Happy Easter everyone!
Every so often, we like to post a little story from S:t Olavsleden, mostly featuring the little tomtar that lives in the woods around S:t Olavsleden. We hope you enjoy this one.
The Tomte and the Witch: A story of S:t Olavsleden
In the quiet stillness of Easter, S:t Olavsleden lay in hibernation under a thick quilt of snow. The path, usually a place for seekers and pilgrims, was now a dormant stretch, save for the wildlife and the tomtar—those elusive guardian spirits of Nordic lore.
One particular tomte, cloaked in the shadows of twilight, peered out from his refuge under the roots of a gnarled pine tree. His keen eyes, accustomed to the dim light of dawn and dusk, caught a peculiar sight in the storm-recovered sky.
There, battling the capricious whims of the wind, was a witch. She wasn’t of the malevolent variety that haunted the dark corners of tales but rather one on an important Easter mission to Blåkulla. Her hat was askew, and her hair whipped around her face in wild tendrils as her GPS device, utterly confounded by the storm, dangled uselessly from her belt.
The tomte, no stranger to the supernatural, watched her with a blend of wonder and concern. It was rare to see such a spectacle; a witch off course was like a compass losing north. Yet there she was, a silhouette against the chaos of the clouds, trying to recalibrate her bearings.
She caught the tomte’s gaze, a silent exchange in the quiet of the uninhabited trail. Perhaps it was the tomte’s presence, a grounding force of the earth and tradition, that lent her direction. Or maybe it was an old magic, one that coursed through the very soil of S:t Olavsleden, a guide stronger than any satellite signal.
The tomte, with a nod of his red-capped head, gestured towards Blåkulla. Understanding flickered in the witch’s eyes. She tipped her broom in thanks and corrected her course, her cloak snapping behind her as she regained her path.
As she faded into the distance, the tomte felt the thrum of ancient energies that had been stirred by her passage. He stepped out onto the trail, his footprints melting into the snow as if he were part of the wind.
This night, the story of S:t Olavsleden was one of silent camaraderie and the shared secrets of old beings and older magic. The tomte returned to his hidden home, content in the knowledge that the path was still a place of connection, even when the snow lay deep and the human world seemed far away.
In the hush of the Easter snow, S:t Olavsleden slumbered on, its stories safe in the keeping of the tomte and the whispered memories of a witch’s fleeting visit.