Búkolla

Once there were an old man and an old woman living in a small croft below a mountain. They were poor — so poor that they owned little more than smoke from the chimney, turf over their heads, and one cow in the byre. The cow's name was Búkolla.

She was worth more to them than silver and gold, for she gave them milk when winter was dark, when snow lay over the home-field and the wind beat the walls like an invisible hand. They also had a son, a young boy, quiet and good, though not always as careful as his parents would have wished.

One morning the old woman went out to the byre with a milk pail in hand. But when she opened the door, the stall stood empty. Búkolla was gone.

The old woman called for the old man, and the old man called for his son. They searched around the farm, down by the brook, along the fence, and out across the home-field. But the animal was nowhere to be seen. Only a faint trail could be made out in the dew-wet grass, as though something had set off toward the mountain while the household slept.

"Now we're in trouble," said the old man. "If Búkolla isn't found, we'll have little left to live on."

The old woman looked at her son. She was pale, but her voice was steady. "Go, my boy," she said. "Look for her. And when you've gone far from the farm, call out loudly: Low now, my Búkolla, if you are anywhere alive."

The boy nodded, took his staff, and set off. He walked first across the home-field, then over the moors, where frost still lay in the hollows though the sun had risen. He passed grey stones, black lava ridges, and streams murmuring beneath the ice. The mountains rose before him, dark and silent, as if they had kept watch all night and knew more than they wished to say.

When he had gone some way from the farm, he stopped, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called: "Low now, my Búkolla, if you are anywhere alive!"

He listened. Nothing but the wind in the grass.

He walked farther and called again. Then he thought he heard something — very faint, very far away. One mournful low, as though it came from inside a stone.

The boy ran toward the sound. He climbed a steep slope, crept between boulders, and came at last to a dark cave-mouth beneath a black crag. Inside, the air was cold and heavy, smelling of earth, smoke, and old bones.

"Búkolla?" he whispered.

The cow lowed again. Deep inside he saw her — tied to a great stone, a small calf beside her. She moved her ears at the sight of him and looked at him with eyes deeper than the night outside.

"My Búkolla," he said, and ran to her. He untied her as fast as he could. But as the rope loosened, a heavy snoring sounded from within the cave. Then another. He saw two ogresses sleeping there, one large and one smaller, heads on stones, feet stretching into the dark.

Búkolla nudged him with her head, as if to say: hurry.

He led her out, the calf following. They had scarcely come down from the crag when the big ogress woke. "Who has taken my cow?" she roared, so the mountain echoed. The smaller one rose too, and together they rushed out and saw the boy and Búkolla fleeing down the slope.

"There he goes! Catch him!"

The boy looked back and saw them coming with strides so long he knew they would soon be caught. "What shall we do now, my Búkolla?" he called.

Búkolla turned her head and said, low but clear: "Take a hair from my tail and lay it on the ground."

He did. She spoke over it: "Become such a great river that none may cross but the flying bird."

At once the hair became a broad, roaring river, dark and deep, white waves battering its banks. The big ogress reached it and snarled. "That won't save you, boy!" She turned to the smaller one. "Run home and fetch my father's great bull!"

The little ogress ran back and returned with a monstrous bull, blacker than night, bigger than any beast the boy had seen. It drank the river dry.

The ogresses came on again. "What now, my Búkolla?" the boy called.

"Take another hair and lay it down," she said. He did, and she spoke: "Become such a great fire that none may cross but the flying bird."

Fire sprang up, red and gold, lighting the hillsides like a fallen sunset. The heat drove the ogresses back — but the big one laughed a dark laugh. "That won't save you either." She called the bull, which came heavy and wet and poured all the water it had drunk over the flames. The fire hissed out.

Now the ogresses were closer than ever. "My Búkolla," the boy said, "now they'll catch us."

"Take one more hair," said Búkolla, "and lay it down." His hands shook, but he did it. She spoke: "Become such a high mountain that none may cross but the flying bird."

A mountain rose from the earth — higher than the farmhouse, higher than a church tower, higher than the clouds. Grey rock stretched into the sky, and the ogresses vanished on the far side.

The boy and Búkolla went on toward home. But the big ogress would not give up. "That won't save you, boy!" her voice echoed over the mountain. She sent the small one home for her father's auger, and began boring through the rock. It shuddered; stones fell; dust swirled. At last she saw daylight on the other side, and grew so eager she forced herself in before the hole was wide enough.

She stuck fast. She shook the mountain and roared until ravens rose from the cliffs, but the more she struggled, the tighter she was wedged. Before long she turned to stone within the mountain. Some say she stands there still.

The boy walked home with Búkolla and the calf. The old woman came out to the yard, the old man behind her. They looked at the boy, then the cow, then the calf tottering along. The old woman wept for joy. The old man laid a hand on his son's shoulder and said nothing, for sometimes the greatest thanks are too heavy for words.

Búkolla walked into the byre herself, as if she had only stepped out a moment. She turned her head to the boy and lowed softly — not an ordinary low, but like an old promise kept.

From that day the boy never forgot to shut the byre door. And when the wind lay over the home-field at evening, soft as wool over a dark land, people sometimes felt the mountain answer far away — not with a human voice, not with an ogress's roar, but with a low, deep lowing.

And then folk in the district would say: "That's Búkolla. She still remembers the way home."