“Loki had thought to go to sea and take refuge with his daughter, Jörmungard the Serpent, but, in assuming the form of a salmon, he had assumed also, of necessity, the natural antipathies and fears of the fish. He turned at a sight so terrible to a salmon, and again sprang over the net. But Thor was ready for him, and while he was in the air, caught him in his hand, just above the insertion of the tail; and you may observe that salmon have never yet recovered from that tremendous squeeze, but are finer and thinner at the root of the tail than any fish that swims.”
“Well,” said the Captain, “that is quite true; it is a fact that every salmon-fisher knows; and he knows also that the root of the tail is the only part of the salmon by which it is possible to hold him, and that it is possible to hold him by that the Parson showed you just now practically. But it is very satisfactory to find out the reason of such things, particularly when the reason is such a very good one. What did the gods do with Mr. Loki when they had got him; crimp him, and eat him?”
“They could not kill him,” said Birger, “because of the oath of brotherhood which Odin had one day incautiously sworn with him (I presume, when they were both drunk); so they laid him on his back on three pointed rocks in a cave, and bound him with three cords which they afterwards transformed into iron bars; and there he will lie, shifting himself, every now and then, from side to side, and producing what mortals call earthquakes, until that day, known only to the Nornir, when the twilight shall fall upon Asgard, and the conflagration of the world is at hand.”
“Serve him right, too,” said the Captain; “I am delighted to hear that the inventor of salmon-nets perished—like Perillus and other rascals—by his own invention. I hope the gods will keep him purgatory, or whatever they call it, as long as rivers run toward the sea. However, here is our Loki (holding up, by the tail, the scored salmon), and, as we have not been geese enough to swear brotherhood with him, he will do for our dinner. What shall we do, in the meanwhile, to crimp him?”
“Make him fast to the boat, and tow him a-stern for ten minutes,” said the Parson; “the water of the Torjedahl is cold enough to crimp a live fish, let alone a dead one. And, I will tell you what: let Torkel go with the praam for the other boats, and meet us on the left bank, just above the bridge. I want to show you a view of our route to-day that is worth seeing.”
So saying, he led the way up a steep, rugged path, just discernible among the rocks of the rugged ridge which divides the amphitheatre in which Christiansand is situated from the wild coasts of the Fjord; and, passing through a sort of natural opening cut in the summit ridge, pointed to the scene before them. “There,” said he, “what do you think of that?”
Birger was an artist; and, anxious as he was to begin his career as a fisherman, his ever-ready sketchbook was drawn out of his pocket; nor did he express a wish to move till the rugged foreground upon which they stood, the luxuriant park-like middle distance, with its clumps of trees, and dark-red houses, and neat English-looking church, and the background of fir-clad mountains, range beyond range, and the deep narrow gorge through which their journey lay, which the blue lake-like river seemed to fill from side to side, were transferred to the paper.
A few minutes’ walk brought them to where the boats were waiting, with the whole house of Ullitz, handmaidens and all, who had come to see them off. Hand-shaking all round—the fishermen took their places—the boats shoved off—Marie threw after them her kid slipper, for luck, (for that custom is of Scandinavian origin)—English Tom gave three cheers, after the manner of her Britannic Majesty’s navy—and the expedition started on its voyage up the Torjedahl.
The Parson, who was anxious to reach the proposed encampment at Oxea, while there was yet light to pitch the tents, would suffer no harling, notwithstanding Birger’s remonstrances, until the first rapids had been safely passed; and, indeed, with the exception of the single throw where the Lieutenant had hooked his fish that morning, that part of the river was scarcely worth the trouble.