The Tomten

Midwinter’s night is cold and hard, the stars, they sparkle and glimmer. All are asleep at a lonely farm during the midnight hour. The moon wanders quietly across the sky, the snow shines white on pine and spruce, and the snow shines white on every roof. Only the tomten is awake.

Standing there by the barn door, gray against the white drift of snow, he is looking, like so many winters before, up at the shining moon. He then looks at the woods, where spruce and pine build a dark wall around the farm. He ponders, though to no avail, over a riddle, mysterious and strange.

He runs his hand through his beard and hair, shaking his head and his hat “no, this riddle is just too hard, this one I simply can’t guess.” Soon, as he has done often before, he pushes these thoughts away. Instead he goes to put things in order, to care for the farm, his home.

He walks to the storehouse and toolshed, he feels the lock to every door. In the stalls the cows are dreaming summer dreams, in the moonlight they’ve forgotten harness, whip and reins. The horse in his stall also has a dream: the manger he is leaning over is filled with sweet-smelling clover.

He goes to the pen for the sheep and lambs, and sees how they sleep inside, he goes to the hens, where the rooster is proudly perched on the highest roost. The dog is content on the straw in his house, he wakes and wags his tail. He knows his tomten, they are good friends.

Lastly the tomten sneaks inside to see the beloved farmer and his wife, long and well has he known that they honor all of his hard work. Then, on tiptoe, to the other bedroom he goes, drawing near the cute little children. No one need worry over this, for they are his greatest joy.

Thus has he watched the children sleep, fathers and sons, unbroken through many generations. They came down to this place, but from where did they come? Family followed after family, and fast: they flowered, grew old, and departed – but where to? And so the riddle that refuses to be answered comes back to the Tomten again.

The Tomten goes up to the loft in the barn where he has his home and castle high up in the scent of hay, close by the swallow’s nest. Now of course the nest is empty, but with spring and leaves and flowers he will be back, followed by his cute little wife.

The he always has much to say, many memories of travel, nonetheless nothing on the riddle that troubles the Tomten’s mind. Through a crack in the wall of the barn the moon shines on the old man’s beard, the streak on the beard shines, the Tomten broods and ponders.

Quiet is the forest and all around, the life out there is frozen, only from a distance comes the slow murmur of the river. The Tomten listens and, half in a dream, he thinks he hears the streams of time, he wonders where it shall lead to, he wonder, from where it has come.

Midwinter’s night is cold and hard, the stars, they sparkle and glimmer. All sleep well at the lonely farm until the morning hour. The moon is quietly setting now, the snow shines white on pine and spruce, and the snow shines white on every roof. Only the Tomten is awake.