We remember the tale of Olaf Åsteson, who slept twelve days and nights. For it happened one winter that a terrible cold came upon his Norwegian village, and a memory came to him. Though his limbs shivered and his feeling waned, he was warmed by the recollection of a story from childhood that told of a cave through a passage in a nearby mountain where a seeker might have his questions answered: “Ask out loud what ye will, oh wanderer,” so had the story gone, “and lie down in the stony darkness for to sleep. Then will knowledge come to you in dreams.” The cavern of that mountain was one of the vessels in which Odin had stored the Mead of Wisdom, which that venerable one had gained from the inner world, so the old timers once taught.
Therefore, Olaf went to spend the night alone and unprotected, for he wished to learn how his village might survive so biting a winter as none could recall ever afflicting them before. It was the night of December 24th when he entered the blackness and asked his question, wrapped in what layers he owned. Then, after midnight, he fell into a deep and abiding slumber, whereupon his spirit was taken up into the air, ascending to the very edge of this, our sublunary realm. He was allowed to walk upon the craterous deserts of the moon, touring a catalogue of postmortem fates. He first glimpsed abodes of horrendous purgation where those who remain under the lunatic sway of selfish desire dwell.
Each day and night that he slept, he was shown a different manner of suffering. He saw the figures of them who are ungrateful, who dim their curiosity and are jaded before every joy. Of them who can let nothing go and are weighed down by resentment. Of the grave ones who never laugh. Of those who sleepwalk through life and waste it. Of the greedy ones who covet, wanting most of all to have whatever others want and deprive their neighbours of it.
Each suffering figure he saw faded into a dusty distance, even as it reminded Olaf of times when he himself had fallen short and been unkind, coarse, and soft; he had left righteous work undone.
“The moon shines bright, and all the paths lead far away,” repeated Olaf’s melancholy refrain.
But then the moon reminded him of the waves of the sea and all the good she does, and of the sun, whose light she reflects. Then he was also given to remember joyful times and acts of love when in his village there had been gratitude and forgiveness, levity and even-handedness, piety and tenderness, and care for others.
With this Olaf came to a bridge called Gjelle, guarded by three beasts—untamed monsters of his own soul’s making. In truth, they were three heads attached to a monstrous body, for this was Cerberus, the guard of Hades. One of these beasts was made of hateful thoughts harboured against his fellow men, and the other was made of every time he had preferred comfort to service, selfishness to love, every weakness of desire and slackening of flesh. Every flaccidity of purpose which makes men’s cheeks fat, their gaze soft, their face red with the love of drink, and their words spurious and unworthy.
The middle head, which was the most fearsome of the three, was made of just that: his fears. And especially the fear of death.
But Olaf was a good man and repented of all three.
Then, as the three-headed beast became tame, it stood to one side so that Olaf could see ahead up the shining bridge, which was made of sunlight, and he saw how it led to exalted paradisal estates, realms of surpassing beauty.
Presently, he was greeted by a woman standing with him on the moon who was dressed in the same light out of which the bridge was made and who wore a crown of stars. When he turned to her, it seemed to Olaf that each star on her tiara was a tiny world like those paradises he could see beyond the moon.
The woman spoke to him of the Maker of all he now surveyed and also of her Son, who, she told Olaf, had come to the world when a terrible winter threatened to freeze the hearts of men and taught them how to survive it.
With this, Olaf finally got the answer to his question.
Now, awakening in time for Mass, to which he quickened, Olaf recounted all he had seen to the people of his village. The villagers, who had thought him dead, frozen along some mountain trail, listened to all he said in amazement.
So, how did they survive? By loving one another. Those with more shared with those who had less; those with leftover firewood and extra blankets gave these away in charity to the ones who lacked, and all worked together diligently.
Their faith and their gratitude for the good things that their village enjoyed guided them and increased them. Thereafter, even many generations later, they would relate the tale of good Olaf, who ascended to the heavens one Christmas and for twelve days travelled in the beyond, finally returning to Earth on the day of Epiphany.
Read more folk tales for the twelve days of Christmas here.
