The Story of Þuríður Ólafsdóttir

In 1678, in the remote northern reaches of Strandir, Iceland, where fjords cut deep into the earth and valleys cling to the edges of mountains, there lived a widow named Þuríður Ólafsdóttir. Her home was near Trékyllisvík, a harsh and lonely place where survival demanded grit and resilience. Þuríður had both in spades, but in her time, strength in a woman could be as dangerous as weakness.

The trouble began, as it often did, with whispers. A boy fell ill, inexplicably. A cow, once healthy, gave no milk. To the villagers of Trékyllisvík, where the land was unforgiving and life hung by a thread, these misfortunes were not accidents; they were omens. And omens demanded an explanation. Þuríður, a widow managing her farm alone with her young son Jón Jónsson, became their target.

She was accused of witchcraft—of cursing the boy, of causing the cow to fail, of bringing misfortune to her neighbors through spells and dark magic. Þuríður was strong-willed, independent, and unwilling to bend to the will of others. In a community bound by fear and suspicion, that made her dangerous.

The accusations spread like fire in the dry air, and soon Þuríður and Jón were arrested. They were dragged before the court in Trékyllisvík, their guilt assumed before the trial even began. The evidence was flimsy—rumors and hearsay—but in those days, a frightened community needed little more. The court found them guilty.

The punishment was swift and brutal. On a cold day in Strandir, under the oppressive grey sky, Þuríður and her son were led to the execution site near Trékyllisvík. There, they were bound and burned at the stake. The flames roared high, casting flickering shadows on the cliffs and fjords, consuming mother and son alike.

Their deaths were meant to cleanse the village of the supposed evil that had taken root there, but instead, it left behind a scar. Þuríður was the only woman executed for witchcraft in Iceland, a grim outlier in a land where most of those condemned were men. Her death marked the end of the witch hunts in Iceland, though the fear and superstition that had fueled them lingered in the hearts of the people.

Even now, the land near Trékyllisvík seems to hold her memory. The fjords stretch deep, as if mourning, and the valleys sit heavy with silence. On stormy nights, when the wind screams through the cliffs, it carries with it a name: Þuríður. Not angry. Not sad. Just there. A reminder of what fear can do when it takes root, and of the lives it can consume.