The Myling – Chapter 2, The Barmaid’s Welcome

August 2025 – Vettheim, Finnmark, Norway

The sun shone in brightly through the window of the bus as it trundled along the narrow road. It had been seven hours since we had first boarded that bus back in Tromsø and the last signs of civilisation, save for the occasional, tiny cluster of houses, lay over an hour behind us. We were now heading deeper into the untamed Norwegian wilderness.

I glanced over at my two children. Tom and Sarah, they were eight years old, twins. I watched them for a moment as they both giggled and laughed, crowding around their tablet, their eyes fixed intently on the flickering screen.

Beside me sat my husband, Paul. His head was thrown back, mouth open and snoring loudly. Such an attractive look, I thought to myself sarcastically.

My eyes returned to the window, watching the landscape as it slowly drifted past. The sky was a brilliant blue. The sun, high in the sky shone down brightly. Forests of emerald green birch trees stretched out either side of the road. Occasionally the trees would thin out, revealing shining lakes and the low, rugged hills beyond.

Eventually the trees opened out as we entered the village of Vettheim. In reality, it was little more than a hamlet. A single road ran through the village with no more than a couple of dozen houses on either side. Their wooden walls were painted a deep red, a red that contrasted sharply with the bright white of the window frames. The roofs were steeply pitched, covered in a grey slate.

The air brakes gave a slow, drawn out hiss as the bus came to a stop.

Sharply, I elbowed Paul in the side, waking him from his slumber with a mutter and a moan. Then I quickly gathered up the twins’ tablet, books and other toys and bundled them into my bag. We stood and made our way towards the front of the bus. The other seats were largely empty except for an old man who glanced up at us as we passed.

Stepping off the bus, the sun felt warm on my skin. A soft breeze brushed against the light jacket that I was wearing.

Rising up in front of me stood a large, wooden built church. It was made from the same weather boarding as the rest of the houses in Vettheim except that it was painted white rather than red. The windows were tall and arching, glazed in clear glass and the dark tiled roof sloped steeply around a low, squat tower. The sign in front of the church read, St. Lucias Kirke.

With a loud grunt and making far more of a meal out of it than was strictly necessary, Paul tugged on the handle of bus’s luggage hold, swinging it upwards. Reaching in, he pulled out my all black rucksack and thrust it towards me. He was ever the gracious one.

Swinging it over my shoulder, I watched as he retrieved his own khaki, camouflage pack before stepping back and pulling the hold door closed.

We watched as the bus trundled off down the road before gathering around each other for a quick selfie to mark the start of our adventure.

Across the road, facing the church stood a small inn. It was wider than the houses of the village, although built from the same red painted panelling and with the same steep slate roof. Above the door hung a dark green sign, written in bright gold writing were the words, ‘Skogkanten Kro’.

Crossing the road and climbing the three or four steps towards the door. I gripped the brass door handle, gave it a twist, pushed the door open and stepped inside. My family followed closely behind me.

We had decided to spend the first night of our visit here at the inn, one last piece of comfort before heading into the wilds for a few days of walking and camping.

The door led straight into the large open space of the bar. The room was bright, two large windows flanked the door, allowing the sunlight to flood in and appeared to make the pale timber walls shine. The floor was laid with dark stained floorboards and numerous tables and chairs were arranged at regular intervals. Directly opposite me, a bar ran half the length of the wall.

The place was surprisingly quiet, the only sound came from a brightly lit juke box in the corner. Rising up from it were the soft sounds of a Norwegian folk tune, a tune that I didn’t recognise. The only other people in the bar were a blonde haired barmaid of around thirty and an old man sitting on a stool, hunched over a glass of beer.

“Hei!” The barmaid called out to us in a cheerful voice.

Walking over to the bar, our hiking boots thumped out a heavy beat which seemed to echo in the quiet room.

“Hi, we’ve got a room booked for the night. It should be under the name Thompson?” Paul spoke. He didn’t even make any attempt to speak the language! Sometimes I wonder why I bother buying all those phrase books when we go away.

“Yes, I’ve got you here. I’ve put you in room two. Just through the door and on the right. You’re English? That’s quite a journey. So, what are you getting up to, all the way out here?”

“We’re going to walk up to the lake, camp for a few nights there and do a bit of hiking around the area.” I spoke quickly before Paul had the chance to. I didn’t like that doe eyed look that he was giving her, I would have words with him later about that.

Suddenly, I felt a firm grip seize my arm. My eyes snapped towards the old man. I hadn’t seen him move since we’d arrived but now he pinned me with a cold and surprisingly firm grip and an intense blue eyed stare.

“You’re going up to Sorgvannet?” his voice came crisp and sharp.

I had forgotten the name of the lake but yes that was it, Sorgvannet.

I nodded.

“The Waters of Sorrow they call that place, it’s the unholy resting place of the Children of the Sky…” The old man continued.

“Oh, come on Jakob! Don’t go scaring these nice people with your old folktales.” The barmaid interrupted with a tone that sounded bored. I guessed that this wasn’t the first time she’d had to reprimand Jakob.

“It’s no folktale, girl!” He responded sharply. “You watch yourselves up there, a Myling haunts the banks of that lake. The tormented spirit of a poor child denied the rites of a proper Christian burial and cursed to wander for eternity. Existing as neither part of this world nor the next.”

“Ok, that’s enough from you now. You’ll give the children nightmares.” The barmaid’s eyes flicked from old Jakob’s to mine. A kind smile spread across her face as she held out to me a small brass key. “I can either get you all a drink now or if you prefer, you’re welcome to go straight to your room and relax. I’ll be serving dinner between five and seven, it’ll be reindeer stew if that sounds good to you?”

Jakob finally released his hold on me, muttering words that were barely intelligible in his thick accent. “I’ll be seeing you all at church in the morning?”

I nodded my head, more out of politeness than anything else. We weren’t much of a church going family, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stepped into one. We hadn’t even bothered to get the twins christened.