Wide Atlantic Weird is an ongoing series of stories that explore the folkloric and sometimes spooky side of the Irish-American connection. It's a selection of urban-legend styled stories that attempt to create that feeling you get when you come across a delicious little fragment of weirdness, a story that's so out-there it can't possibly be true, yet one which you can't dismiss out of hand. When you stumble across such a tale buried in a chapter of an old collection of 'unexplained' stories, or when you hear an unbelievable story from a listener to a podcast, that's Wide Atlantic Weird.
Editor's Note: Travels in American Subcultures is a 2008 book by Irish travel writer Derry Clarke. Each chapter finds her exploring some unique element of Americana. I first read the book when in college, and I particularly recommend it for its chapter on Juggalos and white working-class Detroit culture. However, the following chapter has been chosen as it is the darkest and most mysterious. In fact, it's quite out of character for Clarke's entire career, as she is not known as an author who writes about cult or conspiracy topics.
Travels
In American Subcultures Chapter 10: It Just Feels Right
Winters in the great North Woods of Minnesota are
long and dark. Up here, in the tiny communities that hug the north shore of
Lake Superior, people live close to nature, and are never lost for a reminder
of its power. Here, the lake that fills the horizon like an ocean can still
muster waves that sink ships. The lake is so big it creates its own climate,
summoning ice storms that turn entire forests of ghost-white birch into bent,
twisted wraiths. It’s a place that seems tailor-made for the creation of myths.
On the night of the winter solstice, I’m driving on
the famous Highway 61, the lake my constant companion, to visit the tiny
community of Stockholm, Minnesota. Home to only 150 souls – mostly the
descendants of Scandinavians, as the name suggests – Stockholm is infamous in
archaeological circles as the home of an artefact known as the Minnesota
Runestone. The Runestone is said to be evidence that Swedish or Viking
explorers travelled much further into the interior of America than is accepted
by mainstream archaeologists. Viking runes are carved into this 200-pound piece
of sandstone, detailing an expedition by Scandinavians in the region in the
year 1360.
Ever since the stone’s discovery in a field outside
Stockholm in 1900, experts have been fuming about it, with geologists,
historians and linguists united in their scorn for what they view as a clumsy
hoax.
But there’s more to the stone than a thumb in the
eye of conventional history, for a curious following has built up around this
artefact in the years since its discovery. It seems that folks have become very
attached to the idea of European
explorers being in America in medieval times. And on this most auspicious of
eves, I’m on my way to find out why.
‘You’ve got to understand that there’s a lot riding
on the conventional view of history,’ Saul Anderson tells me, his bulky frame
covered in a skimobile jacket that’s bulging with patches and sponsor logos. He
looks like a hockey dad, but he’s no dummy. He’s a local schoolteacher who
tells me that he’s always been drawn to the stone because the first time he saw
it, ‘it just felt right.’ We’re standing outside the brand-new Minnesota
Runestone Interpretation Centre, a small but impressive building of stone and
glass that sits uncomfortably in a field of snow-covered soil.
‘If we can ignore, or even cover up the evidence
we’ve got here, then we can kind of cut Europeans out of the picture, you
understand?’ Saul is a nice guy, but already I’m uncomfortable. A small crowd
of people are filing into the centre for tonight’s event as the short day
begins to die. I wonder if they all hold similar views.
‘After the stone was taken to the U,’ he continues,
referencing the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis, ‘The guys there did a
hack job on it. They claimed that the runes were of a type that didn’t match
the date carved on the stone. They claimed that the weathering on the edges of
the stone proved it was a forgery. A fake.’
He casts his eyes to the birch forest on the
horizon. ‘But Ole Johnson, who discovered the stone in 1900 – this was his land
– he never made a dime outta it. Why would he fake it? He was a farmer, he
didn’t even have any interest in history. And the stone has been examined
plenty since. It’s well-known that the early research was shoddy.’
I don’t know why this line of reasoning makes me
nervous, but it does. It’s not because Saul is promoting a theory that goes
against mainstream science – I’ve met with many people with similar ideas
during my travels. But there’s something just beneath the surface of all this
that’s nagging at me.
Inside the centre, there are displays and
photographs documenting Johnson’s find. There’s a sepia-tone picture of him
standing beside a tree, the stone resting where it was found – among the roots.
There are breakdowns of the type of runes used and examples of the alphabet.
The small room feels crowded; folks are milling around, pointing out details to
one another. There are families, old folks, policemen, teachers. There are no
arguments or disagreements. I get the impression that this is all a well-told
tale for most of them. My sense of being an outsider grows.
According to the traditional interpretation of the
runes, the stone was left by a group of Scandinavian explorers in the year
1360. They refer to themselves as being a group of Norsemen and Norweigians
who had travelled from Vinland in the East. They mention a great lake that took
twenty days to travel across, and an endless forest on the other side. They
travelled to a place where the red men didn’t live, having lost three men to a skirmish with a native tribe on the far side of the lake. They then carved the stone as a
record to show how far west they had come.
Vinland is the
term generally used by historians to refer to the parts of North America that
were known to the Viking travellers. ‘It’s generally thought to be limited to
parts of Newfoundland, far east of here, isn’t it?’ I say to Lois Erikson,
director of the centre. She’s a neat, professional woman in her early thirties.
‘Um, well that’s only if you overlook the evidence
we have here,’ she says, choosing her words carefully. ‘It’s known that it
would have been possible for 14th-century explorers to get from
Hudson’s Bay through Lake Winnipeg, and the Red River, and on to what is today
Minnesota. There’s no reason why they couldn’t have done so.’
I look around the room. The visitors are
overwhelmingly white – I fact, they’re entirely white. This certainly isn’t
unusual for northern Minnesota, but again, something subconscious is biting at
the back of my brain. Something is wrong.
As the sky outside blackens, Lois and the other
staff gather everyone into the tiny display room at the north end of the
building. This is the symbolic heart of the centre: the home of the stone.
Unlike the rest of the new building, this room is unchanged from how it was
back when Ole Johnson first put the stone on display. It’s little more than a
wooden shack; somehow its humbleness adds to its sense of the sacred. The audience
quietens as they file in. The chamber is open-roofed; the stone is bathed in
starlight. I zip up my coat against the freezing air. Orion, the wintermaker,
beams down on us from the heavens.
The stone itself seems enormous, heavy with the
weight of history, perhaps. Or maybe the weight of meaning.
Aline, another interpreter, begins a ceremony
intended to welcome in the winter. On the face of it, this is why so many
people have shown up tonight. In a place where so much of the year is dark and
cold, giving the heart of winter a symbolic welcome can have a positive effect on the
psyche. There’s an oddly pagan bent
to the ceremony, though, beyond simply focusing on the seasons and the natural
world.
‘…we thank Ulor, the bringer of snow, and express
our gratitude for the white blanket that protects our fertile lands. We are
thankful for the dead generations who tilled it before us, who prepared the
land for our coming in centuries past. This is our home: this has always been
our home.’
Saul, Lois, and the others echo the words, as they
have done many times before. My eyes are drawn to the stone. It seems to glow
in the starlight. It’s as if the stone is alive. I sense the significance of
it, the connection with history. The power of being able to trace a direct line
from then until now. Especially in a country so uncomfortable with its history
–
I turn around and my eyes bulge.
Lois is wearing the face of an eyeless deer.
Antlers rise grotesquely towards the stars.
I survey the rom, my pulse racing. The audience is
composed entirely of animals. A smell of decay chokes me.
‘We thank Ulor,’ they chant. ‘This has always been
our home.’
I turn for the door.
Something grabs my wrist.
‘What’s wrong? Aren’t you Irish?’ My accent has not
gone unnoticed. ‘This is your home too.’ I stare into the black sockets of a
crane, the little skull perched absurdly above skijacketed shoulders, its
pointed beak bobbing.
I break Saul’s grip and run for the carpark.
Outside, the freezing air tears at my lungs, the stars tilt crazily as I
stumble towards my car. I pull a crazy donut in the snow before zooming away
from the Minnesota Runestone Interpretation Centre. I hold my breath as I pass
through downtown Stockholm, but I see nobody on the streets. I tear onto
Highway 61 and make straight for Duluth.
Back in the city, I down a bourbon in the hotel
lobby. The concierge and a few late-night drinkers listen to my tale. They
don’t seem too surprised. It’s well-known that stories of ancient European explorers
tend to tap into certain dangerous beliefs.
‘It’s common among the uneducated,’ says one
well-meaning gentleman.’ I choke on my drink. I can’t bring myself to tell him
about the teacher I met, or the policemen, the computer programmers, the families
…
END OF EXTRACT
Source: Derry Clarke, Travels In American
Subcultures, 2008
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