Hi and welcome back to Nighty Night, bedtime stories to keep you awake.

I'm your host Rabia Chaudhri. This week's story comes to us from 13th

century Iceland, and in it we learn how a brave man will come to regret his courage for the rest of his life.

Glamor by Sabing Bearing Gold bearing gold. At the beginning of the 11th century there stood a little way up the valley of shadows in the north of Ireland, a small farm occupied by a worthy bonder named Thorhal and his wife.

The farmer was not exactly a chieftain, but he was well enough connected to be considered

respectable.

To back up his gentility, he possessed numerous flocks of sheeps and a goodly drove of oxen.

Thorhal would have been a happy man, but for one circumstance.

His sheepwalks were haunted.

Not a herdsman would remain with him.

He bribed, he threatened, entreated all to no purpose.

One shepherd after another left his service, and things came to such a pass that he determined

on asking advice at the next annual council.

Thorhal saddled his horses, adjusted his packs, provided himself with hobbles, cracked his long

long Icelandic whip and cantered along the road and in due time reached

Thingvitlier.

Scapti Thorod's son was a law giver at that time, and as everyone considered him a man of the utmost prudence

and able to give the best advice, our friend from the veil of shadows made straight for his booth.

An awkward predicament certainly to have large droves of sheep and no one to look after them,

said Scapti, nibbling the nail of his thumb and shaking his wise head, a head as stuffed

with law as a tarmigan's crop is stuffed with Blaberries.

Now I'll tell you what, as you have asked my advice. I will help you to a shepherd a character in his way a man of dull intellect to be sure but strong as a bull

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