Oft nýtur hundur herra síns
The village was famous for the biting cold of its winters and the exquisite craftsmanship of Elian’s clocks. Elian was not merely a clockmaker; he was an institution. His timepieces sat on the mantels of kings and hung in the towers of cathedrals.
Wherever Elian went, his apprentice, Stef, was sure to follow. Stef was a quiet man of thirty with rounded shoulders and a perpetual look of anxious eagerness. He carried Elian’s heavy leather satchel, polished Elian’s spectacles, and opened doors before the old master could even reach for the handle.
For years, Stef believed he was a beloved figure in the village. When they walked through the market square, the baker would rush out with a steaming cinnamon bun. She would beam, and then she would press a second, slightly smaller bun into Stef’s hand with a wink. "And one for the helper, to keep his strength up."
When they visited the Mayor’s estate to service the grandfather clock, the staff would seat Elian in the velvet armchair by the fire with a glass of sherry. Stef would be ushered into the kitchen, given a stool near the stove and a plate of the finest roast beef, usually reserved for the high table. He felt important. He felt seen. He believed that the smiles directed at the old man were shared equally with him.
One afternoon, a visiting merchant from the far northern islands came to the shop to commission a navigational chronometer. He was a stern man with a beard like frosted wire. While Elian examined the blueprints, Stef busied himself fetching tea, adjusting the cushions, and ensuring the merchant’s coat was brushed of snow.
The merchant watched Stef’s frantic, eager-to-please movements with a cold, unreadable eye. As Stef poured the tea, slightly spilling a drop in his nervousness, Elian laughed warmly. "Forgive him."
The merchant took the cup. He looked at Stef, then back to Elian, and muttered in his tongue, low and gravelly: "Oft nýtur hundur herra síns."
Stef smiled back anyway, assuming it was a compliment about his diligence. He felt a swell of pride. Even foreigners recognized his worth.
The winter that year was harder than most. The frost crept into the stone walls of the shop, and Elian’s cough, initially a rattle, became a silence. He passed away in his sleep on a Tuesday, surrounded by a thousand ticking clocks.
The grief was a heavy, suffocating blanket over the house. For three days, Stef sat in the workshop, winding the mechanisms, terrified that if the ticking stopped, the reality of the death would become permanent.
On the fourth day, hunger drove him out. He put on his coat and walked to the village. The air was sharp, and the sky was a bruised purple. He felt a desperate need for comfort, for the familiar routines of the town that loved them.
He walked to the bakery. The baker was in the window, arranging trays. Stef stepped inside, the bell jingling. He waited for her warm smile, for the sympathy, perhaps for the comfort of a cinnamon bun pressed into his hand.
"The shop is closed for the funeral preparations," she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
"I... I only came for a little bread," Stef stammered. "I haven't eaten."
"That will be two coppers," she said flatly.
Stef patted his pockets. He had never carried money; Elian had always handled the accounts. "But... it’s me. Stef."
"I know who you are," she said, turning her back to adjust a loaf. "But Elian is gone, God rest his soul. I can't be giving away stock to everyone who walks in off the street."
He left the bakery empty-handed. The cold felt sharper now.
He walked to the Mayor’s estate. Surely, the staff there would offer him tea, a seat by the fire, a place to mourn. He knocked on the heavy oak door. The butler opened it just a crack.
"Master Elian has passed," Stef said, his voice trembling.
"We heard. A terrible loss for the world," the butler said. He stood firm in the doorway, blocking the warmth from the hall. "The Mayor will send a carriage for the clock collection next week. Have the inventory ready."
"Might I come in?" Stef asked, the wind biting at his ears. "Just to warm myself?"
The butler looked at him with a mixture of confusion and mild annoyance. "The household is busy. We have guests."
The door closed with a heavy thud.
Stef stood on the snowy step, staring at the wood grain. He walked back to the silent shop, his boots crunching loudly in the isolation. He passed the inn where the northern merchant had stayed.
Oft nýtur hundur herra síns.
He didn't know the language, but standing there in the grey light, ignored by the town that had once fed him tarts and offered him the best chairs, the meaning settled into his bones like the chill of the wind.
He looked at his reflection in the shop window. He saw a man who had never been a clockmaker. He had never been a friend. He had been a shadow, fed and petted only because he held the leash of a giant.
Stef unlocked the door and stepped into the darkness of the shop. He sat on his stool, the one usually reserved for him in the corner, and listened to the clocks ticking away the time, second by second, in a house that belonged to a ghost.
Oft nýtur hundur herra síns
This proverb is a derogatory insult describing individuals who lack their own merit.
It means a person is only treated well because people respect or fear their boss. They are essentially surviving on their master’s prestige. Additionally, these spoiled followers often become difficult to discipline and may stop fully obeying their master in the future.
