“Crossing the mountain on his usual path – walking and wondering about the dark riddles of life – peering into the deep secrets of the forest – he knows where the Lady of the Forest shows, has heard her inviting giggles – knows where the lynx ferociously lurks by the side of the road to catch its’ prey.”
This is how Elof Persson describes Sotar Blixt in the book “Brunskog – the old tell tales”. Blixt was known as an entertaining story teller.
“Many of his stories include trolls and ghosts. He had met the Lady of the Forest on the Fryksdal Hills and she was always “loving and caring”. Blixt was a high-ranking liar and it was always exciting and interesting as he showed up. What would be the story of the day? Perhaps a story from the last visit to pick up and put him on a slippry rope with. Despite everyone knowing he lied, he was somehow taken seriously in a way. In one place they complained about crows invading their field of rye. Blixt knew exactly the cure:
-Do what they did in Glava.
-What did they do there?
-Well, they tied up strings inbetween the round poles of the fence, and as the crows landed on the strings they lost their balance and tipped over with their back down, but they didn’t dare let go of their grip, so people just walked along the fence and beat down every single crow with sticks. So now there’s not even a crow crap left in Glava.”
Blixt hette egentligen Johannes Persson och föddes 1851 i Östmarks socken. Föräldrarna var Soldat Bast och Karin Persdotter, som fick fem barn. Det sägs att Blixt vandrade iväg till Norge för att lära sig sotaryrket. Efter en tid som ”kringstrykande”, några domar för fylleri, misshandel, stöld återvände han efter ett fängelsestraff i Malmö på 2,5 år till Värmland och tog uppdrag som sotare och rödmålare kring Arvika. Hans uppdrag förde honom runt i socknarna, men mest höll han till i Brunskog. År 1908 blev Blixt sjuk, transporterats med båt från Stavnäs till Arvika och avled på sjukhuset. Han tros ligga begravd på Brunskogs kyrkogård, där en stenhäll med inskriptionen ”Blixt” ska ha funnits. Längs Sotar Blixt Trail i Rackstad, finns en sten med hans namn inristat. Kanske stannade han här och vilade, filosoferade över nya upptåg eller livets stora frågor, vem vet?
Fångvårdsstyrelsen, Public Domain
During the active time of Blixt, Gustaf Fröding periodically stayed in Mangskog. He got to know Sotare Blixt, who inspired him to write “Blixten”, published in his collection New Poems from 1894.
BLIXTEN
Black from soot and dust was his weathered face,
as he wandered from place to place,
on his hawkish brow
was a look somehow,
of a noble old gypsy race.
And his soot-black eyes stared at one and all
and as bright as his chimney ball
and a look of guile
or a curious smile
on his face there would sometimes fall.
O’er his brow and his neck lay the tangled snare
of his black and unruly hair
and on top there sat
all askew, his hat,
which looked battered and worse for wear.
But his not from this parish, and that’s for sure,
and his origin’s quite obscure,
and there’s none to care,
and God knows from where
he made this his life’s detour.
Through the summer and winter and sun and snow,
over slope, moor and marsh he’ll go,
over heath and hills,
by the tarn and rills,
as his lonely road wends to and fro.
And if he can’t see for the trees ahead,
he will take a short cut instead,
and he’ll soon emerge
at the main road verge
or some woodcutter’s lonely shed.
But where’er he went, there was fun in store
and the gloomy were gloomy no more,
they drank long and deep
to the chimney sweep
and they laughed and they shouted and swore.
At tall tales and long rigmaroles Blixten was king
and he know lots of songs they could sing,
so he’d sing and he’d lie,
and he’d such his pipe dry,
and so everything went with a swing.
His tall tales of old witches and trolls they’d relive
and some thrills from the mines he would give,
of Old Nick and his ma,
and how he travelled far
with Old Nick to the moon in a sieve.
And he’d also sit high o’er the house martins’ nest,
like a king on his throne he would rest,
with his body so black
on a tall chimney stack,
like a person by Satan possessed.
And his yodel was shrill and his whistle was keen,
and it echoed o’er forest and dene,
when he lunged with his brush
with a plunge and a rush,
swept the farmer’s old chimney pot clean.
Translated to English by Mike McArthur.
