The Story of Oddbjörg the Witch

In the rugged, fog-laden expanse of Strandir, where the jagged cliffs of the Westfjords rise against a restless sea, the name Oddbjörg lingers like an uneasy whisper. Hers is not a tale of redemption or misunderstanding; it is one of fear, power, and the sharp edge of survival in a land that leaves little room for forgiveness.

Oddbjörg lived on a solitary farm near Trékyllisvík, a place where the wind screamed down from the mountains and the sea churned with an eternal hunger. She was not well-liked, though perhaps that was her choice. A widow with no family to speak of, Oddbjörg kept to herself, her only companion a great black cat whose eyes gleamed like wet stone.

The villagers whispered that Oddbjörg could conjure storms with a flick of her wrist or call sickness down on a man with nothing but a glance. They spoke of her herb-drying racks, crowded with plants they didn’t recognize, and of her long nights spent chanting in the firelight. She didn’t deny the rumors.

Trouble came when a boy fell ill—a strange sickness, sharp and sudden, that no healer could cure. At the same time, a neighbor’s prized cow wasted away, its milk souring before it could be churned. The villagers, already wary of Oddbjörg, found their answer in her. The whispers grew louder, accusations coalescing into a single damning word: witch.

Oddbjörg didn’t flee when they came for her, though perhaps she should have. The men stormed her farm, their voices loud against the screaming wind, and dragged her to the shore, where the waves slammed against the rocks like a war drum. There, she was bound and burned. The flames leapt high against the grey sky, the smoke curling into strange shapes before vanishing into the air.

But the story doesn’t end with her death. In the weeks that followed, the sea grew wilder near Trékyllisvík, as if mirroring the fury of the life it had claimed. The cliffs above her farm began to crumble, small stones tumbling down as though the earth itself was restless. The villagers spoke of strange shadows moving in the mist and of a voice—low, steady, and calm—that carried on the wind, asking a single question: Why?

Oddbjörg’s name became a warning. Don’t wander too far from home. Don’t speak ill of the land. And above all, don’t cross those who know its secrets. Her farm fell to ruin, her cat vanishing as if it had never existed. But her story remained, woven into the fabric of Strandir like the endless patterns of the waves.

Even now, when the storms roll in and the sea roars louder than it should, the people of Trékyllisvík glance toward the cliffs and murmur her name—not in fear, but in uneasy respect. Oddbjörg. Not gone. Just waiting.