Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Dovre Witch
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young, she was an old woman—and she is still
alive to-day. For I, who write this, have seen her.
She was a mighty woman, she, the daughter of
the ancient Finnish sorcerers, who bowed down to
no man. Her broad feet left no timid marks upon
the dust of the highway. She brought the hail and
pointed the lightning. She could drive the herds
astray and send the wolves into the sheepfolds.
There was little good she could do, but much evil,
and it was best to be on good terms with her. If
she asked for your only lamb and a whole pound
of wool, it was best you gave it to her, or the cows
might suffer, or your child might die, or the
miserly housewife might herself go out of her mind.
She was never a welcome guest, but it was wisest
to meet her with a smiling face. Who can tell
on whose account it was that she was wandering
through the valley? She did not come simply to fill
her beggar’s basket. Evil omens followed her. The
army-worm crept forth, owls and foxes screamed
in the twilight, red and black caterpillars, spitting
forth venom, crept forth from the forest to the very
threshold of your door.
She was proud—mighty wisdom elevates the
mind. Costly runes were inscribed on her staff, and
she would not sell it for all the gold in the dale.
She could sing magic songs and brew magic drinks,
was wise in herbs, could ride the storm, and was
learned in all witchcraft. If I could only interpret
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