A small, wooden cabin lay within the depths of a freezing marshland, relentlessly pummeled by a mighty blizzard. The family that lived inside were no strangers to hardship—none of the people that populated this cold wasteland were—but this particular blizzard had come at a bad time. Their food stores were already low, and now even the hreinn had all fled or hid from the harsh weather, leaving nothing to hunt. It had been two days since they had last eaten, and the howling winds outside showed no signs of relenting. No amount of prayers to the gods seemed to work, and the family had started to resign themselves to a fate of starvation. But late one night, while his parents and siblings slept restlessly, the youngest of them had thought up a plan that could save them all. The boy’s name was Hjalti, and though he had only recently turned fifteen, he nearly matched his father in hunting ability. He took his quiver and bow, a long bundle of rope and the thickest furs in the house, steeling himself for the blizzard outside. He silently slipped out the door into the freezing gale and set off towards his destination.
No doubt the gods smiled upon Hjalti’s bravery, for he was met with a stroke of luck: the light of the false-sun had reached its nightly zenith, shining ever present from its resting place on the horizon. Though the haze of snow was dense, the false-sunlight triumphed, and his path forward was illuminated by its warm glow. Though the unrelenting storm threw all its might against him and the cold slowly crept beneath his skin, his resolve remained strong. He would save his family; he would accept no other outcome. Soon, his goal came into sight.
In front of Hjalti, on top of a small incline, lay the Illskógr: the great cursed forest not far from his home. The tallest of its trees stretched high enough to touch the clouds, dwarfing even the largest firs by orders of magnitude. A foul, sickly purple mist coalesced around their trunks, filling his heart with a deep unease. Anyone with sense knew to stay away from the Illskógr, for not a single person who entered the woods had ever returned. Tale after tale had been sung in the gathering halls of the evil nature of this place, how even the gods dare not gaze inside. Even the native fauna of the marsh seemed to avoid it, instinctively giving it a wide berth. But the colossal trees would provide shelter from the blizzard. Perhaps some hreinn had been forced inside, seeking refuge from the gale. If Hjalti could kill just one of them, taking care to not venture too deep within, it might be enough to save his family from starvation until the storm had passed. It was a desperate plan, but it was a desperate situation. In his eyes, he had no choice. He tied his rope around one of the smallest trees on the forest’s edge, then tied the other end around his wrist. This way, it would be impossible for him to get lost. With a nervous swallow, he stepped into the swirling mists.
Instantly, Hjalti felt a strange warmth envelop him. The cold of the blizzard had completely faded away; though he was barely a step within the boundary of the trees, the weather had become calm and temperate, almost idyllic. The howling wind was silent: he could hear nothing but the gentle rustle of branches. It had been the middle of the night before yet it now shone as bright as day, even though neither the sun nor the false-sun were visible through the smothering purple fog that lay above. There was no snow at his feet, only grass and branches. The stories had painted the Illskógr to be a harsh, inhospitable place, but it was unmistakably the opposite. Had the old tales been wrong? Though he was reluctant to admit it, Hjalti much preferred the forest to the harsh cold outside it at the moment. But he still felt a sense of unease. This wasn’t right—it couldn’t be. Nobody had ever left, after all. Surely there would be deadly beasts lurking inside, ready to kill him at a moment’s notice. He would only stay in here long enough to find something to hunt, not lingering any longer than he had to. He carefully began to walk deeper into the forest, taking great care to stay as silent as he could. He knew it was dangerous to be inside, but he was confident in his ability to stay hidden.
Again, Hjalti was met with a stroke of luck. After only a minute of walking, he heard a rustle in the brush ahead. He quickly crouched down behind a tree. There, just at the edge of the fog, no more than thirty feet away, stood an unaware hreinn. His heart leapt. His hunch had been right! Though, something seemed off with the beast. Its antlers seemed stunted, and a faint, colorful shimmer seemed to dance across its coat. But that was of little importance to Hjalti. He nervously took his bow from his back and nocked an arrow, lining up a shot. Though his hands were shaking, his aim remained true: the arrow soared through the air, striking the hreinn directly in its neck. It fell to the ground, moving no more.
He paused for a moment, keeping an eye out for any danger, but there was nothing. He approached the animal tentatively, and sure enough, it had died on the spot. After another pause, he hoisted it up by its antlers, convincing himself that what he saw before him was real. Pure joy filled his heart. Not only had he ventured into the Illskógr and lived, but he had saved the lives of his family by doing so! Once the story got around, his name would go down in legend, mentioned alongside the heroes of old! All he needed to do was follow the rope back to the forest’s edge and brave the blizzard once more, and all would turn out okay.
He gathered his strength and began to drag the beast back home. It was easier than he expected. The fog seemed to rejuvenate him somehow, relieving his exhaustion and hunger by just a little.
It took a lot longer with the hrienn behind him, but soon enough the edge of the rope was in sight. The tree he had tied it around lay just in front of him, marking the end of the Illskógr. Though the treacherous fog clouded his vision and obscured the blizzard beyond, he knew once he passed this tree he would be back on the incline, not far from home. Triumphantly, he stepped across the boundary where he had first entered the fog.
But the incline wasn’t there. The fog remained.
The sense of unease that had been festering at the back of Hjalti’s mind began to worsen. Why wasn’t the incline there? He tried to calm his breathing. He had probably just lost his bearings and walked on the wrong side of the tree. He knew it marked the end of the Illskógr. It was on the very edge of the incline, no matter what it looked like. He had tied the rope around it while he was still outside the forest. If he walked in a circle around the tree, it would be impossible for him to not leave it. He was probably worrying over nothing. Still dragging the animal’s corpse behind him, he walked up to the tree, then slowly circled it.
But still, the fog remained. Surrounding him was nothing but forest, indistinguishable from itself in any direction.
As his unease started to turn into full blown panic, suddenly, he understood. He had assumed that nobody ever returned from the Illskógr because they were killed by dangerous beasts, or because the fog had caused them to wander in the wrong direction. He had assumed escaping the forest was a matter of cleverness and skill, and those who entered in the past were simply unprepared. But he was still alive, and the rope should have prevented him from losing his way. The stories had been right after all; the forest truly was evil. The reason nobody ever returned from the Illskógr was not through fault of their own. The reason nobody ever returned from the Illskógr was because the Illskógr didn’t let them leave.
The family in that small cabin would awaken the next day to a cold tranquility. The blizzard had chosen this day to take its leave, and the marsh was again filled with the sounds of life. The gods had shown mercy, and none would starve this day. However, any joy such an occasion would bring was unavoidably undermined by the feeling of loss that permeated the chilly morning air. The tracks Hjalti left on the snow had not faded, and it was not hard for his family to ascertain the truth of what had occurred. Though they had no body to cremate, he was given a symbolic funeral and a great feast in his name, the whole of the community hailing him as a hero who sacrificed himself so that the gods would ease their punishment of the land. His name would gradually enter the tales of legend, forever echoing through the frozen halls of the marsh.
Hjalti, for his part, never saw his family again.