Gorma Tales of the Camino: Wolfgang and Svend and the Farm by the Sea

Gorma could tell, before she arrived one afternoon, that she was approaching a farm by the sea. Fields of corn and meadows of sweet grass filled a hillside. Fences of split wood and sturdy wire surrounded the fields, and kept the cows and sheep in their pastures, safe and sound. She heard the ringing chop of an axe splitting wood somewhere nearby, and chickens clucking, and a goat bleating like a child with a chore they don’t want to do. And flowing over and under, around and through, came the mysterious smell of the sea.

As the road curved, Gorma followed, and soon came upon a farmyard with an old stone wall, a sturdy stone barn, and a stone and yellow plaster house supported by great brown wooden posts and beams. It stood solid and snug, and near the barn, Gorma saw two men, one splitting wood and the other stacking it. As she approached, the goat stopped bleating and chewed grass near the chicken yard. But the chickens never stopped clucking.

“That’s a lot of firewood for such a pleasant afternoon,” Gorma noted, nodding in greeting to the two.

“Yes it is, Gorma, yes it is,” agreed the stacker. He was lean and strong, like a forest tree, or a mountain stone, and just as dark and rugged and wise. “But you know, the weather changes, seasons too, and soon we will have need for a fire to keep us warm.”

The chopper CHOPPED! another log. He was muscular and strong, like a lion, or a wolf, and just as fair and rippling and intelligent. He said nothing, but his sharp ears and sharper eyes missed nothing, either. Like his axe.

They were brothers, Svend the stacker, Wolfgang the chopper. They had built the farm together, and being both so smart and strong, had kept it well, so well it grew, everything they needed and more that they could sell. They gave Gorma a cup of coffee and some toasted bread with strawberry jam, and as Gorma munched happily, she noted something else. “This is a large amount of work, even for two so strong as you. I would think you’d hire a youth to do the woodchopping, at least.”

And at that, Wolfgang CHOPPED! another log, his wolf eyes flashing. “Oh we did, Gorma, we did,” assured Svend, standing tall as a tree. “But, oh Gorma, Gorma – I think he is a mage.” And Wolfgang CHOPPED! another log.

“A mage, you say,” said Gorma, cocking her head in that way she does when she has many questions yet unanswered. “How do you know?”

“Well, he said as much,” said Svend, and Wolfgang rolled his eyes at that. “But also – Gorma, Gorma, he has the power to disappear.” And at that, Wolfgang set his axe down, took off his glasses and wiped them clean. He looked at Gorma and, cocking his own head as well, nodded twice.

“He does not run away, but disappears?” And Gorma looked around the farm in one wide sweep.

“It’s true,” Svend replied, “because he never misses breakfast in the morning. And here it is too wild a place and far too far from any town for him to run and not run into danger.” Svend pursed his lips together in a frown and shook his head. “We do not know how to manage him; yet, he won’t leave. Every day for over a week, every time we give him a task to earn his keep, like chopping wood –” and Wolfgang CHOPPED! another log – “he disappears.”

Gorma sipped her coffee. “I’m surprised that, though you both are smart and strong, he can outfox you in this way. Still, when we only use one tool when we have many, we are bound to run into little mischiefs we mistake for mysteries. So now,” said Gorma, leaning in conspiratorially with Svend and Wolfgang, “let us open wide the toolshed, shall we?”

Wolfgang CHOPPED! his axe into the chopping block, where it held fast, as he wanted it to, and he and Svend took Gorma to the toolshed door. Svend opened it for Gorma, and they all peered inside the dusty shed together.

“Yesss,” said Gorma, and she began to smile. “Yes, here’s everything you need.” So Gorma reached into the shed two times. For Svend, she found carpenter’s pencils, and a roll of thick paper used to patch a broken window until repaired. Svend looked at these items in his hands as Gorma reached the second time into the shed and brought out for Wolfgang the great furry bearskin their father had left them long ago. He held it up in front of him with both his hands, then looked at Svend, and Svend at him, then both at Gorma, puzzled.

“Well, shall we wait for breakfast tomorrow, or shall we find your mage and manage him this day?” Gorma asked with a wink, popping her last bite of jam on toast into her mouth.

They walked back up to the barn. In a bit of a theatrical voice, Gorma called, “Oh Svend, I wonder if you could make me a drawing of your farm here? It is so peaceful, and I would be so happy if I could have a picture of it on my wall. Make sure to include everything, yes? Every chicken and chopped piece of wood, so I remember well.”

Svend looked startled, but then smiled and gave Gorma back a wink of his own, and soon was happily sketching out some scribbles, every barn cat and bale of hay, steadily recreating the farm upon the paper.

“Oh Wolfgang,” Gorma called again, “you must be tired from your woodchopping. I’ve brought you ale, and thought, refreshed, you might like a short rest.” So Wolfgang quenched his thirst, and stretched out on the bearskin beside Svend, and fell asleep.

Gorma helped herself to coffee from the kitchen, and she brought Svend an ale as well. She waited nearby, sipping and humming, until his drawing was nearly complete, and Wolfgang stirred and woke. Then Gorma huddled down beside them, in the middle, speaking lower than before. “How go the scribbles, Svend?” she asked, for Svend seemed stuck on one small detail near the barn.

“Ah, Gorma, Gorma, what a day, what a beautiful day I’ve been having. What a joy it is to sit and draw the things I love.”

“And how about you?” she asked Wolfgang, who had risen to one elbow, lounging comfortably beside his brother, smiling from the bearskin now. He, too, seemed pleased.

“Hmmm,” she hummed, as Gorma looked around the farm, “then what could be amiss?” She smiled slyly. “Anything that isn’t right? Oh, now what could mar this day on your sweet farm?”

Now rested, Wolfgang’s lion eyes flashed brightly blue and brilliant, and his nostrils twitched because he’d caught the scent.

At the same time, Svend’s artistic eyes took a closer look; his fingers tapped his pencil on the paper near the barn like an axe to CHOP! the thing amiss from all his lovely work.

They stood together, pointing at – “The goat!” yelled Svend. And in that instant as it tried to run away, Wolfgang opened up his mouth and ROARED! Just like a lion.

Then the goat transformed before them all. And standing small within its place a boy, with ragged whiskers on his chin, who’d fooled them for a goat by acting as one. He was not quite a man, not yet, but neither was he a mage, those magic folk who help the moon to send us many dreams.

“The goat,” said Gorma calmly. “And a goat you’ll stay, bleating and whining about life’s necessary chores, unless….”

“Unless what?” asked the youth, in a shaky, goatlike voice.

“Unless you walk from this farm now, today, and never return. You don’t belong here, on this farm – you sought it out because it is so near the sea. You are no Mage – you are Magellan. Your chores are found on ships to sail the seas, to find new lands, and navigate by stars. Stop dreaming in the moonlight, little goat, of better tasks and better days. Go do your part – go live your life – the world awaits.”

And so, young Magellan walked down to the beach, where he found a ship ready for him, and away he sailed with a crew of fellow youths, for many months, and years, always chasing new horizons, distant lands. For Gorma knew that some have sea legs and some stride the earth, and different ones will grow in different ways, some with many rows to hoe, some with wild oats to sow, and some in need of getting their feet wet.

Svend and Wolfgang toasted each other with ale, and laughed out loud, and took the time to walk together every day – through the farm, over the hills, along the road, and out to the sea. There Svend would draw, and Wolfgang would rest content, watching the gulls fly over the waves, and every day, what delight they took in these small joys.

And sometimes, they would walk to the toolshed, open wide the door, and reach inside…for more. The best tools, after all, are those that help us do the tasks that make us our best selves.

But that was all to come, and now, as Magellan sailed off, Gorma walked on, quiet and smiling. She arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, the chickens stopped their clucking, for it was the dark of night, and first the moon and finally, the stars, sailed over the albergue, the farm, and one small ship beyond the horizon.

Buen Camino, Wolfgang and Svend.