and weeds along a slow-flowing river kept waving softly in the slight breeze. The miller’s dog, a medium-sized, brown and black mutt made its way to the bank and leaned in through the grass to lap some of the cool water. He yipped and jumped back suddenly as a wooden box bumped against the bank of the river just inches from where he’d been trying to get a drink. The box, made by a local carpenter, had been finished, filled, and discarded in the river just upstream only late this morning. About the size of a large flower pot, the lid had been made to fit perfectly so the contents inside would not get wet. It was obviously the work of a skilled carpenter. The dog leaned in a little closer and sniffed. Something wasn’t quite right about the smell of this box. It continued to drift slowly down the river as the dog excitedly barked and escorted it along its lazy journey. Before long, the water began rushing a little faster as small whitecaps buffeted the chest. It was getting closer and closer to a large paddle wheel that kept the water churning through the miller’s farm. The old miller, thin and leathery-looking, was working close by. He looked over at his barking dog just as the box became wedged between one of the rotating paddles on the wheel and the bank of the river.

“Vegard!” he yelled as he hobbled over to see what was causing the wheel to stop turning.

“What, in the name of Odin’s ghost...” he muttered as he noticed the small chest.

He stumbled into the water, grabbed the box, and heaved it onto the land. The paddle wheel started churning slowly as it was relieved of the obstruction, causing the man to lose his balance and splash around as he tried to get away from the turning wheel. He clumsily lumbered up the bank where he sat for a minute, trying to catch his breath.

“Vegard! Get away from that!” he breathlessly motioned to the dog that had now made its way to the box and was circling it wildly. There were strange noises coming from inside the wooden chest, like the sound of a muffled fox’s howl.

“Sit!” He said to Vegard as he pulled the chest closer to him. The dog ignored his master’s order and continued sniffing the chest. The old man swiped him away angrily. He placed his hands on the lid and tried to tug it open. It wouldn’t budge. He had been weakened from trying to fish the box out of the river. As he took a deep, renewing breath, he heard a muffled shriek from inside the box.

“What is causing so much...Uuhhhh!” he grunted as he tried again to tug open the lid. “Well how does this thing...” he muttered to himself in frustration.

“What on earth are you doing?” The miller’s wife yelled as she stumbled toward him wearing her work clothes--her only clothes, which consisted of a dress that was a little too long, an apron, and a dirty, loose-fitting bonnet. She was as old and haggard looking as her husband, with hands that were chapped from years of hard labor. She had noticed the commotion her husband made when he was splashing around in the river and made her way across a small clearing to where he was kneeling, dripping water over the top of the box.

“Look there,” she pointed, “can’t you see there’s a key in the lock?”

She crouched over the chest, turned the key slowly, and lifted the wooden cover. The miller’s eyes narrowed, trying to peek inside the dark opening. His wife’s eyes gleamed, hoping to see riches untold.

“AHHH!” The miller’s both gasped in unison. A small pair of eyes looked up at them.