The sole heir of the Lord of Northland,
Having provided himself with a hook,
The size of which was out of viewing,
A most powerful yellow leather line
And twelve cattle to be used as a bait,
Squatted down on Mount Galdhøpiggen
And threw the line into the North Sea.
Morning after morning he angled thus,
And for a whole year caught nothing, alas.
At the end of that time, all of a sudden,
A fish of indescribable magnitudes
Swallowed the bait and dived down,
Dragging the huge hook with it. . .
Then it rose to the surface in a flurry
And flapped with all its six fins and tail
Till the white foam waves rose like hills,
And the waters were lashed into fury.
The noise was like that of screaming
Of all ten thousand imps and spirits,
And spread terror for a myriad miles.
The crown prince, having got such a fish,
Cut it in slices and dried them in the sun.
From the Glomma River to the east
And from the Vorma brook to the north,
There wasn’t one who didn’t eat one’s full
From that tremendous creature.
In subsequent generations, story-tellers
Of small narrative abilities have all
Repeated the story to one another
In eager rivalry and with astonishment.
But if the prince had taken his thin rod
With a fine line and gone to any ponds
And watched for minnows and gobies,
It would have been difficult for him
To get what he got, such a great fish!
Those who dress up their small tales
To obtain favour with the new posterity
Are far from being men of insight
And, therefore, one who has not heard
The legend of the scion of North
Is not fit to take any valid part in governing
Of the world—far is he from being so. . .
Truly, a great fish asks deep waters, but
The device for bringing a state to prosperity
Must not be exposed to the commoners.
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Nice nonsense. Eventually the word leaks out and the Lord comes down to commoner status.
Ron