There was once a man in Iceland named Grettir Ásmundarson.
Grettir the Strong, they called him.
And strong he was.
Strong enough to lift stones that two men could scarcely budge. Strong enough to wrestle grown men into the mud and leave them wondering whether they’d been struck by a man or a runaway horse.
But strength was not Grettir’s only gift.
He had a temper.
A terrible temper.
And a tongue that seemed to take particular pleasure in making matters worse.
If a man insulted Grettir, Grettir insulted him back. If a man threatened him, Grettir threatened him twice as fiercely. And if somebody told Grettir not to do something, well, there was a very good chance he’d do it before supper.
His father, Ásmund, had learned this the hard way.
As a boy, Grettir had been given little chores around the farm. Ordinary things. Things any sensible boy could manage.
One day his father told him to tend the geese.
Grettir disliked tending geese.
In fact, Grettir disliked being told to do anything.
So when the geese proved troublesome, he killed them.
Another time he was told to rub his father’s back.
And Grettir, being Grettir, found a wool-combing tool and dragged its sharp teeth across his father’s skin.
You can imagine how that went.
There was shouting.
There was swearing.
And there was Grettir, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
His father despaired of him.
His mother loved him.
And Grettir grew into the sort of man who could fight almost anything in the world, except his own nature.
Now, that is worth knowing.
Because there are monsters a man meets on the road.
And there are monsters that follow him home.