Tradition / Region: Austrian Mythology Alternate Names: — Category: Dog
The Myth
In Carinthia it is said that great treasure lies buried within the Maraunberg near St. Veit. Many have sought to uncover it, but none have succeeded.
One time, three men went into the forest at the hour believed to be right for raising hidden wealth. Carrying spades and shovels, they spoke the necessary words and began to dig. They worked hard until at last their tools struck something solid. Clearing the earth away, they uncovered a large iron chest.
Excited, they prepared to lift it from the ground.
But before they could do so, a black dog suddenly appeared before them. It sat silently, staring at them with glowing, fiery eyes. The sight filled the men with terror. Dropping their tools, they fled from the place as fast as they could run.
As they escaped through the forest, they said they heard strange sounds behind them — sighing and weeping rising from the ground. When they dared to look back from a distance, the chest had already sunk again into the earth, as though the mountain had swallowed it.
And so the treasure of Maraunberg remained hidden, guarded by the black dog whose fiery gaze drove away any who tried to claim it.
Tradition / Region: Austrian Mythology Alternate Names: Water Nymph of the Koralpe; Lake Maiden of the Koralpe Category: Mermaid
The Myth
On the Koralpe mountain range there lies a dark lake surrounded by high cliffs. In this lake, people say, a water nymph dwells. Only a few old folk claimed to have seen or heard of her, and they told that she granted protection and prosperity to the shepherds of the mountain, so long as they did not disturb her peace.
One young shepherd, however, was seized by the desire to see her with his own eyes. He went to the lake and, taking up a heavy stone, hurled it into the water.
At once a wild storm broke out. From the depths of the lake the beautiful water nymph rose, and the waters began to swell higher and higher, rushing toward the shepherd. He tried to flee, but the rising water overtook him.
The next morning he was found dead upon the shore, while the lake lay once more calm and silent, as if nothing had happened.
About sixty years ago, in the valley of the Ötz near Lengenfeld, there lived a man of enormous height and terrifying strength known as the Adasbub. He was a monster in spirit as much as in body—a thief, a drunkard, a fighter, and a blasphemer. He had served as a soldier in many wars and returned more savage than when he had left. From foreign lands he brought home great sums of money, stolen and extorted, and with this wealth he bought himself a farm.
Yet he lived not like a Christian farmer, but like a pagan. He never went to church. Instead, he sat in the village inn boasting of his velvet jacket adorned with buttons hammered from old silver coins. The young men of the village, dazzled by his swagger and riches, grew ashamed of their simple clothing and sought to imitate him.
The Adasbub’s strength was legendary. It was said he had once defeated fifty men who attacked him at the same time. Those who offended him feared more than his fists. People whispered that he could divert mountain torrents onto a rival’s fields or send huge snowballs—packed with hidden stones—crashing down upon a roof. Whether by cunning or brute force, he was a man to be feared.
His pleasure lay in drink, oaths, and cruelty. He gathered around him a band of like-minded ruffians. Together they committed outrageous acts. They tore doors from their neighbors’ houses and dragged them into the forests. They lifted carts onto rooftops. They broke into sacristies to steal and drink the priests’ wine. They shut goats into roadside chapels and uprooted cemetery crosses, thrusting them upside down into graves, laughing that they had made Christendom stand upon its head.
At last, the Adasbub planned a new villainy involving the daughter of a farmer whose home stood on the Burgstein above Lengenfeld. But word of the plot reached the farmer. Rather than flee, he sharpened his axe and waited.
When the Adasbub entered the house, the farmer struck with all his strength. The axe split the giant’s skull, and the terror of the valley fell dead at his feet. Seeing their leader slain, his companions fled in panic.
The alarm spread quickly. People climbed up to the Burgstein from every direction and thanked the farmer for freeing them from their tormentor. They cut off the Adasbub’s head and dragged his body to the edge of a precipice, casting it down onto the road below near the sulphur baths of Rumunschlung.
The head was thrown into the charnel-house of the cemetery at Lengenfeld. There it is said to remain.
The skull, nearly cleft in two, does not always lie quiet. On certain midnights it is said to glow red-hot, terrible to behold. Some claim that when it burns, it rolls from the charnel-house into the chapel, whirling in circles before leaping back to its place. By morning it has cooled, appearing once more like any other skull.
Thus the Adasbub endures—not as a man, but as a warning.
Gallery
Sources
Günther, A. von. (1874). Tales and legends of the Tyrol. London: Chapman and Hall.
Tradition / Region: Austrian Mythology Category: Fish
The Myth
Lake Plöckensteiner was long believed to be lifeless, a dark mountain lake where no creature could survive. Doubting this belief, a group of men once went to the lake to test it by fishing. For many hours they caught nothing, until at last one man cried out in triumph: a large fish was writhing on his line. Though they continued fishing, no other fish appeared.
As evening fell, the men decided to cook their catch. They placed the fish into a pan of water over the fire. As the water began to heat, a strange sound rose from the lake—a low murmuring that grew louder and clearer. From the depths came a voice asking, “Is everyone there?” Another voice replied, “Everyone is here—except the bull.”
Horrified, the men looked at the pan and realized the fish was still alive. Worse still, they saw that it had only one eye. Overcome with fear, they threw the fish back into the lake. At once, the voices ceased, and the lake fell silent. Terrified, the men fled home.
Another tale tells of a time long ago, when kings once gathered near the lake to mark the borders of three lands. During this age, three men came to the lake in mischief and found that fish leapt willingly into their hands—trout with glowing red mouths and bodies speckled like sparks. They caught many and placed them into pans of water over a fire.
As night fell and the moon rose, the water began to boil, yet the fish did not die. Instead, they grew lively, almost joyful. Suddenly, a great roaring arose—trees seemed to thunder, and the lake roared as though whipped by a storm. Yet the air was still, the sky clear, and the water unbroken. From beneath the lake came voices murmuring, “Not everyone is home… not everyone…”
Stricken with terror, the men threw all the fish back into the lake. Immediately, the roaring ceased. Silence returned, and the moon shone calmly above the water. The men dared not move or speak until morning, when they fled and told what had happened. Upon hearing this, the kings departed and cursed the forest, condemning the place to remain desolate forever.
Thus the lake is remembered as a place where something watches, and where not all who dwell beneath the water may safely be taken.