The Story of Loftur Þorsteinsson (Galdra-Loftur)

In the shadow of Hólar Cathedral, where the northern winds sweep down from the mountains and the nights stretch long and cold, lived Loftur Þorsteinsson—a man whose name became synonymous with ambition, hubris, and the dark allure of forbidden magic. Known as Galdra-Loftur, or Loftur the Magician, his story remains one of Iceland’s most infamous sagas of sorcery.

Loftur was a student at Hólar in the early 18th century, a time when the cathedral was not just a place of worship but a seat of learning. But Loftur cared little for the scriptures or the Latin texts that lined its shelves. His eyes sought older knowledge, the kind found in faded grimoires and whispered secrets.

The legends say that Loftur grew obsessed with the lost black books of Iceland, ancient tomes said to hold the most powerful spells ever written. One of these, the Rauðskinna (Red Skin), was rumored to contain spells that could grant dominion over demons and even death itself. It was said to be buried with Bishop Gottskálk grimmi, a feared and cunning figure interred beneath the very cathedral where Loftur studied.

Loftur devised a plan to summon the dead bishop and wrest the Rauðskinna from him. On a moonless night, he crept into the cathedral, his arms heavy with candles and strange symbols inked onto parchment. He set the stage beneath the vaulted ceilings, the air thick with the weight of centuries of faith and fear.

The summoning began. Loftur’s voice rose in a chant that echoed unnaturally, his words weaving through the shadows like threads of silk. The candles flickered, their flames bending toward the center of the room as though drawn by unseen hands. And then, the room grew still.

Gottskálk appeared, his ghostly figure towering and grim. The air crackled with tension as Loftur demanded the book. The bishop’s hollow laughter filled the cathedral, a sound that froze the very marrow of Loftur’s bones. Loftur pressed on, his chants growing louder, more frantic, as he tried to bind the spirit to his will.

But the bishop was too powerful. The candles extinguished, plunging the room into darkness, and a sudden wind tore through the cathedral, scattering Loftur’s symbols and knocking him to the ground. When dawn broke, he was found unconscious, his face pale and his eyes haunted.

Loftur never recovered. He became a shadow of himself, muttering to unseen figures and avoiding the cathedral’s halls. His ambition had burned too brightly, and the darkness he sought had consumed him. Some say he threw himself into the river near Hólar, his body lost to the icy waters. Others claim he wandered into the mountains, never to be seen again.

The cathedral at Hólar still stands, its stones heavy with the weight of history. Visitors speak of a chill in the air, a sense of something unfinished lingering in the shadows. And in the quiet moments, when the wind dies and the world holds its breath, you might hear a faint chant—a remnant of Loftur’s ambition, echoing through time.