Sven ran his calloused, thick fingers slowly through his thinning hair. His bloodshot eyes peered up at the bar-covered window in his small, dark cell. The first light of dawn was now visible behind the mountains that rose high above Hauklandstølen. A few lights dotted the landscape as the residents of Moi began to stir and prepare for the day many had dreaded to see arrive.
Sven turned away from the lights and retreated to the darkness of the room. The thick log walls and heavy wood door captured the chill of early autumn and the small room was cold and damp. His large body shivered as a chill shot through it. They would come to get him as soon as it was light and it would all be over.
A wave of despair swept over him and he sank slowly onto the straw-covered, wood bed along one side of the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his large hands as tears rolled down his weathered face and disappeared in his bushy gray beard.
Sleep had not been possible this night as he thought about his life and what awaited him at dawn. He didn’t want to die. He lay back on the hard bed and covered his eyes with his large, muscular forearm, trying to block out the light of the coming dawn and the fate that awaited him.
His thoughts drifted back to younger, happier days when he roamed the hills and mountains surrounding their small farm at Skåland and later at Steinberg in southwestern Norway. He wished he could undo the events that had brought him to this moment, but there was no going back.
Sven Pedersen Skåland was my 10th generation great grandfather. Sven lived during the 1600s so I have no idea what he looked like or what he was thinking. Thanks to my longtime interest in genealogy I have many accounts about his life from history records in Norway. During our visit to Norway several years ago, I found out more about him from relatives, and visited the log jail where he was held before being executed.
The new TV program called “Who Do You Think You Are?” generated these thoughts about ancestry, and where we’ve come from. It follows celebrities as they discover their ancestry and roots. If you’re interested in your family history, this show is for you. If you aren’t, it might peak your curiosity to see what you’ll discover in your family tree.
I’ve been lucky enough to trace our family back to the Viking Age in Norway. I’ve also discovered many relatives here and in Norway through genealogy research. I find it sad when people can’t even tell me the names of their great grandparents. I once read, “In 100 years, most of our direct descendents won’t even remember our name.” After discovering how many people couldn’t name their great grandparents, I realized there’s a lot of truth in that statement.
That’s why it’s important for me to find my ancestors. I don’t want them to be forgotten. At least I’ll leave a record of their existence after I’m gone, in case anyone else is interested in our family’s roots. After all, I owe my being here to them, even those ancestors that many people don’t want to find, or include, in their family tree.
Sven Pedersen Skåland is one of those. He was known as “Hothead Sven.” I found why after researching his life. He had a quick temper that got him into trouble on several occasions. The first part of this column is the intro from a historical fiction story I’m writing about Sven. He killed two people in disputes over land. The first time he got off with a self-defense plea, but lost his farm. The second time, in 1639, he got into an argument and stabbed a man to death during a funeral. Sven was defending his younger brother, who had been thrown off a farm by the man so one of his nephews could live there. Sven’s hot temper got the best of him. Brynild, the man Sven killed, is also one of my 10th generation great grandparents. He’ll never make sainthood either. Brynild got into a fight with a man at a Christmas party and killed him, but got off on self-defense.
Sven wasn’t as lucky. He was arrested on the spot by the sheriff, another of my 10th generation great grandfathers, and was thrown into the jail we visited. He was found guilty and sentenced to death. Our relative, who showed us the jail, said Sven was pulled apart by horses. What a horrible way to die. The 1600s were tough and violent times.
That old jail, in Moi, Norway, has been preserved, right down to the simple cot, table, chair, and old handcuffs hanging on the wall. They put the handcuffs on my wrists, the same ones that once held Hothead Sven. I tried to imagine the thoughts that must have gone through his head on that morning of his execution. I took in every detail of that dark room. I knew there was a story I needed to tell about the life and death of this man, Hothead Sven, whose genes I carry. Even though they are dark genes, he’s part of me. Even those ancestors deserve to be remembered.
No comments:
Post a Comment