*

(Sceaf in the Boat, illustration from Fredrik Sander’s 1893 edition of the Poetic Edda)

*

*

*

I.

*

The hour stays not for us, it flees apace,

And short while might we grasp it to the heart,

For moment dies, and next one takes its place –

So oft we’re sped when fain we would abide:

Abide in hall, in blankets of sweet sloth,

Abide in hearth-fire’s aura, warm and orange,

For nights of endless ease – romantic dark

Star-crusted canopy spread o’er one’s home,

A frigid wilderness howling about,

While all within’s a den of cordial cheer:

The cider-flagon and one’s jolly peers,

Flame-gobbled log, stout roof against the storms…

But oh! that which we wish, ’tis not for aye;

For planets and such weird things of the void –

Those passengers and passers ebon-swathed –

Ne’er leave a happy sleeper to his rest,

But tease his brain by dreams of what he lacks –

Fond mania, fond wanderlust provoke –

And urge him out his threshold, thrilled with greed

For treasure, scepter, men’s renown, or love,

A woman’s favors, or mere change of scene,

The gadding instinct: daylight-clear desires,

One’s waking wants: And so, with hunting lance,

And fardel slung o’er back, and boots cinched tight,

The lad sets off, forsaking gentle home,

Adieuing scenes that touched his childhood-sense,

His crib, his mother’s lap, his stomping grounds,

To seek the rough ways that beget one’s soul.

Familiar walks are all his early route,

Then roads he’s spied, but never ta’en before,

Then foreign paths… ’til soon the forest’s face

Seems glowering stranger’s: shadows, mists, and moss,

The gnarled trunk, thick roots like twisting worms,

And steep escarpments dark with ancient rock,

And eyes of tracing beasts. 

 

                                                        A chief he seeks,

Some lord, ring-giver, master of a manse

To swear his heart, his nerve, and muscle-ache –

And so take place amongst a brother-band,

Sword-brethren, for to gain a wife and land,

And hunt the boar, and stand the foe-man ’gainst:

Those deeds that live on tongues of songsters, bards,

E’en as one’s kinsmen and kinswomen die,

Treading the mortal path. 

 

                                                     So e’en as youth

At manhood’s doorsill jumps at prick of fate

And longs, so restless, spirits his to prove,

So now All-Father, slunk on throne of sleep,

In slumbering chamber (now his world’s been made

Of giant corpse, a garden grown from gore,

And hath lived somewhat long, as sprightly lad

Youth’s height soon reaches) through the deep night spies

Amid a dream-haze, Norns beneath their ash,

Handfuls of white earth dipping in their well,

Urd’s well, a topaz font as warm as womb,

Then sprinkling drops of clay upon black wounds

And gashes in the bark, healing that harm

And injuries and rot Time ne’er forbears

To gouge invisibly. 

 

                                        And Odin views

One slender hand, then three, point towards the north,

Towards dream-vast spaces, icy wilds and gulfs,

A terror infinite, past countless miles

Of storm-wracked mystery and dribbling founts

Towards where the fire that Svalinn shields stabs forth

Between two pinnacles of highest white:

A blood-red burning ’twixt two slopes of frost,

A dreadful ice-world, blazing central light.

And now strange singings distant, flourishes

Of horn and sackbut with the flames exude

From that hot sphere of brilliance – sennets tell

Angels’ and creatures’ entrances ’cross orb

And each one’s leaving: eagles, owls, and hawks

Appear in flight, and vanish; wings alone 

Without a body paddle ’midst the air;

And wolf-heads gnarr and gnash, while desperate wights

With swords and maces scatter. 

 

                                                                  Serpents writhe;

Fierce birds nip one another… Now a door

That guards the passage to the sun’s own heart –

Or some enchanted, vexèd place beyond –

Doth seem to tremble on its frame; and Ygg

In awe at heights more high than yet he’s glimpsed

In all his quests and visions, trials, tests,

That unreal sight yet sees as sleep departs,

Yet hears weird choirs’ chords – and one great thing,

Half-seen, half-felt, looms like a spectral sign

Within his brain: a sword inside the light,

A gleaming brand, with point that spreads its beams

Unto the four dwarfs hoisting Ymir’s skull:

A blade that cuts the past from what’s to come,

A point on which the world and fate are perched.

*

* * *

*

The summer day uncurls like waking worm,

Broad-sprawling; lush earth trembles in its heat

As Odin crosses river-loops and bends,

Sloshing his robe and staff through ripping foam

As mountains rise e’er higher in the north,

A wall of white in waste of hinterland,

The mountains of god’s dream. No man there lives,

No elf, no fairy: haughty sun declares

Dominion o’er a desert – there the rocks

Rest jumbled high, like cairns. 

 

                                                               In afternoon

The switchbacks trace up foothills; now by eve

Stern owls regard the traveler scaling slopes 

By sun’s light, then the moon’s. Night sees the storms

Of far horizon bear their dripping load,

A wash of weather, gray-grim gushing gusts

As fresh as newborns, urging god beneath

A granite lichened shelf – a fire he starts;

And ’midst those mountains’ howls he warms his hands

And watches mist-shapes crawl beneath the peaks,

Those peaks so enigmatic… falls asleep,

No sweven seeing now, waiting what sign

The Norns might send him.

*

* * *

  *           

                                             Someone’s by the fire:

From sleep the god starts. Now the rainfall’s weak,

The mountain’s soundless… And how drab’s the guest!

All clad in wool as worn and rough as bark,

Face hidden by a beard, sad eyes frost-grey,

A floppy hat, and crooked staff soaked through

With all the weather of the world, it seems.

He shuffles close, so slowly: ragged wretch, 

More tattered than the clothes of earth’s first man,

Without a pipe, no comfort in the damp.

And Odin eyes such stranger from his seat

Of stone, and does not move; then with a stick

He stirs the sparks and coals to life renewed,

And bids his guest sit close.

 

                                                         Some twigs he throws

To coax more dancing heat; and long time sit

Those wanderers two without a word, while press

Cold rolling dampnesses and storm-trolls’ breaths;

And Odin cooks his meat, and shares his fare

With gentle threadbare wight. The dark doth yield

To flames of dawn. The firs and pine trees sway

With wind’s persuasion soft.

 

                                                           “What brings ye here,

Through ways so lifted, lonesome?” Odin asks

Smoothly as trickling creek. “Myself am come 

Unto this very nook among the mists,

Between these peaks, by vision that I saw:

A vision of great Sol in majesty

That came by night, a dream the disir sent,

Disir of slumber, strange subconscious sprites

Suggesting swevens. Way-Weary I’m called,

And wander much, by paths already blazed,

Or blindly, nowhere… but nowise I err

In gaining to this lofty mountain perch,

For ’twas this self-same spot where blazed the sun,

It seemed to me, celestial fire and light

Like godhead’s grace: ’twas where a sword did show –

More straight than truth, that steel blade ’gainst bright disc –

Holding all things upon its fulcrum-tip,

The balance of life’s rise and drop of doom…

But tell, why dost thou roam, good fire-friend?

That I should meet with thee so soon upon

My resting here – I do not think it chance.”

*

And guest bides long, his gaze lost in the fire,

But soon replies, with voice much sorrow-scratched

And worn by melancholy and harsh pains

From journeying through elements, long rains,

And nature’s wild indifference: “Friend, I seek

All o’er the world, one who was lost to me,

More dear – much more – than any being else, 

Though certain is it not that I would know

His face, if I should view it. Do not ask

How long ago it was, I could not say,

When he by fate was severed from my side –

That infant glorious! formed of my own breast,

My very heart, ripped from its cage of ribs,

And fashioned – on far island to the east,

Sol-birthing east, the warm and fecund isle

Of Ultima Thule, Wolfsea’s jewel –

To take the shape of child: Not any bairn,

Oh kind one, like a Midgard-woman bears,

Mewling and messy, thirsty for the teat,

Squalling and bawling, red-faced in wee rage,

But strange, unearthly, splendid in his shine,

A noble, perfect one, calm in his eyes,

Silent as dawn, or dusk.

 

                                                 “Great agony,

Great torment, thou shouldst well believe, did strike

My being in those days: heart-ripped and cold,

My blood unpumped through veins, my red life still

As dead black winter pools, whilst infant squirmed

Among the bone-cold rocks – but I did strain

To comfort it, and put aside my pain,

Carving a cradle from a hollow log,

And decking that new bed with blankets soft,

And jewels, and fine ornaments, and shields

And swords and weapons clean, denoting how

Such child ought king become, a warrior-lord;

And ’neath his head I set a sheaf of wheat,

A pillow of gold grain, and so I named

That infant Sheaf. Upon the shingles lay

The hollow ash-tree trunk, that infant’s crib,

A crib upon the shore, the desolate beach;

And calm and comforted he seemed therein

As Dag did eye him from his winking star,

His silent fire that burns.

 

                                                    “I fell asleep –

Oh, much neglectful! – but how tired I was,

So longing for that empty, mindless mind

When nothing nettles us… Upon a mound

Somewhat above that shore, down dead I fell,

And recked not if was hard or soft my bed,

Though blossoms made my mattress, and sure not

Were couch unyielding.

*

                                                  “Oh, how long then I

Did rest – a day, a year, a hundred years –

Small clue was left to reckon: Seemed the hour

Was slightly older, past the midday heat,

And weather much the same… but with a cry

I saw the cradle’d vanished! For the tide,

Rising and ebbing, must have washed it out

To wavy wilderness! I flailed and sobbed,

And scanned the sea for Sheaf, but long ago

He must have vanished to a dot, winked out,

Slipped o’er horizon’s fold, if he had not

O’erturned and drowned straight out. My ache before

Seemed naught against that now, and long I yearned

A way to Hela through the earth might yawn,

Some dark trail towards those crowds who nothing know

But vast oblivion. 

 

                                    “Yet the earth still sat

Impassive, whisp’ring, blank against my suit,

Earless, and slumb’ring with the sleep I’d fain

Have lain in for all time; and sky as well

Spoke nothing to my cause, nor any voice 

Of creature high or low. And so I stirred

But slowly out of grief… and wandered round…

And gathered logs, and ’gan to build a raft

Through moon’s hours and the sun’s, and put to sea

Half-hopeless, but so longing for that child

That naught else might I do. The waves sucked low,

The ocean murmured; soon my isle had gone

Far back of me. Clouds like souls in void

Slipped o’er my head. I sat alone and plied

The world-stream with my oar, and watched fair breast

Of heaving brine breathe slowly ’neath the day

And ’neath the starlight.

 

                                                  “Sea was all a flat

Of nothingness; and weeks now wandered by,

And months… ’til on a morn of cold and mists

Whilst white was all I saw, I bumped against

A shore of stone abruptly. Firs and pines

Like giants rose above, green silent guards

To greet me. In that forest then I walked,

Unmindful of all else but that I roamed,

Seeking my child, like one who bears no hope

But cannot rest, for that waits as a hell

Of awful motionless, the end of all,

The blood dead in my veins. I sought a house,

A hovel, farm: some spot where I might ask

If had been heard of child washed up on shore,

A glowing babe ’midst arms, perhaps few days

Before – or in some distant, ancient age,

A legend handed down… But all that land,

That frosty world, knew neither man nor dis,

Had not a house, no welcome at a hearth;

And wolves were all that eyed me, roving round,

Malicious teeth-dogs, rushing without sound,

Far-off and hiding.

 

                                       “Forest gave to plain,

And plain to steppe, and steppe to mounds and hills,

And hills to peaks, each country void as next,

The homes of no one. Higher have I climbed

What seems a year, or most of one, through cold

And falling winter – up through spring again,

Amid the crystal caves, above the fogs

That roll like waters ’long the valley floors,

Seeking one soul, at least, who might have heard

What Sheaf became in life – or where he thrives,

An infant still, or child, or stripling lad,

If not much time hath lapsed since tide him stole:

If family found him, or if men have seen

A small one wild in forests all alone,

By ranger glimpsed, some apparition strange,

Master of tracts, the wolf’s own bosom-friend,

A child shining in grayness, toddling, charmed,

Wee god-heart innocent, naive as beast,

All free as any cub the she-bear’s left

To feed in food-flush woods… But such may be

All fond hope, born of love, and he did drown

That very day the waves abducted him.

Much fallen am I – weak, not what I was,

No more a being exalted, for I laid

All vital heart of mine into that bairn,

And wear myself with walking – oh, what pain!

Such flawless scion! and such grief to know

I know not if cold brine-brew smothered him,

Or what was done to him, or what he did

Upon this world… My friend, forgive my moan.

To you I speak, not Fate – sweet words are meet:

Thou art the first, oh kind one, I have met

In all my walk, the first to hear my tale;

And Lodur thanks you for this fire and fare,

Great comforts in such spatt’ring soggy day.

E’en if thou hast no knowledge of such child

In memory, or from the lore of songs,

Thou hast done much to aid me, and I wish

Thee long life in this world.”

 

                                                           And Odin takes

Up words again: “Thou walk’st a route sans cheer,

Good fellow, lonely father who didst wake

To woe exceeding, and a sad path took’st,

Treading like wild man, hermit on his feet

Across these wastes o’ergrown. The springtime lark

Speaks senseless words to thee, the murmuring grass

Is all one blank strange sound – but at the end

Of wandering, up mountain, o’er this pass,

Thou findest one with knowledge and with speech:

Speech one might understand, what lack the birds

And vegetations, though they may have seen

All tales and generations I’ll now tell.

Thou hast slept long – ’tis early summer now

In world’s age; and that young one thou didst make

From thine own heart back when the spring bloomed young,

The early season, Ymir’s blood still fresh,

His bones new-made as tors. Long dead lies Sheaf,

Thy son, thy little lad, but centuries

In life he throve; and live his daughters still

And sons, a glorious race, though far from here –

Upon an isle, vast isle no man might find,

And god only with patience and great strain,

Pursuing seas’ far margins. Sit with me,

Oh Lodur: things of gladness and of pain

I must convey this hour, and on toward noon –

Through afternoon, perhaps: so we’ll ascend

The double staircase of the hours with tale:

Sad things for thee, and me, and things of joy –

Somewhat that hath transpired long ago,

Somewhat that’s still undone, which I have seen

Proceeding from that vision in my sleep

Of which I spoke… Fine company we’ll keep,

Each one the other, underneath this stone,

If thou wouldst hear a tale that winds as long

As path thou’st trod.”

 

                                             And Lodur breathes with hope:

“Say on, say on – whole lives spring from thy tongue,

And from thy lips the ages’ span proceeds.

Fast to this spot to hear thee shall I cleave

Though moss and rust might creep full o’er my hide,

So long might be thy telling. Fellow, hail!

Regale me, tell me sorrowful and glad

Together, nothing spare, my ear opes wide,

The sleep-sprites shall I scatter… Though I’d yearned

My heart-child might yet live, my sleep not much,

And bitter is thy message that he’s died,

Descendants which thou tell’st restore my life,

Thy news of offspring noble and secure.

A lavish stock, or little? No, I’ll wait

Each thing thou sayst as thou shalt sequence it,

Each word as thou shalt deem… But, tell me first,

How know’st thou much of worlds far from thy ken,

This isle you say breathes in some sea obscure,

Lost to the map and every rover’s route?

And how seest thou beyond the wall that Time

Moves backwards, wall that opes no chink or gap

For eye that’s high or low? Disclose thy sight

Of two directions, wizard – then proceed

Thy story of my sons’ and grandsons’ fate.”

*

And to this Odin saith: “My house is tall,

And occupies that space between tor’s height

And night-sky lights; and tower of my home

Nigh toucheth downmost spike of lowest star.

So from my throne within this spire I view

The goings-on where people think they’re hid –

Not all, but most the nine worlds’ broad extent,

Save little nooks and secret netherworlds,

Some depths of combes, some lees of mighty peaks;

And ravens have I two, four extra eyes

To search out corners from my gaze obscured,

My Memory and Thought; and as for times

Beyond retreating wall, what shows to me

Is only what the Norns grant as I sleep,

Dream-dretched and nightmare-nettled, riddles giv’n

In form of images, which leave a tale

Of sure conviction and of destiny

Within my mind. Broad view from windowed tower

Is what I’ll first say: deeds from long ago,

Viewed as the world first thawed from wintertime –

And after those, the shapes of steadfast fate.”

*

*

II.

*

“How grim the surge I saw, how dark the rains

Across great ocean, in that time of Kon,

When mankind yet was infant-race, a tribe

Of bawling babes, howling with wrath and rue

All o’er vast middle-world, transfixed with griefs

And ire and ecstasies, while spirits moved

All ’cross an all-green isle. ’Midst magic waves

High rose that stronghold, rocks gleaming and new

Like polished jewels, and capped with riotous leaf,

A floral covering, like tapestries

Of bright-dipped needles woven, though trees hid

Things less of colors keen, the thorn and fang,

Odd monsters, and the growl of famished mouths.

And from a distant, raging, scowling swirl,

One day amid that early age long gone –

One day in Time, like little boat ’midst sea –

A tiny craft, the cradle of thy Sheaf,

Was blown and rushed and shoved, and bobbed towards isle,

A raft passing ’neath charcoal sky towards blue,

From cold immensities to calmer climes,

’Til blessed by sun, the child exulted, cried,

Straining his hands to grasp th’effulgent cope.

And onto sands his vessel skidded, stopped,

And perfect child felt winds serene caress 

His naked skin – the weapons gripped he, jewels;

And sheaf of wheat he chewed. Then Dag steered down,

And let Nott gaze her turn on jejune play,

Sparkling her pleasure. Tokens of that fame

Destined for child by pudgy hands were dropped,

Picked up again, and fondled; now the day

Returned in east saw first steps of the babe,

Sand grains upon his soles and palms – and quick

Beneath the fronds he crawled.

 

                                                                 “The disir watched

His exercise, and balance soon he gained,

Toddling the ferns among, and berries plucked,

Staining his lips. Behind the pine trunks slipped

Those wisps of woods-sprites as Sheaf learned to run –

From boughs admired nimbleness; their laughs

Throughout green tree-limbs fluttered like slight birds;

And wolves the young one made his hunting-kith,

And sharpened sticks, and conjured Logi’s soul

To fire his meat. A terror to the hares

And harts, he gored and skewered, roasted flesh,

Hanging his prey from low boughs, feasting with

His pack which gnawed the bones he tossed aside,

And grew to manhood.

 

                                               “One maid of that place,

One dis so fair, ethereal and pure,

Upon the strange boy bristling with new beard

Did dote unseen, a wisp invisible

Him following behind while sought he game,

From spots secluded watching how his limbs 

And torso all united in that throw

Of javelin to bring the boar or stag

Come tumbling down! His shoulders, shapely neck,

And trunk and legs all naked charmed her eyes

As Sheaf turned through the motions of each hour;

And gliding ripple of his muscles drew

The dis from out her magic veil: She showed

Herself to youth so stunned; it fell away,

Her clear concealing robe – with motions soft

Her slender fingers feather-light caressed 

His flank, moved slowly o’er him… and to shade,

Thick shade, the shadows of a stand of firs 

Her hands led his.

*

                                        “And o’er the long years thence

Was born the race of elves: all from one womb,

A multitude, half-fairy, half of flesh,

More beauteous than Sheaf himself; and they

Lived but on dew that gathered on the quitch,

A golden breed: man-like, but much more slight,

Undying on that isle. 

 

                                           “All ’cross its face

The blooms grew large: the dew-filled buds elves used

As sinks and baths, their leaves unrolled as beds; 

And rocks that fresh race hewed, as ne’er they flagged –

Pink alabaster and the marble rocks

With spades and picks that weakened not, nor chipped,

Below the trees, along the ocean’s bank,

In infinite sunlight’s warmth – and built arcades,

Long loggias ornate, and balconies

And stairs and cells and arches, little homes

And places for their mischief. Mazes grew

Within the island’s heart, and Sheaf there reigned

’Til old age in a throne room, telling sons

Again, again, how sea had carried him

From out the black depths of a rainstorm’s spleen

So long ago unto these beaches, there

To sire their kind by fairy-womb – what force

Himself had made, he could not ’gin to guess,

But thought perhaps the sea herself had stitched

His body from its slime, then pushed his bed

Unto the world’s one spot of land – all else

A roaring chaos, or a cold salt depth…

*

“And thus became that fair isle elven home.”

*

* * *

*

“The years in thousands sped, and to his grave

Went Sheaf, still golden-shining in his death,

A mortal father, though his sons died not;

And great Ivaldi given was his crown,

For firstborn had he been of fairy’s loins,

Supreme ’mongst elves in valor, keen and wise,

And beauteous and fair as first-sown snow.

Just in his judgments proved he, sober, true,

A king who loved his subjects as his peers,

And mourned his sire as Alfheim’s only lord.

So centuries did happy isle abide,

And ever present hour seemed fresh and pure

And innocent as when its shore received

Fair soul bedecked in arms.

*

                                                         “But in his cave

So rich and candle-sumptuous, good king

’Gan wonder, pine, and dream, and restless grow,

As seedling germinates within the earth,

Thinking on clouds that brood horizon o’er,

Those wisps and towers and anvil-thunderheads

Slow-passing like strange ships, the ships of sky –

And eke on lightning-booms he hardly heard,

Which rang long after flash… And did Sol gaze,

Ivaldi wondered, on Alfheim alone,

The ocean only else – no other isle

His care, his duty for to heat and love?

Ivaldi’s sire had on a plank of wood

Found land by luck, or fate – would not stout boat,

Stout pilot stand at least as strong a chance?

And pondering so, Ivaldi languished long,

Glum in his chamber, sitting ’midst those jewels

And swords and spears and shields his father brought

Not knowing what they were – ’til one dull day,

Ivaldi, sighing, rose at last from chair,

And axe he snatched up from that weapon-heap

And strode upstairs, and ’gan to fell a pine,

And hollowed out its trunk as brothers watched,

All puzzled what their monarch was about.

And double-oar that elf-king carved with knives

From lesser log, then plucked the choicest sword

Of his inheritance, stashed it in craft,

And dragged to gold-bright beach that rough canoe

With fellows’ help, though every elf was sad

To know Ivaldi meant to leave them ’lone.

And to his kin that lord spake farewell-words:

‘Oh brothers, sisters, now I row the seas

To follow on the path our father took

From out the eastern storms, a world of wind,

As babe unconscious, rolled by ocean-nymphs,

Ere strand adopted him: To west I set

My prow, and come what may upon the waves,

Westwards persist I, for to search what lands

Of yonder our sweet father might have found

If not fortuitous chance had guided him 

To fairies’ isle of woods. ’Tis destiny,

This urge that pricks me on, as if some god

Inherent in the sky’s upward abyss

Did whisper wordless hints of grander things,

And prompt impatience that I snap this reign

Of constant happiness – assured and clear,

But palling towards the end… Watch not the sea

While I am gone, I mean not to return;

And mourn not, miss no pleasure and no joy;

Ye all in heart are monarchs much as I,

And know the ways of virtue.’

 

                                                              “And he launched

His little craft the unmapped main upon,

A somber crowd him watching; and the isle

Was not long sinking ’hind him ’low the line

Where blue met blue. The day waxed wondrous hot,

The sea seemed docile creature; and for weeks

Were Dag and Nott his only friends in view,

Two glorious mysteries, a hoary car

And flaming chariot – high, far-flung fields

Of pearl and gold and blue foreverness

Their stamping-course majestic. Never tired

Ivaldi’s arms, no sleep delayed his pace,

And storms durst not steer near him; but a cold

And gathering wind stole softly o’er the sea

Like some ill thought of something one can’t place,

And grew and grew – a biting, western chill –

’Til spots of snow ’gan fall on salty swell,

And harsher heaved the brine; but silence kept

Her sway o’er all the waves.

 

                                                          “A bone-white land

From out horizon’s haze, then, like some sight

In sleep, of perfect peace and emptied soul,

By setting sun appeared: blank, frozen, bare,

So crystal-sharp and clean, spiked o’er with frost,

With ice-spires jagged; here Ivaldi touched

The flank of his canoe against the shore,

Picked up his sword (the symbol of his might,

For went he crownless), bound it to his waist,

And stepped on snow, not minding much the cold,

For perfect being he was: no element

Might burn or bruise his flesh, and pain was not

A curse known to that elf-king… All serene

And joyful in his walk, he through bronze light

So dazzling of the sun-fall searched that world,

Remarking snowflakes huge like wheels of ice

Descending as they spun, all languid-like –

A dreamy drop, and settled on their sides;

And hours he spent in shuffling through thick slush,

Ascending mounds, and sliding down their sides;

And crunch of snow beneath his boots was all

He sensed ’midst silence.

 

                                                    “Far inland he trekked,

And soon upon an ice-cave stumbled he:

Wide dark gap ’neath a hill, and there he slept

As blackness swallowed the world. In morn he heard

Soft footsteps at the entrance – up he looked,

Up from his dreaming, and a woman there

At cavern-mouth, a woman dressed in furs

Stood staring at him. 

 

                                           “Fish hooked to a string

From one hand dangled – beauteous beyond

The fairest elf-maid did she seem to him,

Whilst blue-eyed wonder shone like angel’s gaze,

Surprise and holy marvel in her look,

A startled gold-white face.

 

                                                     “Star-Frost was she,

A giantess of snow, as fair as milk,

Blonde-haired and noble, creature of the cold,

Who lived alone, but overjoyed was then

To find a man-like creature in her lair;

And placing down her catch, without one word

In haste did settle, gently, by elf’s side,

Spreading a length of warm fur o’er them both,

And ’midst the crystal twinkling, bode with him.”

*

*

III.

*

“Of morning revels under blankets hid

Issued a son, and Völund was he named,

One quarter fairy, quarter blood of Sheaf,

And half a jotun; and none might him match

In youthful glowing beauty, not e’en child

Thou form’dest out of thine own heart so fair,

So good and graceful, Lodur – nor his sire;

And Star-Frost doted on him with a love

As bright as infant’s brow. 

 

                                                     “Egil came next,

Nearly as shining; Slagfinn was the third;

And brothers three by firelight gained in strength

As frisked they in their ice-cave, swathed in fur,

Battling and brawling, bawling, fed with flesh

Of herring and of hare. Their sister squalled

And suckled as the boys struck quick with fists

And sword admired, Ivaldi’s blade he’d brought

From fabled elf-home. Idunn was that babe,

And grew in comely grace so delicate,

She seemed a polished doll the dwarfs might carve,

As precious, fragile, and as bold in glow;

And music of the ice which only she

Might hear – that nigh-to-nothing tinkling charm

Of icicles that shatter, floes that drift

So lightly on the sea, of snows that shift –

Was all her strange delight. 

 

                                                       “The children heard

From father of the landing of great Sheaf,

And prosperous Alfheim, and the elf-king’s zest

To westward sail – and from their mother heard

Of giants, men, and dwarfs, and tree that binds

All worlds within its arms, the holy ash,

And heard, too, of gods’ rule, their place in hall

At rainbow’s height, that thurse-kind coveted.

And when to manhood and to womanhood

Those children increased, brethren set their heart

On finding Nidavellir, home of gnomes,

Those dark fields where King Hreidmar keeps his throne,

To learn the ways of smithing magic things,

Such treasures and such weapons as that sword

Their father’d brought, which Sheaf passed down to him.

But gentle Idunn turned her face to east,

Back towards that realm her father’d journeyed from,

For she had from first youth heard sacred songs

And festal, what her elf-kin sang to please

Themselves and all the wild sprites of their woods;

And so enchanted ’came that maid, she pined

At seaside for those tones – not just to hear,

But somehow live inside them… and she rowed

To elf-land, and with half-kin was she one,

By spell-tuned harps turned speechless, trapped in bliss,

By galder-words and voices sweet struck dumb;

And lyre and oaten pipe she did adore.

So sweet girl passed her days in music’s charm

Far lost, but Völund, Egil, Slagfinn all

Set steps together on a somber trip,

Leaving their father on his throne of ice

(Who slept thereon in ancient sleep, one hand

Resting on pommel of his brittle sword),

And westward wandered, seeking long that cave

To winking wealth-world winding.”

*

* * *

*

                                                                   “In the midst

Of margeless darkness, ’fore the seat they bowed

To wizened lord bedizened with plump gems,

And asked to learn the crafts of much-famed gnomes

To serve that race, and of their wealth partake,

And to king’s treasure-hoard add heaps and piles,

Such graith to jealous make the richest wyrm. 

And glowering monarch mulled long on their suit,

But at the last did nod, and sent those men

To labor in his deepest mines: the price

Of dwarven tutelage. For years they toiled

Where light was little – candles and a lamp –

Extracting jewels and ore, swinging the pick,

Loading the groaning cart, a stifling task,

So sweaty, never-ending, breathing fumes

The burning wicks did billow; but at last

Their debt was paid, and to the higher caves

They might return.

 

                                        “To Brokk and Sindri went 

Those pupils, and did learn to forge the sword

And shield, and ring and torque, and glitt’ring things,

Making king’s cache more lavish than before,

Making great weapons more than fit for gods,

And dwarven masters growing nigh in skill.

Through subterranean hours their hammers rang:

Through steaming, heated, dayless days they worked –

A universe of ache, a wheezing age

In whirlwind-chamber, blowing breath and sigh,

Forge-hot and bellows-cool, a mighty school

Beneath red gnomish eyes. Exquisite targe

And sword as straight as God from anvil came,

Spearhead and halberd, cor-de-bec, and glaive,

Plate armor, helm, and coat as tough as crab’s:

So many metal shells depicting scenes,

Embossed with views of war and vicious deeds

And mass disasters: massacres and plagues,

Rapes, routes, revolts, fell tempests and the flood,

Beheadings, ogres’ feasts, dire earthquake’s rage,

Red fire of earth erupting, winds that break

The stoutest hall, and storms that ships inhale.

And weapons all in throne room were arrayed,

And Hreidmar each fine detail did look o’er,

Noting the high ascent of brothers’ craft,

And how the skill of Völund greatest ranked.

And when king’s treasure and his armory

Had doubled in their beauty and their worth,

He called Ivaldi’s sons, and said to them:

‘Released ye are from service to my crown:

Your term is spent, and store of mine’s more bright

With emerald-facets and with battle-gear

And gold and rubies than I’ve wished in dreams.

Now roam at will, and find where ye might thrive,

Three smithing-masters shaming human skill.

And ere ye leave, one weapon may each choose,

The finest that you think, that you’re not bare

Against all wights would reave ye of your lives.’

So brothers o’er king’s hoard looked high and low,

Seeking what pleased each best, and Slagfinn chose

A mace by gnomes well-shaped, hefty to crush

The strongest titan-skull, while Egil took

An axe with gems encrusted, charmed to cut

The thickest ash or pine with one stout stroke.

And golden-hilted longsword Völund chose,

A weapon ’bove all others Hreidmar loved,

And was regretful for to lose, but knew

Might have no worthier owner. Hilt displayed

Two scenes primeval: Ymir sucking teats

To drain Audhumla’s milk, as cow’s tongue licked

The head of Buri from the ice-blocks’ salt,

And on reverse, between vast flame and frost –

Tall pride-swoll’n fire, low ice of cold disdain –

Ur-giant giving birth to boy and lass

From under arms, while troll with six smooth heads

Emerged from legs, his six mouths roaring with

Birth’s agonies.

 

                                 “The brothers humbly bowed

To Hreidmar, humbler e’en than when they came,

Then with their beauteous weapons walked above

To see the wide earth’s light, those sun-blessed plains,

And blinked in afternoon, joyous to see

Broad wind-blown surface, scene of destined fame.”

*

*

IV.

*

“So o’er a swept land and a desolate

The brothers went,” says Odin, “far from cave,

Seeking to sell their smithing to some prince

Or lord – but all that world was perfect waste,

Uncanny undulating realm of hills

Where grass was all one height, and uniform

In greenness: nothing like the land they passed

On way to Hreidmar – at least, what they thought

That world had looked like… Grim the field-bird gazed

Upon them as they walked. The trees grew few,

And Frigg was spinning scant – to open eye,

The world lay open; yet a secret seemed

Behind such plainness hiding. 

 

                                                                “At a stream

That carved the hills, the brothers stopped to drink,

Then followed down its course, thinking to find

Some city or some town, but long days mocked

Their hope and plan. But by the bank one morn,

Where curving creek through mossy woods ran swift,

Unseen themselves, three maids the brothers spied

Whose hair was gold as sunset, eyes shone blue,

All clad in white robes, seeming like three swans,

For feathers of the swan their mantles made.

Both maids and white birds all at once they looked –

Enchanted in-between, some riddle-sight –

And flax the damsels spun, and lyrics sang

In tongue so strange to brothers, though they sensed 

The cadence and the rhyme. 

 

                                                            “Now as the sun

Did sweat and swelter, and the shade contract 

As yellow jewel hung highest ’twixt the boughs,

The maids grew hot, and set their cloaks aside –

Draped o’er a stream-side limb of fallen birch –

And halfway naked kept on spinning flax,

Translucent robes alone ’twixt them and eyes.

And Völund to his brothers whispered thus:

‘Oh know ye who those be? Maids of the swan,

Of whom our father once did tell us lore:

That when they wear those skins, they might fly off

As swift as any bird, or swim the creeks

And never drown; and therefore he who hunts

Swan-maiden for a wife, is left with air

To wrap his arms around… But here’s our chance,

For all unguarded are their feathers left;

And if we seize them, then must maids submit

To know us in their beds.’ And by a route

Circuitous, careful no twig to snap

Beneath their boots, those brothers to the birch

Quick stole unnoticed, took the robes in hand,

And called loud to those startled maids on sand:

‘Hullo, ye spinning three, see what we’ve clutched!

Your wings inside our fingers fret and shake,

And never more shall lift your frames so lithe.

Your fate we grasp as well, and cling to ground – 

We’ll make you three our wives! Walk on before,

We’ll walk behind, and have our weapons drawn,

Lest any think to run!’ And keen distress

Did groan from poor maids’ lips; of freedom shorn

The damsels wailed, and pleaded for release,

But had no help – and so much was the lust

Of brothers, that all pity they forbore,

And poised their sword and axe and mace o’er heads

Of trembling girls so delicate, exposed,

Who knelt as they in shaking voices said:

‘Oh bear us where ye will, we are your slaves –

Our years of flight insouciant have flown:

The fickle landing, fickle, nimble life

Swimming through air-drafts where our fancies guide,

Or floating down soft streams, unconscious-like.

The earth now keeps our ankles locked with chains,

Our soles stick to its soil… Dreams flap off,

Dreams like small birds that leave us far below;

And now to humbly tread’s our doleful fate.

Put back your steel, we shall not run nor hide –

Put back your steel, our stride’s much less than yours.’

And so with vines the maidens’ wrists were bound;

With withes the brothers leashed them at their necks;

And ’long the bank with lowered eyes they trod,

Then rested by new husbands under shade

Of spreading spruce or pine while Sol seethed hot,

Or ’midst the open weeds while Nott’s breath blew,

A breath that took their tears up towards the clouds.”

*

* * *

*

“The city lived where stream gave up its surge

To swell a broader river – town of men,

The sons of Ask: a towered wooden block

With little cubic houses scattered round:

Red, brown, and gold upon a plain of frost.

Wolf-Copse was called the forest round about,

The haunt of troll-maid’s steed, branch-cluttered land,

A tract for travelers perilous with murk;

And nigh to there, an isle the brothers found

Upon a blue-white lake, stronghold remote,

A tree-plumed spine of land, so vast and long,

With hill-heights down its length. The brethren paid

A ferryman, and all six crossed to isle,

For there the brothers meant to make their home,

Their cabin and their forge, a peaceful stead.

Beneath an ash tree’s roots two cloaks they hid,

Well tucked, the sprinkled earth hiding their shine,

And ’neath a giant rock the other stowed;

Then ’midst fell winds of frosty fall they worked,

Felling and notching, stacking logs to frame

A cabin to be smithy and be house.

Poor maidens languished in the chill and shook,

But once within the walls, by hearth were warmed,

And now were maids no more, but wives, and then

Mothers of hearty sons and daughters fair.

Olrun was she whom Egil took to bed,

And Slagfinn knew the joys of Swan-White’s charms,

While Hervör unto Völund birthed a troop

Of noble creatures, children sleek and blonde,

As bright as cousins – nay, much brighter still –

Upright and angel-shaped, like newest brood

Of world’s inheritors. 

 

                                           “Heime was the first

To issue from the sacred swan-girl’s loins,

And chased he ducks and foxes ’cross the isle

From earliest years; the flint he struck, and fire

Well-tended, roasting prey upon a spit,

Feeding his folk, while sire and uncles struck,

Most waking hours, the iron and silver lumps

And golden too, to form all precious things;

And for their wives, the brothers struck three rings

Of red gold, and secured them on their hands.

*

“Now each new moon, Völund would gather all

The metalwork and weapons smiths had made,

And in a satchel stuff them – ’midst the woods

At other end of isle he’d find the robe

His wife once owned, that cloak hid ’neath a rock;

And donning it, across the lake he’d fly

While lingered lightless morn, and still did snooze

The triple family in their home of logs.

Above the mountains, o’er the furze-clad hills

And towards the city Völund soared his course,

By Nott’s screen veiled from sleepless eyes below,

And ere the dawn, in marketplace displayed

His wares, worthy of gnomes’ own craftsmanship.

With coins and cakes and sweetmeats was he paid,

With metals, and with gems to crust his works,

With head of ox and shank or flank of calf,

With fowls unplucked, with candied fruits from south:

And all this after dusk he packed in sack,

Then fluttered back to home at half the speed

Of morning’s trip, so laden down he was,

And shared his bounty with his famished clan;

And progeny and wives grew red-cheeked, fat,

And every child was hearty, happy, stout.

And no child e’er saw Völund in his flight,

Nor knew the least of feathers stowed away,

For told were they that ferry fetched him o’er

Wide-watered lake, and wagon sped his way

Both to and from the city’s marketplace.

So nine years smiths their treasures worked and sold,  

And ever ’neath that stone so weighty, huge,

The swan-suit Völund hid – ne’er was he glimpsed

In stashing or retrieving by the wives

Or children.”

*

* * *

*

                         “But one morn, when Heime awoke

Well ere the sun, and restless left his home

To roam through misty forest, and he played

At being king or knight, and swung his stick

As though it were sleek saber, he espied

His father roll a boulder with light heave,

And wondered at what strength such must have ta’en;

And truly then did father seem a god

In child’s eyes. Low on a swale he watched

Great Völund lift strange feathers from the ground:

Some coat white-shining, though much soiled by earth,

And slip it on, so that a swan he seemed –

Yea, very much a swan: long curving neck,

A beak, webbed feet – yet still somehow a man…

A man and swan at once! The graceful swirl

Of wings brought Völund past the canopy,

And Heime, alone, remarked the ground disturbed,

And what large mass that rock was, how not ten

Nor hundred men could hope to roll it round,

And wondered what strange costume father wore,

Where it had come from, why he kept it hid.

Then looking round, beneath an ash tree’s roots,

In narrow spaces, two more suits he glimpsed,

Their feathers by the mud much soiled and stained.

He wiped them clean, so that by moon they shined:

Two robes of magic secrets, wondrous flight;

And Heime did ponder why three suits there were,

And why he oft had seen his mother weep

When by the lakeshore spinning – aunts as well,

Their tears dripping where little wavelets broke,

Increasing moat ’round home. 

*

                                                               “So to the house

Brought Heime the swan-suits, bade his mother wake,

And whispered what he’d seen his father do,

His vast strength, and his metamorphosis,

And showed the cloaks, and asked what they might mean.”

*

* * *

*

“Dwindled the dusk, and smith from woods emerged

With sack of goods. A zephyr from the heights

Of barren mountains blew across the isle;

The waves ran choppy, whitecaps scudded slow,

And not a sound from cabin could be heard.

At doorway father saw his son in tears,

And at the beach, his Hervör standing still,

The water’s margin lapping round her legs,

Her hem dark wet, her cheeks with weeping bright;

And in the house, the children sobbed so soft.

‘They’ve flown, oh husband,’ Hervör called from shore,

‘Swan-White and Olrun with the suits you hid!

And after them, your brothers dove to chase,

Dove through the wavelets, reached the other shore,

And far away now wander o’er the lands,

Desperate their wives to find! Slagfinn hath run

To south, Egil to east! Our Heime disclosed

Thy secret, and the pinions showed to me;

And to my sisters I those wings restored,

Though I was wingless – yet I mean to leave

E’en so! Oh Völund, watch my glad escape

From serving thee e’er since thou held’st thy sword

Above my neck!’ 

 

                                   “Then Hervör turned about,

Tossing her ring of red gold on the sand –

A flash of flame so rich in dreadful night –

And sloshing, strode to dark depths of the lake

As Völund watched, believing not such scene,

All motionless – and then her head submerged

Without a sound, without a fuss or thrash;

And soon the lake combed o’er that rippling foam,

As though ‘twere nothing to accept her death.”

*

*

V.

*

“And Heime did grow, and learned the blacksmith’s craft,

As did the other boys, while tended girls

The infants of the cabin. Still he struck

The hammer at his forge, grim Völund did,

And flew to city, sold his goods for food

And fed his family. 

 

                                       “O’er the years had spread

Renown of dwarf-taught masters, and above

Slagfinn and Egil’s fame did Völund’s soar:

The equal of his teachers, all agreed,

For nothing might with Völund’s work claim rank:

Such florid chasing, edges straight and sharp,

Such jeweled beauty – weapons fit for lords,

And fit for all majestic beings else.

Yet Völund knew much finer he might make

Could he but lavish years upon one work,

One mighty blade excelling swords of gods.

But many mouths did cry, and bawl for bread,

And bade him lesser arms and armor strike.

A million rings of red gold left his forge,

Each one just like the ring his wife had worn;

And most were sold, but some he strung on ropes

Of bast tight-twined; and Hervör’s ring he wore

Upon his finger.

 

                                 “Now, Lodur, take note

Of greed of Midgard-men in what I tell

Of deeds were done to Völund, son of son

Of being thou didst form, and cruelty 

To which the forceful human lord is wont.

That towered wooden block, that city proud,

Those spires and halls where stream great river met,

Were seat of Nidud, king, gold-anxious man

Who many of three brothers’ crafts had bought.

But e’er the price rose dear for sword or brooch,

And monarch’s coffers dwined to low and gone –

An empty coin-chest; and he jealous fumed

That lords of lesser titles but more wealth

Should equal treasures, or e’en greater, own –

As many, and more bright. 

 

                                                       “A stoogy gang,

The city’s ruffians, beer-blooded blokes

King called to scheming-chamber: ‘Each new moon,’

Said Nidud, ‘Doth that wonder-smith appear

In market-place at morn, a magic man

Who hath in hammer gnomes’ enchanted skills.

Oh fine-ground blade, oh diamond-studded shield!

So high he sets his price, on dragon’s pile

Of riches must he drowse, and bathe in coins.

Ah, harsh! Such pain to know I must assume 

The debtor’s shame, if more works I would own –

Or that, or I must view the rival-prince

Amass collections putting mine in shade!

To buy and buy is but a langer’s game…

What if I buy the craftsman at no price,

And keep him as I keep his precious things?

My dungeon’s fit for smithy… I’ve a mine

To furnish gold and silver, iron ore…

And rubies from my quarries flow like drops

Of blood from wounded flesh! Now, it is said

In all the parts round Wolf-Copse that his kin

Of equal age – his brothers, plus the wives –

Have died, or left poor Völund; so forlorn,

Strikes he the anvil in his lonely hut.

What party, then, to seek him out when gone?

Too young his children, who shall perish quick

When cut off from all sustenance and bread –

Or if they live, too weak a memory

Of father might survive to stir a search.

Yet oh, a trouble still: a wight so blessed

By fairy-things, the charms of netherworld,

Must surely wear the strength of beast, not man!

We must act cunning, then. Lean close, and list:

Here’s what I bid.’

 

                                    “And Nidud told his plan

To those bad men, and purses passed to them…

And all through waning moon, their snaggle-teeth

E’er wide did grin, like yellow gems of greed.”

*

* * *

*

“The sun was low, the buyers mostly gone

As Völund sat on bearskins counting coins,

Thinking what foods he’d buy with so much cash,

Much satisfied; and few of’s wares remained,

When down a lane a tough-boned-type buffoon,

Swinging with ale’s joy, singing ribald names,

Did spill his mug and stagger through the place

’Til Völund’s products seemed to seize his eyes.

He gasped, and cried: ‘Oh blacksmith! Such a piece,

That silver brooch! So like what wife of mine –

Good Hela love her sprite – donned most the time,

Her darling ornament… Gold central gem

With sapphire studs: a work by dwarfs, she claimed.

But oh! ’twas lost, and same way went her soul

Not one year after… Shame it is I own

Not one-tenth of what wealth I held when life

Yet made me glad. Now sleep I in the hay,

A guest of whate’er farmer takes me in;

And little chores buy up the crusts I gnaw.

Such pity, blacksmith – but thou’lt have thy wage

From one can pay, and right deserve it, man.

Oh wife! I languish; Helheim keep her head!

I say good evening.’

 

                                         “But the blacksmith bade

That stranger stay, for heart of his did weep

Just like those tears that dripped down man’s flushed cheeks;

And Völund said: ‘Toss price, and toss the wage!

Sweet-hearted husband, widower dismayed,

Take brooch, and wear it pinned upon thy rags,

A sign to wights and gods thy wife’s not dead

In passions that still pine ’neath jewelry-piece.

Do take it, say I; easy be thy days.

Völund’s a man who knows an anguished heart!’

And drunkard made such show to fool a fiend

How grateful was he: ‘On my life,’ he said,

‘A better turn not man nor woman’s done

By me, an I forget not: take this hand

As friend, and tell me what you’d say to drink

With fellows mine, o’er there at corner-inn?’

*

“And Völund gladly gathered up his things,

And followed fellow to that quaffing place,

A smoky hole oft used by chuffs and oafs,

Meatheads and mugginses, a groggy fog

Choking smith’s throat and nose; but Völund wished

Some fellowship, and knocked back with them all,

Frothing his lip and chortling with those chums,

That lackey-pack what Nidud had employed.

And swimming brain of his soon nodded, drooped;

And ’long the bench that lightweight fell and slumped,

While goons him gathered up, and hustled out

To gate of monarch’s towered wooden block.”

*

* * *

*

“The smith awaked, and felt his wrists restrained

And ankles clapped with bands – a clink of chains

Stirred round him as he moved. What treachery,

What frightful turn? The room fluttered with light,

The light of cressets, orange and gold and red.

It seemed a forge and jail cell both, that place,

And figures five before the captive stood:

A lady with a crown… tiara’d girl…

Two youths… and one white-bearded man who gleamed

With vicious countenance. His coronet

So many stones did boast, that even smith

Was dazzled by that show – he turned away,

But looked again, and saw that man (a king,

From looks of it) lean down, malicious glow

In’s eyes; and with dark lips, king whispered thus:

*

“ ‘Thou liv’st in Wolf-Copse, Völund? Thou’rt a slave,

As all might be who in my lands reside

And profit from my peace. Too long thou’st kept

King Nidud’s rightful due, oh reprobate,

Hiding from service in thy wilderness!

But now, thou’lt make amends: My daughter hath

Thy ring upon her finger, as thou seest,

And keeps thy cloak of feathers under arm

(A garment curious). And sword of thine –

Why, naturally, I keep it at my side.

Mine old it shall replace… But more we’ll take,

Much more, for more thou ow’st my family:

My Bodvild, princess, and my glam’rous queen –

Rich pendants, necklaces their heads t’adorn –

And sons, who must have flashing blades for wars,

Fierce swords to dazzle foe-men out of heart!

And armor, bangles, crowns, flagons, and torques:

We wish those all, now craft of thine comes ours!

You’ll have an anvil, hammer, all you’ll need –

But nevermore this dungeon might you leave.

A grasp at key? Oh blacksmith, well believe

A blade thy legs shall hamstring if thou try’st!

And think not links to break: of adamant

Thy manacles were fashioned… See the shop

That lies before thee – and now set to work!’ ”

*

* * *

*

“So wretched Völund struck his hateful chore

Without a rest. The jailer threw him scraps

The dogs at banquet wouldn’t deign to eat;

And e’er that flunky kept far from the reach

Of man in shackles. Copious came yield

From dungeon-forge; and Nidud’s puffed esteem

Amongst the earls in town swelled like a bleb,

And same ’mongst princes of the wider world,

For no one’s treasure-holdings grew but his.

But e’en as fine things piled around his throne,

And sparkling metals graced his daughter’s throat,

His queen’s earlobes and wrists, his two sons’ belts,

The house of flesh within did creak and groan, 

Assailed by coughs, disorders, syndromes fierce,

A wracking palsy – so to bed he stayed,

Unvisited by loved ones much, who longed

Only for company of treasures new,

Productions of the captive; and king groaned

Softly in chamber many anguished months,

That heartless lord, e’en as did suffer slave.”

*

* * *

*

“A cruel year passed, and two, and Völund waxed

Vast in his skill, and vast in smoldering wrath

E’en as his body shrank, and scabby flakes

His shirtless skin caked o’er. His forge flared hot,

The brick walls glowed, the brick floor singed his feet;

Dense heat squeezed drops from brow and every limb;

But masterpieces rose from bubbling trough

As gritted hard the teeth of fuming smith.

And like the sparks of forge, a spark was struck

In crazèd brain – a scowling, seething scheme.

Now grin of lunatic his visage seized, 

And hearty howling laughs from lungs did vie

With hammer-peals in loudness. Iron sheets

He folded over: clank and knock and clang

Produced a helm, a heavy hat for head,

And one of every jewel he fused thereon,

Then drew sharp runes, etched with an iron pen;

And magic words low-spoken on his lips

Concluded charm he worked upon that casque –

For helmet disappeared before his eyes,

Though sat it yet in hands. This work he donned,

And saw his own self vanish! – arms and trunk

And legs all turned to clear, and floating chains

Were all him did betray. Now waited smith,

Ceasing his labor, letting room go cool,

For no more wonders needed he produce.

He lay, and glued his gaze upon the door.”

*

* * *

*

“The jailor jangled keys, and opened up.

‘Oh ronyon, here are chunks for ye to chew!

No flames or clanging? What, ye’ve fallen dead?’

The bully sneered – but seeing no one there,

And shackles on the floor, he dropped in shock

His bowl of slop, and frantic searched the room;

And once near Völund, all amazed he viewed

Smith’s hammer lift in air! Far back it swung –

Then blasted caitiff’s stonied noggin out!

The wretch fell flat, and slumped, his limbs splayed out.

With elfin speed, smith snatched his keys from belt,

Dropped off his fetters, moaned triumphant squeak,

Then with a gleam of maniac in’s face

The house beyond his cell he swift explored –

Through dank and dismal castle sprinting wild,

Trespassing sneakily past men-at-arms,

Wardens, and guards, young princes bent to find,

Those brothers for whom sabers he had shaped.

If sun or stars then reigned, he had no hint,

But found the boys in bedroom fast asleep,

Two smooth-cheeked angel-youths in one wide cot,

Shifting and murm’ring as their dreams did prod.

From bedposts hung their fine-wrought blades in sheathes –

Out one did fly so bright, drawn by a hand

Immune to eye – flick’ring by globe that shone

Soft silver through the night, and window through.

O’er necks blade perched, o’er bare respiring throats…

Then fell, and lopped off adolescent heads,

Soaking all red the eiderdown straight through;

And heads that now eternal sleep enjoyed

The smith bore back to smithy, there to make

More treasures for the king, princess, and queen.

*

“Forthwith four eyes he plucked, and fashionèd

Four jewels so rare, like emeralds set within

Clear sapphire stones; and then the pates he skinned,

Scooped out the stuffing, and made chalices

So white and polished, perfect for the wine.

And molars many, Völund dipped in gold

To be rich brooches Boldvild might delight.

He cackled, sniggered, snickered, hooted, hied

To room of that dear girl (not long to find)

And saw her all awake, peaceful and blithe…

Threw jewelry in her face, threw off his helm,

Revealing self, astonishing the lass,

And breathed: ‘Thy bright things, damsel – brothers’ teeth!

Have every brooch ye wish! Those things thy kin

Did own, thou ought’st inherit! Look – thy ring…

Thou seem’st my wife, and hast her swan-robe, too,

That feathered garment in which Hervör flew!

Thou wishest wife to be? this proud smith’s wife?

Then wifely duty hast thou to perform!’ ”

*

* * *

*

“The king a bird thought beating in his room,

His chamber high in towered wooden block,

And woke from dream of raging wings to view

The smith near ceiling, flapping o’er his bed,

Who lowered soft, a phantom spiteful, dread,

With face like beast’s on vengeful prowl, who said:

‘Two finest cups now hast thou, Nidud king,

For sipping at the table with thy guests:

See chalices were once thy offspring’s heads

Set on thy quilt! and gemstones, once could see

And love thy filial majesty, are blind:

Four jewels now, for monarchess to dress

Her collar, cloak, or hair – those sightless eyes

Made ornaments to charm what eye them views! 

Enjoy thy gifts, my final works for ye,

Oh wretched one, whose daughter soon shall bear

The son of Völund! who thy line destroys,

Usurps thy throne, defeats thee without wars,

For grandchild of thee he’ll not be at heart,

Hating his grandsire and his memory

Just as thou loathest him, a son of foe,

A hated infant – smith’s child – on thy throne!

Choke, sputter, suffer! In thy bed thou diest:

Already Hela’s devils close thee round,

Fell demon-wraiths of Grief and Hopelessness;

And tears like desperate pleas to stay their claws

Pour on thy bedding! Weep thy way to death –

The morn comes not for Nidud. Now I flee

Through tower casement with the sword thou stol’st,

Gold-hilted sword that might relieve thy pain,

But stays within my scabbard! Enter shade,

Damned king – the shadows wrap like cerements

Around thy body, as around thy ghost!

To Helheim with thee!’ And with sword and ring,

And donning helm once more, the smith unseen

With swirling swan-flaps left the gasping lord,

And soared through night – up, up, just ’neath the stars

That beamed like favoring fate upon his flight.”

*

*

VI.

*

Now Odin rests his tongue. Sol drives apace,

Blazing a fulgent course across the clouds;

And day-birds fly their errands, whilst the rime

Softens and trickles, for the sunbeams sharp

Like arrows dash upon it, and the snow

Weeps from its wounds. 

 

                                                  Saith Lodur to the one

Who hath spoke long: “Oh far, oh deep, oh seer!

Thou hast more vision in thy single eye

Than all low ogling things replete with sight!

Hail watcher, that did follow race of mine

For eerie eons, ’cross the lengths of space

With hovering survey… Hail, my hearty Sheaf!

Who lived the waves and hurly-burly gales,

And tribe begot from wispy things on isle.

Ivaldi, hail! and hail his elfin kind,

And Völund – though he suffered, and did sin,

The cup of vengeance overfilling brim,

And supping blood that never did him ill

But only sprang from wellspring of his woe.

But tell me, weary traveler: long ago

Occurred those murders and that theft of throne

By grandson’s son of mine? or happed it not

Far back – doth Völund live among us still?

Indeed, doth fly he still, yet in his ‘scape

From torture-house, and seeks where to renew

His life of striking? And what of his kin:

His brothers, and their wives, and Idunn fair,

And all his little nieces, nephews, bairns?

What eye must now thou look with: that unpatched,

Or eye within, which views what Fates yet seal?”

*

And Odin, who yet seems but mortal sage 

To Lodur (though far wise beyond his peers) 

Tells friend: “Not long ago did gush that gore

Out arteries of necks of Nidud’s boys.

Much time the smith invisible did fly

Far o’er the nighttime earth, o’er daylight sights,

Scudding on zephyrs ’long the margent of

The clouds’ field and the stars’… Some say the worlds

Of fire and frost and green his eye did sweep

At once, so high he reached then: all one gaze,

One giddy vision – then he drooped to earth,

Much sighing, wild exhilarations spent,

His rage allayed, the star-field sighing cold,

Blowing the heat from off his fainting frame, 

And planets’ aspects scowling.

 

                                                               “Where the surf

That unto sands delivered Sheaf far stretched

Its salty curls, there did weak smith alight

In silent paradise, his grandsire’s home

(Of which his mother, father, had him told),

And gazed about, a blank but vernal world

Without a sound; and ’mongst those rock arcades

’Midst elfin song with Idunn did he dream,

And still doth dream – I eyed it from my tower:

The idle blacksmith lingers with his sis

In endless half-awareness: music’s slaves,

Those devotees of harps, the tambour’s thralls,

They languish and repine, yet rest content

In some strange half-mood, whilst the other smiths,

Egil and Slagfinn, hopeless of their wives,

To isle-home have returned, their bairns to raise

And hammer heft once more. Heime shall be man

In not much time, soon uncles to assist,

And wield their trade as well – with emes he’ll fill

Wide vaults and casks of lords for lavish pay…

But where bide Olrun, Swan-White, I can’t say.”

*

“And what of her,” asks Lodur, “who with child

Unasked-for swells, or hath already birthed

What grew from seed that trespassed secret place?

Did Nidud perish, as smith thought he saw

The dark’ning signs of? and shall son ascend,

My great-great-grandson, to that kingdom’s power?

O’er man’s domain as well as elf’s might rise

The blood of Lodur? (humble though it seems,

This flesh of mine infusing!) Sightful man,

With eye within, now trace those unborn days

Of what’s to come, I plead thee – for thou sayst

Thou hast some purblind vision in that way,

Some glimpse of wide-blurred fate, the world’s next course,

A foggy foresight. Tell me how it fares,

My race, my Sheaf-clan… Thrive we? Gaze, and say!”

*

Way-Weary stirs the fire; the flames revive

But little while, then seek their sleep again

In embers such as through the morn have glowed,

And throb yet with their ire. “Of wool unpassed

Through wheel of Nornies, thou shalt have thy load,

Though serves not for the wearing. Far-off days

Are hazy mist on mountains, yet I’ll say

What visions filled my brain, like bright jewels stuffed

In gem-box all unpolished. List, oh friend,

A goodly while, as Sol from zenith falls,

And learn thy family’s fate.

 

                                                       “Nidud did die,

And soul of his dropped down through sheets of earth

To blank plains of the death-queen’s rule. Now kicks

Strong elf-blood child in royal daughter’s womb…

Now’s born, now frolics ’midst the castle’s halls

In future times not far, some years ahead,

Dandled by Bodvild, doted on by queen,

Who shall not speak of Nidud, nor of smith,

Nor murdered princes, but straight silence keep

Before the growing babe, the youth and lad,

Who hath his father’s impetus – an arm

For hurling lance and bringing boar to ground,

Shooting the stag, grand trophies lifting home;

But ever asks he mother ’bout his sire…

She bides in stony quiet. 

 

                                                  “Od’s his name,

The much-loved lord of Wolf-Copse, much admired,

A lad of rolling curls, of gold-blonde hair,

Half-brother of harsh Heime sooty with grime.

Now Od has crown; he’s king of towered block

And frosty plain, and cubic houses ’round,

Where small stream meets its river. Of his kin

Toiling on island, selling wares for wars,

He nothing knows, and they nothing of him;

And smithing brethren think their Völund dead,

And Od knows naught but that his sire’s not home,

And walks, perhaps, dim plains which let none leave.

Grandmother dies, and mother will not say

What Od implores, so grievous-struck she seems –

Such mystery in mournful eyes which drip –

That Od sets down his crown, and mounts his horse, 

Leaves palace-fort by night, a sleepful hour,

In weeds of common man, hiding his fame,

To trot in mist, a dour and rainy morn

Of rainbow strangled by forgiveless clouds;

And each he asks, each person on the road,

Each wight within his cubic house in town

If ought he knows of man who sired that prince

Bodvild the mother loves in castle-keep –

But world is answerless. Far off he rides,

Of father seeking word.

 

                                                “Od takes the ways

That lead to cities. Far off, Freyja spies

Such handsome man; she dreams she is his wife

(Strange dreams of magic, witchcraft inward-turned)

And from her seat-room scurries. In great town,

High place of whores and games and gaudy glitz,

She plays the mistress… Soon her belly swells

With double fetus, double-forming soul;

But prince roams on, unknowing he hath lain

With goddess, not mere girl. And Lady mourns,

A wilted vernal bud; too much of heat

Hath scorched her life – mild water’s drawn from her

And weeps to earth.”

**

* * *

*

                                            “The east wind and the west

Tilt spears; sail-ships are whirling on the wet,

The winsome eddies, gladsome vortices –

A merriness that strikes, or fearsome skips.

How switch the sounds of earth in where they bend

And tend; confusion and cacophony

Spread amply, foreign noise in local ears:

A gallimaufry; words are lost to wind,

Swirled up in puzzles – sweet and ugly blend;

And from far corners, strangest notes are borne,

To ears revealing, seeming without cause.

Ah, destiny! Thou playest with thy toys:

For Idunn’s ear, of all world’s wondrous strains

Receives a carol carried Valhall from –

A melody of Bragi, Odin’s son –

Carried to alabaster elf-arcades,

To rocks and stones with shells and snails paved.

She starts, enchanted – turns her eyes where she

Believes that canticle hath origin,

Some music-fountain moon knows as its bed:

Grand font of galdrar and all other chants

Crossing the mystic routes. She’d fain arrive

As swiftly where staves spring as they have come,

Towards strains strong-straining, back across the waves,

Westwards so heartsick – harp-chords lure her love.

She sets in boat; the smith keeps in his bed

And does not wake; old sea-course roves she o’er,

Avoiding kraken’s arms, the whale’s salt-spout,

Scorning the sirens, mermen brushing off –

Backwards the wave-track, backwards towards that shore

Where father sleeps in cave on throne of ice 

(Immortal, he, but e’er deep-comatose),

And bones of Star-Frost drowse beneath the snow.

Through ice and green and floral lands she climbs –

The rainbow lifts her; Völund on the sands

Of Alfheim gazes for her raft or craft

If still in sight, perchance; but she hath gone,

Already Valhall reaching, god-abode

Of golden doors – the music leads her on, 

Old voice of Bragi, tender, passing sad;

And into arms of bearded god she falls.

His harp keeps strumming, rich tones yet resound

Though he is motionless, while with full ease

The crystal door frames pass them, next to next,

Like touchless sets of hands – then into shade

So black and absolute (yet here are fruits

Spangled and glamored with undying light 

In wold of Idavoll) they find their way,

That blessed pair of the world: sage man, soft maid;

And ’mid a music’s passion, know they love.”

*

*

VII.

*

“Somewhere a cloud takes form, somewhere it drifts –

Its top appears just o’er the summer hills;

And all the rest of sky-field’s blue as youth.

Here lives no canker, here the worm eats not.

An eerie day, eternal, desolate:

A thing of mind or world? It can’t be said…

But look! that wispy strangeness doth descend

Where Idunn dreams in arms of poet-god;

And frigid margent of the mist now wakes

Half-elf so sweetly… See, a hand extends

To offer precious gift, an apple red;

And all unthinking, as in sleeping’s acts,

She takes and eats: it is unending life,

A spring that thinks no season past itself,

Heart-summit of her striving, fondest wish –

And Bragi bites as well. See! apples spill

From fingers without stint; and couple know

Fair charm and favor, benediction born

From union, where sweet ear and harp are joined.

*

“Their appetites by fruit are overwhelmed,

By copious boon – the surfeit bear they home,

And spread upon the tables of the gods

For all to sup, so they’ll too bide in youth

Some lingering age… The apples flow and flow

Across the years – which are not years to gods,

But one insouciant season. 

 

                                                       “So maid blooms

In love, while Melancholy sleeps with god

Who loves her – gray he’s still, and somber-souled,

But hath some brighter timbre now in song,

As if a new voice sung; and on a hill

With Idunn tarries he in idyll-trance:

Her eyes fountains become; he breathes to her

Those chants that e’er on waking are forgot.”

*

* * *

*

“Meantime the elves bestir themselves. Great smith

Whose talents rust, who leaves his craft behind,

Burns with his loss – he seethes and clenches jaws,

Grips arms of father’s throne in regal suite

Far under earth, and broods in surly moods,

Gath’ring his chieftains – for the light-limbed race

Hath taken him as king, Ivaldi’s son,

And placed upon his brow a coral crown,

Brine-redolent and sweet as ambergris,

As vassals pledged his cause. 

 

                                                             “ ‘I know some spell

My sister seizeth,’ Völund sour declares

To those were given rings. ‘Her folk she would

Relinquish never, nor her brother’s love,

Nor find some outside melody more fair

Than those of elf-home fixed in briny wild,

What drew her here when yet my father throve.

The life’s e’er perfect here in Alfheim’s groves,

Eternal, sensuous, a place enclosed,

A bubble on the foam – save that it bursts

’Gainst nothing: naught might shatter band of kin,

The elfin brood, an adamantine ring!

I summon swords; I summon clan’s stern steel

The captor’s deed t’undo, whoe’er he be,

And wheresoe’er he locks her. Pledge, my thanes,

Your troth, and kiss this hand that wears the ring

My Hervör wore, who would have been my queen

Goddess-majestic, seated by my side,

Here under earth on isle… Idunn instead

Is that resplendent empress, and she’ll sit

Once more in heart of home.’

 

                                                             “And those brave lords

Swear loyalty and love. An anchor’s weighed,

A sail swells in the breeze. To ice-land scud

That royal retinue with king, a trip

Of nine days… and on tenth, on foot, they find

That ice-shelf o’er dim lair where sire resides,

Smith’s sire – a black space ’neath a tor of frost,

Where father sits, unmoving. None might wake

That former king, save son: with steam-breath speaks

He question, soft as mist: 

 

                                                     “ ‘Oh father, tell

Thy son, thy Völund, who in olden days

Did sport with brothers on this icy floor

Beneath thy gaze, if thou hast heard or dreamt

Of daughter thine, my sister, passing here,

Passing through rime-world, hinterland of trolls’

Cold continent… our Idunn, who, compelled

By sorcery or spell, to mainland rode

On steed of sea, then disembarked, and hied

Unto a foreign harp or reed or lyre

In some world yonder, somewhere ’mongst those lands

So vast, of men and thurses, Aesir, dwarfs,

Immortal beings, angels, titans, powers,

All foreign lines from which elves keep aloof.

Thy mind is tuned to magic, and the deeds

Rich and resounding hereabouts must pry

Thy brain inside – I know it from thy depth

Of ageless slumber! Whisper, little bit,

Oh father dear to me, if aught thou know’st

What hath become of Idunn!’

 

                                                            “Out from sleep,

Out from the depths of nowhere, blue lips twitch,

Blue lips rime-coated, panting barest words:

‘Oh Völund, progeny, who left to learn

The secret hammer-ways of gnomes beneath:

In vision’s cold abyss, some while ago –

How long I know not – Idunn did I dream,

Our Idunn fair, a woman now become,

Traversed the foam-ways that the narwhal takes

Upon a sea-skiff barnacled and old,

Soft-slipping round the floes; ice-shore she made,

And passed not very far from this cave’s mouth,

For father stopping not, but kept her way

’Til warmer plains, less coated white, she reached,

The central steppes of trance-like brooding state,

Much-templed prairies: blocky edifice

And monument, and cone, much strange, surreal:

The base, the column, and the capital,

Dream-logic manse and febrile architect’s 

Products subconscious; and rich thunder rolled

That azure hour… How crashed the glum sky, then;

And bossy blast, like trumpet’s, seemed to groan

From out the cloud-pits, pits that upward went, 

Vast crevices of heaven – bully-blast

What heralded the dropping of a road

Of bundled light, six hues, from sky to floor,

Curving like comet; and that lightsome path

Thy sister walked then, route to upper realms.

’Tis all I viewed. I know not if she’s glad,

Or if her soul frets chained, while wizards gloat

Upon her torment, and a dream me send,

Misguiding father by such fantasy.

Walk on… Canst find her soon? That do I doubt –

But search! Not ’mongst strange people was she meant

To radiate her grace and halo-love,

But ’mongst a folk germane, who know rich light

Uncanny of her brow. Reclaim her love,

Oh son determined: lead her back to isle,

Or to the log-house you and brothers built,

So brightest jewel of elf-kind is not lost,

But shineth with her race, like diadem

Studded with gems, on brow.’

 

                                                              “ ‘To Asgard then,’

Speaks king to father, ‘was the dear girl ta’en;

For shimm’ring bridge to Valhall is that road

Thou saw’st her follow. I know where we march,

My knights and I: the river Ifing’s course,

A long trek ’long its bank, then west, t’ascend

Great mountain on which Aesir’s fort sits stern –

Then through huge Valgrind gate, to Odin’s seat

Where gods we shall demand fair girl restore –

Or that, or Asgard’s chiefs shall meet with war.’ ”

*

* * *

*

“Upon the board sit dishes, plates of fruits

And cornucopias, a glist’ring wealth

Such as the orchard-farmer gleans when rains

Drop lavish in the prime. The gold cheeks shine

Upon each godly visage, and smith sees 

What virtue lend those apples. 

 

                                                                “I, the lord

Of Asgard – as I viewed in swevens late,

Oh Lodur – I sit tall on awful throne

That future day, as Völund passes in

To flick’ring hall more beautiful than’s told

In finest songs the sweetest bard contrives:

Gold-ruddy structure, taller than the pines

Of highest wilderness, taller than peaks,

And crystal-splendid every room within,

My Aesir and Asynjur, left and right,

Enthroned as well, one row on either side;

And lack we only Freyja, for she pines

Outside her seat-room, far off o’er the fields,

For lover what forsook her, e’er to roam.

Like towers of a wall we chiefs are ranged:

Fell golden towers, terrible array

That stands athwart the elfin vassalage,

Those knights and furious smith-king who with scorn

Stare grim at fortress-face; and Idunn fair

And Bragi sit with us, impassive glance

From noble girl returning brother’s gaze.

What cinders weep from flaming heart, what ash

From inward-sobbing prince – who Hervör lost! –

And now sees sister ta’en up by those beings        

Who though are mortal to the violent death,

As is his kind, yet shine much fairer far:

As lofty o’er the elves as elves o’er men,

Or loftier – past puissant, cloaked in glow,

Full highest forms of heaven, star-crowned heads,

All dreams’ fulfillment: dreams of love, or dread.

Lies aught above? Voluminous mystery

Indeed, grand secret cached in skies or waves

Wide weirdnesses enclosing…

 

                                                                 “Völund saith

To me, that future day: ‘What means this heap,

Valhalla’s lord? This spilling apple-pile,

And glisten of its juice upon thy lips –

On all your lips, ye many! What feast’s this?

Oh Idunn, sweet, relinquish this thy daze,

And pass from captors’ grip! It is a trance,

A mesmerism, emptiness and guile,

A smoke of spells each god here pants and breathes!

Snap hex, break charm! Thou hast thy bosom-bed

Amongst thy cousins – no cheer knows this hall

So chill and lofty: torch-beams lambent blaze

A light of joyless grandeur high o’er earth;

And all here nothing feel of family warmth,

Closed up in vastness, locked in haughty rooms,

Shut up in gardens, hypnotized by flesh

Of bough’s yield, and of lover… Ah, what beau

Leans on thy arm? He seemeth to un-age

E’en as I speak… all here before me do!

Swift witchcraft, this! What peers now hast thou, sis?

’Gainst constant stream this backwards ship doth glide:

It foils the Fates; dame Nature’s reaved of right –

Such company perverse, such band grotesque,

Untiming time! I bid thee gain thy wits,

Oh sister: leave enchantments, apples, hall,

And cleave once more to those who know thee well.’

*

“But Bragi sharp returns: ‘What dost thou know –

Thou little man of ground-ways, not of plains

Celestial, of apex, acme, crown,

Grand passions, and the majesties of souls

Extensive past the clouds’ reach? What are harps

Moulded of matter, such as pluck ye base

And clay-made creatures, next the sky-borne chords

A mind divine doth shiver? Jars and breaks

Your music under erring fingers! Stay,

My Idunn – turn thy head, look on this glass

And glass, two mirrors showing thee thy soul:

Mine eyes, wherein lives thy true loving home.

Thou art a goddess, not an elfin maid:

Thou knowest this… And what if brother aches

Some short while by the clock of mortal time

In absence of thee, if thou art not glad?

He shall endure, and shed his wrathful pride

As serpent sluffs its scales: It doth grow wise

In new-born life; all but the essence leaves –

No more the outer circumstance, no more

The vacillating passions. Mood is earth;

While soul is heaven.’

 

                                             “Half-choked in his rage,

The elf returns: ‘But let my sister speak,

Ye drab and drooping deity whose muse

Seems melancholia, some dismal heart!

Naught weighs but will of her who’s spoken of –

The free voice freely oped; and if compels

Some sorcery her words, that too shall tell.’

*

“Girl’s lips voluptuous just slightly part;

And stares she straight ahead as one who views

The infinite distance, somehow, as a spot

Supernal, striking. Soft her strange words seethe

In monotone: ‘Oh brother – do not weep.

Undying days I wish with these to live

In golden hall – this copestone of the worlds –

And die eternal, if I’m e’er to die.’

*

“But smith-king shouts: ‘What fraud! On strings she limps,

A puppet lamely plied! I sense in eyes

And speech, ’tis not my sister! Odin, lord

And sire of all (save those who’re sprung of Sheaf):

Thou kennest all things – all, save very few –

And certes must see dreadful ruse that’s played

Behind the curtain… Baldur, thou must judge

My words hit true! She talks with feeling none,

And hardly shifts her glance! How might one claim

Her heart would here abide?’

 

                                                           “But stony sit

We gods: Baldur, and I, and every being,

A cold cliff-face together. Hand I lift,

My grave gray hand. ‘Thou knowest naught of bliss,

Poor island-creature, such as here pervades

And thrills what’s innermost, just as it shuns

The outside and the seeming. Blank she sits,

Thy Idunn, like an idol or a piece;

But wonders move within her… Turn, and off –

Thou plead’st outside thy sphere; be calm, and go.’

*

“But Völund flings his dart-gaze ’gainst our eyes,

And fondles sword-hilt; fain would he unsheathe,

But only hot replies: ‘You’ll see me leave,

Assembled ones – but look ye for that storm

That lingers in the silence of chill days

As weather drifts towards wetness – and towards rush

Of instant gale-blast, loosing winds and bolts.’ ”

*

* * *

*

“How blue-veined Freyja marks the bluish clouds,

Sky-islands rustling… Spectral sighs and moans

Provoke the needles in a copse of pines.

Sweet goddess ’mongst floration basks, and bathes

In spore-drafts; moss and fungi are her bed;

And slowly lifts she now, she lifts and stands,

To sunset view, a shimm’ring palish screen.

Her twins in belly ’gin to grow their legs

And nubs of arms; they twitch like tiny fish

In water-barrel. Fay and thurse and man

And god-blood all commingle in those bairns

Quick’ning in gore-warm darkness.

 

                                                                        “On gray heath,

Along a stag-path, winding soft toward vale,

Völund and knights are marching, much befogged

By pouring mists from forests; grumbling thoughts

Breathe steam throughout king’s brain – no sounds let slip

Soft-slippered elves, the Alfheim paladins

With sheaf-emblazoned banner, silk that shows

Forefather’s couch of wheat. From shaggy gloom

To clearer evening shove they; and he spies,

That smith, a lovely maiden on the moors,

Facing away, unguarded, all alone,

Conscious of nothing, seems it, but the drifts

Of clouds uncertain what they shall become,

If anything. Now halts the lord his band –

Bids huddle, and he whispers: “Lady ’tis!

The Flaxen, whom I saw not ’midst array

Of Valhall’s stern ones. Seems she is with child,

Caressing belly – whoe’er father be,

Most precious cache he wards not; but our prize

Is she herself, not womb-things. What the gods

Nigh lost to troll who built their battlements

With iron arms and stove-fire heat in soul,

To elf-king now they lose, this lowly smith,

Lord of mere sea-dot, whom they so despise

They think not richest gem to hide from’s hand!

Oh follow me, and bend low to the path –

We’ll scuttle ’long like one low millipede

Approaching prey, and with a thorn I’ll prick

Her skin exquisite – magic thorn of rose

That hath the gift of causing coma in’t!’

*

“And oh, how villains creep, one snaking line

Along the trail – no shrubs or weeds they swish,

No least hint sending to the sweet girl’s ear

Of bite approaching, prick that casts to sleep.

In Völund’s fingers glints somnolent spike:

A thorn his mother, who no suffering

Wished favorite child to feel, once gave to him

To grant a blessèd solace in his pain

If e’er he felt distressed – or cast to sleep

Some loved one in extremis, gone in woe.

Now next the bare flesh of the lass it glints…

The girl feels sting, and then feels nothing more.

In arms of knights she falls; they bear her up

As at a funeral, though but halfway deep

To death she’s dropped: Betwixt the earth and Hel

Her soul lies perched. Through evening country flits

Kidnapping crew, o’er scree with flowers dressed,

Losing no speed, by body hardly weighed;

And towards the hyperborean wastes they hie

Through all the night, searching some place to hide

Their dreamless victim, snow-pale, ravishing.”

*

*

VIII.

*

“ ’Mid darkness of the outermost domains

Od hears of treason, treachery: the theft 

Of wide-wombed Freyja, and of bairns within,

Desire and Treasure – daughters prince hath viewed

Already in his soul, as though were born.

His father Od forgets, whoe’er he be,

And thinks of golden form so delicate –

That female sweetness (which he mortal trows),

Her softness and her scent, her soul demure

And kitten-innocent, affection bold –

And saddles horse. From rocky hinterland

His steed drives, passing fir-trunks tempest-felled,

Bolt-blasted boles, the bogs-realms black and foul.

Now sparks flash under hooves; he knows the elves

His foe have turned, and Völund is their chief,

King Wicked-Worker. Those in thorpes and burgs

Whom late he asked if knew they who begot

The prince of Wolf-Copse, now he asks what news

Arrives of elf-maneuvers. 

 

                                                    “To the east

Their words direct him. Stallion’s legs jog swift,

But wide earth seems to stretch e’en as Od makes

Fleet progress – bends and hills ne’er meet an end –

And saddle-beast soon pants, and huffs, and slows,

And now Od quits its back. The cackling trolls

Regard poor traveler of the foot from crags,

Laughing and leering, mocking weariness

As picks he through the heart of Jotunheim,

The path he heard abductors took with speed.”

*

* * *

*

“Meantime the shadows gather – rains and gusts

Blow harsh on Jord’s breast. Asgard shifts for war:

The grinding-wheel hath work, fylkings are formed;

Spear-forests glitter, Bifröst bears bright files

Descending to the earth, as when a troop

From walled town issues, for it knows the foe

Its powers gathers. 

 

                                        “Hermod rides ahead,

Brave messenger, a god of tireless pace,

To shore, then hops an argosy that bends

Its sails to elves’ lagoons, that paradise

Where Völund might reside, whom gods have learned

Fair one hath raptured. From fleet treasure-ship

He lights; the king’s not found – but viceroy claims

The price for maid is maid, plus apples too,

Those fruits immortal that from sweet love grew –

Sweet love, or rather witching works and charms;

And nowise might elves tell where smith abides

Or damsel’s stowed. ‘To Odin give this word,’

Saith regent: ‘Come a fury and a roar

Of clanging blades if Idunn’s not restored.’

All round the messenger the smithies smoke;

The shine of helmets blinks from nook and cave,

Bright hints of armies stirring under earth.

Downhearted Hermod leaves those bright lagoons,

The beauteous isle which ponders naught but war –

Leaves elf-home back to west, resigned and sad

That world must darken ere illume again.”

*

* * *

*

“Once more in log-home Völund casts the blade

And beats the hammer – armories he piles,

Egil and Slagfinn aiding, Heime and all

His cousins striking, now that they are grown;

And all the household’s joyous that’s returned

Ivaldi’s first-born son – he sits not yet

At Hela’s table. Spears and swords are propped

’Gainst walls and trees; the javelins lean thick

As reeds by riverbank, and targes crowd

As close as Valhall’s shingles, or drake’s scales.

In far-off cave, the goddess-maid smith’s hid

Still sleeping, closed with magic seals and guards:

Some place I glimpse not, save that snow there blows,

A frigid vale forever. One dim door

Is all the access; hinterlands it hide,

And grim wight guards it, who a helmet wears

Which Völund made: that helm which makes pure clear

The wearer to one’s sight… Smith tells the place

To brothers and first son, and bids they hush

The secret from all ears; and family swears

No magic and no mead might pry their lips.

*

“To cabin birds bring news: Speak wren and tern,

Speak jay and gull: ‘Oh list, ye elfin clan:

Know cheer in cause – the ships from east are launched,

Each bearing warrior-load… fierce currents guide

Their prows like kindly spirits; waves lift strakes,

Roll forth the keels, as though they urged to stour

Your cousins grimly dight! The gods now march

And reach the wastes of Midgard, nigh the plains

And trackless steppes at deep heart of the lands:

The raven’s wold, the withered larch bedewed,

Gray deserts drearier than dampest cloud,

More broad than sky, dull heaths where naught’s occurred.

Foe is not many, next your breed’s broad ranks,

For sons of Kon fly not to Asgard’s flag,

And man is timid, fearing gods’ and elves’

Wild battle, bear and lion locked in rage –

Yet Mjolnir brashly swags in hands of Thor,

A wonder-weapon, which hath gifted Garm

So many trolls to gobble. Fear its flash:

Ye face no graver nemesis! We fly,

We swerve and circle – up we flap, to view

Such weapon-tempest looming!’

*

                                                                    “Heime hath cheer,

Egil and Slagfinn hail the news; but king

Thinks long on Mjolnir’s terror, and his brow

Turns many-troughed with wrinkles. Sword he draws,

Bright-hilted brand, the blade that princes slew

As dozed they on their bunk, and ponders long

How might it fare ’gainst lightning. Speaking spells,

He carves up jewels, pommel packs with them,

Grinds fine the blade, and for the fled soul prays

Of Hervör, and for Idunn breathes his woe,

Investing blade with all his pining wounds,

His sadness, longing, yearning for calm love,

And polishes with oils those golden scenes 

Of Ymir supping milk and birthing trolls.

‘As opened flesh,’ speaks Völund, ‘of the thurse

To generate his children, flesh shall ope

Upon thy point, oh sword – but naught shall spill

From gashes in the gods but lath’ring gore:

No new birth of a race, but end of one,

Aesir’s eclipse, the rise of elfin beings

To prominence of universe, far peak

O’er all the two realms’ fusion! Gods cast down

Like comets from Valhalla, kin shall scale

The ladder of the stars, tall gloried slopes

Ringing the broad lands – crown and orb and rod

Await on lofted tier, gold dais borne

By angels and by ettins’ shoulders broad,

A thurse-supported plane, the seat of dreams

Defying cosmos! Arrogance disdained,

The cruel heirs broken, worlds’ delights shall flow:

The rainbows rise towards sweetness, wastes recede,

Gray wilderness ’gin bloom, and greed and pain

Themselves betray, and lift the gate for love!

Thus Idunn to herself shall be restored –

And Hervör’s ring become the ring of God.’ ”

*

* * *

*

“ ‘To steely trials!’ saith smith. ‘To buzzard’s meal,

Lance-anguish, shouting-contest of the swords,

Drake’s banquet, Hela’s muster, mothers’ grief,

Blood-wellspring! Oh my cousins and my thanes,

To mounts – take horse, take stag, take moose, take wolf,

Whatever bears thee, beasts with backs to serve:

Menagerie of steeds, a cavalcade

The woods provide! As when a wildfire roars

In heart of forest, driving herds ahead

Headlong and frantic, let our rowels spur

Such stampede out the woods – swift, feral, fleet,

Harts’ dash and stamping, roe deer’s panicked rout,

The elk’s flight, leaving coppice where they bode,

The gallied bears’ escape. Ride we to shore,

The eastern brink. Pack armor built for kin, 

War-luggage: let me list to clank of sacks

Like jangling plate already on the march!’

*

“And three days ride that clan from what belonged

Erstwhile to Nidud (now a land sans lord

Since Od set roaming) down the long stream’s bank,

Sipping from mother-fonts and wellsprings pure,

Catching the trout and salmon, sleeping short,

All hasty for to join with half-kin’s horde

Pitched on the bare beach-dunes on Midgard’s marge.

And on the fourth dawn, camp-tents show o’er rim

Of sandy hills, pavilions laced with threads

Of silver, gold, and sparkling shades of red:

The beachhead of the elves, who hail with shouts

The ride of smith-king on his cloud-white elk

With grand sword in his hand, and Heime the lad

Behind him steering stallion, while boy’s emes

Each prick their wolf: Egil his axe he lifts,

Slagfinn his club. Their company bear spears,

Appear in mail, and gift their cousin-host

Huge fardels stuffed with arms. The Alfheim-horde

All swear that word of Völund’s their command,

Then Heime’s, should smith-king fall, prey of the blade;

And rings are given elfin vassalage,

The barons of the island, jarls, and counts,

New bond-jewels sealing love for gods’ grand foe,

That one who’ll set them ’round Valhalla’s throne –

Dread demi-lords o’er nine worlds’ dread extent.

Now from the rucksacks clattering boons are poured,

And halberds rise like forests newly sprung,

And targes traced with emblems blaze in sun,

While bannerets lift blooming! Not since hour

When early jötnar, raged by father’s death,

Assembled ’gainst three gods – acres of trolls

O’er mountains charging – had such host been seen:

A sea of armor, and the gonfalons

Like ship’s sails rise amidst it. Tripods’ fires 

Are snuffed, tent-poles unpitched, and blankets rolled,

The vans set wheeling; music calls from horns,

The boist’rous notes of march. At head of files

Smith’s sword gleams like a flame to lead them on,

A weapon crammed with ire and sorrowed heart,

Resplendent with its gems, like rainbow’s hues

Or sparkling cave-snake’s scales. The flag of Sheaf –

Gold wheat against blue silk – now inland floats,

Trespassing stone-strewn hills, declivities,

The boiling mud pools passing, boiling springs,

Through rainy, smoky spaces, wildmen’s haunts,

Towards middlemost of Midgard e’er intent,

Where flower of Asgard waits. Five times are spread

The canvasses of tents, five times refold

Young pages shining sheets – ’til on the damp

And eldritch heath at Ymir’s long-dead heart

One gray midday, as hesitates the rain

To drip or to forbear, the far-off glow

Of Valhall’s minions and its masters meets

Outrider’s eye. 

*

                               “ ‘What luck – nigh stand the foe,’

The lookout breathes. To vanguard prompt he rides,

And tells: ‘They wait on hill, a stark incline;

And like an abadis bristle with pike,

A square of steel. They are not many, those

Of Odin’s order: each that stands must face

Twice-twelve of Alfheim’s knighthood… But oh! dire

To tell: Thor like a castle-tower stands,

Guarding the golden way, and epigones

In smashing might surround him: thralls and serfs

And scullions of the lightning-hall, supplied

With flails, with cleavers, and with rolling-pins,

With mattocks and with picks. Thor is the boss 

Of buckler; and o’er all, dark Odin broods,

Leaning on Gungnir. Press – or wait and camp,

Bidding for parlay… Whose tray weighs the more

In scale, the Norns alone know.’

*

                                                                   “Völund glares

Upon horizon’s aura, and he saith:

‘I reck not hammer, nor its gripping-hand,

And hath already parlayed with those knaves

In manse so drastic-pompous, cold, severe.

Beyond lie gardens lush, wild cherry-bough

That hath no sin nor arrogance, but chafes

To flourish full ’neath hauteur’s winter-blust,

As Idunn languisheth below such cold:

Poor creature hypnotized, stiff-set by frore

Frost-fall which maketh blossoms close and curl –

A cold that beauty keeps, but lets not thrive.

I am the sun ’fore which that ice must wilt,

The kiss that sister wakes, a brother’s love

What startles parterres from such gelid death!

We tarry not – sound warisons again…

Let Mjolnir fear an edge that slices shaft!’ ”

*

* * *

*

“So o’er dead weeds the elfin columns press,

Swift o’er wide grayish stomach of the earth,

Fylkings so fearsome, metal phalanxes

With spikes and lancets flourishing like spines

Of hedgehog or the porcupine; and soon,

Ere night moves nigh, the songs of Asgard gods

And drum-tattoos creep towards them, stern resound

Though far and faint still, off the hillside stones,

Off boulder-piles – and ’gainst shrill elfin themes

They strive, ere gruesome armies come to grips.”

*

*

IX.

*

“Now incline slows the march of Alfheim’s arms,

And notes of fifes begin to huff and crack

From lungs much strained; but flags snap resolute

As winds that carry storm’s first droplets blow.

And soon the armies near, and taunts they lob

Ere missiles… spear meets spear, and targe meets targe,

And swords in wheeling sweeps rend wood and bone.

The sky hurls lightning, rains seem waterfalls;

Wound-liquor and the welkin’s water mix

On armor and in mud. The elves ’gin drop

In dozens, demi-gods soon one by one:

Retainers of the thunder-god and Tyr,

And Heimdall’s henchmen, and brave Hermod’s men,

Höd’s stalwarts, Bragi’s hearties blowing horns.

With darts unerring, Ull fells scores and scores.

On Bloody-Hoof, Frey charges Völund’s ranks,

Crushing the lance-men, splitting thick-helmed skulls

And cuirassed breasts, so incensed by the loss

Of fair-haired sister! Lightning shows the gore,

And thunder’s crash confuses calls, commands.

Yells smith-king to his host: ‘Strike on, strike on!

Oh brothers, comrades, sons of god who laid

His head on wheat-sheaf as he billows crossed,

His rich crib rocked by waves – ye destined ones:

The foe’s not much, in headcount or in heart;

They’ll fail in soul with each new head that’s chopped!

Strike on: engird those knaves, surround their squad;

They bleed as much as we – let’s make bleed more!

We’ll run them up their bridge, and from their plains

Of cirrus-wisps, cast headlong in a rush!

Oh, strike!’ 

*

                        “And frenzied files of elves ’gin press

From three directions Aesir on their slope…

Then – wondrous! – start to push those bright troops back,

Smashing with shield and saber, gnomish graith

That shatters e’en the mail of deities

And slices blades. Now Thor, at army’s heart,

Summons his servants – forms a fence of steel,

Bristles his red beard, asks the lightning’s aid…

And at the thunder’s clamor, hurls his tool!

His hammer carves the ranks: in swathes it slays,

Leaving a trail of elf-flesh, mangled, mauled –

But Völund views the carnage, and his steed

He whips towards weapon’s course, that honking elk

Naught fearing, though it bleeds, and slavers foam,

And sweats a shimm’ring lather. Steed bends neck

To dodge the spinning maul – and sword’s now swung…

*

“A flash, like thousand bolts! Each elf and god

Hides eyes – both hosts stand stonied! Death takes pause;

All blades poise high in air; steeds screech and rear

’Til fades the burst… and then to sight appears

A broken sword-shaft! Yet, too, broken haft

Of hammer: head and handle rest in weeds

Nigh all the shards of blade! Mjolnir lies rent,

Felled by that equal weapon which it foiled!

But moods are equal not: the elves exclaim

With typhoon-scream their cheer, whilst Aesir squirm

And gasp dismay. Thor’s servants seek the parts

Of blasted maul; they bear them up the hill

Towards Valhall, as when stricken man is borne

Towards safety of his camp, to be repaired

By those with healing craft.

*

                                                          “Now elfin swords 

Bloom blood like metal boughs, blossoms of red;

And forthwith all my cries, and all of Thor’s

Enjoining stolid firmness, nerve robust,

Cannot a rout contain: Our demi-gods

And thralls relinquish pennants… shields are thrown,

Billhooks let drop; the foe’s boots trample them.

Now up the slope dash cowards, wretched wights

Not worthy of their stations – and we gods

Of full high glory, lords of Valhall’s thrones,

Must upward ebb… O’erwhelmed, assailed, and smashed,

We turn our backs then – shameful! – for to chase

Our minions toward yon mountains in retreat,

Outpacing over-armored elves towards heights

Of Asgard.

*

                      “Gath’ring squadrons soon again,

Our squires and fighters rally we with threats,

Fierce promises of pain. Lines coalesce 

Below the walls, beneath the barbicans

Bristling with arrows; panic checks and lulls – 

But still up rock-slopes march the elves in strength,

And those who wait them quail.

 

                                                                   “There is one place

Below us that I glimpse, which elves approach

On mountain-road to Asgard – narrow, vexed

With sharp stones under foot; and cliffs enclose 

That straightened way. ‘Oh hark!’ I cry to clan

And all retainers, servants. ‘Comrades, gods

Great-muscled: roll huge stones, and pluck thick trunks!

Uproot the shrubs, heave logs with hasty force,

Wrench clods, toss rocks and branches, scrubs and moss,

Each bush cast down, each living stump and dead,

And bottle up that defile down the slope

With all cumbrous debris your arms might throw!

We have not minutes – to the task!’ I shout;

And straightway gods and servants gain such stuff

For vast blockade – in mounds it’s casted down,

Detritus of the landscape: branches, roots, 

Broad boughs, big boulder-blockage, trees in heaps,

A wall of Ymir’s bones and hair and teeth 

That nearly bridge the cliffs; and far below

Keen smith-king, weening Nornies have him vowed

Grand triumph, entrance swift through sacred doors,   

Of sudden halts his troops with upraised hand,

Astonished at the slide. A league ’tis thick,

As high; and all the elf-host stands aghast;

And silence holds that scene in wake of roar

Of spilling foliage and earth and stone.”

*

* * *

*

“ ’Tis eve, and on the heath big tents are pitched

That glow inside with tapers, like to lamps;

And in the grand pavilion Völund speaks

To Heime, to brothers, and to vassalage:

‘The only way! ’Tis shut up, like a gate…

Like hundred gates! My wings might bear me o’er

Escarpments, o’er high wall the mason built

With vigor – but, what’s one elf ’gainst the gods,

E’en wounded ones? I must lead ranks and ranks,

Gods’ power to whelm! We’ll fetch for pick and axe,

And form a foundry for to forge those tools

In great profusion – yet shall cost a year,

At least, to bore through barricade so bold.

My thanes, my trusted ones, my valiant race:

I leave ye here, to bivouac, besiege, 

And oversee wall’s breaking – save for Heime,

My son, and all my nephews, whom I send 

To Wolf-Copse home again, for frantic toil

In forging arms and armor – denser plates,

E’en keener spikes and spearheads!

   **

                                                                       “ ‘As for me,

I go a swordless king… yet not for long.

In sickbed Mjolnir lies – shall be repaired.

Again shall clash two wonders of the forge,

And mine must prove more wondrous! In one year

Or sooner shall this elf-king reappear

On steed of dread, in gauntlets bearing proud

The Sword of Valor! To the secret place

Where thorn-pricked Freyja slumbers, where I laid

That maiden ’neath the root-ends, I’ll retire

To gather anvil, hammers, tongs, and fire,

Drafting the grandest brand the worlds shall view

In silence and seclusion. See again

Gold-hilted, gem-clad blade assume the field!

More glorious still, more brilliant than a star –

To lift the elfin race, and strike the gods.’ ”

*

*

X.

*

“On Idavoll our wounded all are lain,”

All-Father saith to Lodur, “and by hands

Of goddess Mercy, know they touch of balm

And soothing skill – her nurses dab gods’ blood

And wind soft bandages, close suff’ring eyes,

And make pain burn away in sleep’s soft fire

Whilst o’er this grief-field brood I, gloomy mind –

Down to the dark leas peering, up towards rays

That wake in Gimle, beams that build bright hall

Where anguish e’er stands banished – and I pine

For Heimdall’s horn to blow, and usher end

Of all our harm and shenship, dragged defeat,

Slow bleeding of the noblest, shame and woe

As grandest race slips Hel-wards – pine for death

Which bundles all such miseries, and brings

The anguished soul to nothing in a trice,

Admitting ghost to Hel-gate.

 

                                                            “ ’Mid such dreams

On convalescent field, gray roving eye

Companionless (this orb ye see, oh friend)

Two sailing birds espies where sun awakes,

And marks their coming: eagles might they be,

Dark wingspans ’gainst the gold… but as they near,

Their heads – so strange – take look of thine or mine:

Two rounded heads! Their hair streams lady-long –

And ladies two indeed they prove to be,

Fair mortal women sailing on white wings

Plucked off two swans, it seemeth! Nigh they light…

Anon their steps address me, and they bow,

Like dipping necks of swans – both like to birds

And Midgard-lasses seem they; ask me not

What sense such magic hath, nor of what skill

Such double-look might shape.

 

                                                                 “ ‘Oh lord of gods,

Oh hail!’ speak genuflecting dames, and quit

Their feathers, swan-ish aspect leaving off,

And humbly bowing still, in trembling voice

Of fear and fury both, with quaking groan

Do tell me: ‘Southern lands and eastern wilds

Hath heard of war, and how vile king of smiths

Elf-hordes commands, his brothers Egil and 

Slagfinn his adjuncts, battle-deputies,

Headmost lieutenants – how their hordes aspire

Thy manse to ransack, thrones to make their own,

And Aesir’s sun eclipse with elfin moon.

Our sons, and sister’s sons, die in this fray –

Sons of our sister Hervör, who did drown

Herself in lake-tide, marriage to escape

From blacksmith what enslaved her, as enslaved

His brothers us two: Olrun, Swan-White named.

But late our glorious pinions we reclaimed,

And flew, and gazed on realms once more as sprites

Who sail the cloud-boats glimpse them – lofty borne,

We moistened woods with tears, and stumps did spring

With blooms precipitous. Heime was the boy –

First child of Hervör – loosed us from our trap;

But sire forgave his child, and by the side

Of lord, lad draws his blade… Our sons we love,

But more our husbands hate, and therefore pledge

Great Odin service! Have us do thy will,

We maidens of the swan (not maids in flesh,

Yet virgins still in soul), as aids in arms

Or bandage-winders: Any role thou deem’st

Valhall requireth, Völund’s cause to harm!’

*

“And awed by valor of such tearful hearts,

I tell them: ‘Lift your kneecaps from the dirt,

I plead ye – stand, and mark this weathered face

Wherein an age of wounds and woes are wound

Like furled-up flag… but think I ’gins unwind

That pennant: once more borne is it to war,

And snaps in breeze that floats ye! Not to dress

The gougèd holes, wound-liquor’s seeping spouts,

Ought I command thee: rather, put to wings

Again – or saddle steeds of sky I give

(Much swifter goes their gallop than your flaps)

To trespass marble-columned halls of space,

Tenebrous passages with astral lace

Much cobwebbed – roads of night, the paths of day –

Acceding to serenes ne’er viewed, I trow,

Your hearts ascending, hooves pounding beneath,

Speaking strife’s sentence, ye. Scour hackled land

For those who’re like you, females fierce but robbed,

Their suff’ring scaling to a warband pitch,

Gath’ring the matrons, damsels, wench and miss

Who’ll leave their lot behind to mount that herd

Trampling through sunset! Roan and dun and black –

The stable opens; fetlocks wade through streams

Of upper vapors: word of battle’s brought!

So three times round the worlds I bid ye ride,

Horizon’s circuit, ere with women-horde

Ye circle back to Asgard… See the casques

Upon your heads – what jesserants ye don –

The lances in your hands: I shall provide

As much to those who join you!’

*

                                                                  “ ‘King, we fly!’

Exclaim ecstatic ones, and cling to manes

Soaring of sudden, squirming on steeds’ backs

As though were girls again – delightsome trot

That turns to canter, gallop; and they charge

Towards sun’s direction, as though rays to rob

Of flagrant Sol, a weapon they might wield

In shadow-tracts beneath, like fulgent darts

Harming the darkness. And I watch them long,

’Til beams envelop dames: the golden yards

Of sun’s domain they’re crossing… Flying horse

Of red, and one of white, with strong legs knock

The pillowed cumulus.

 

                                                 “Hermod is close,

Hath viewed departure; mine own heart I view

Upon his face. ‘Oh mighty messenger,

Spirit of war,’ say I, ‘my blood’s a drum

Urging to vigor; and this temper speaks

Some new design… Far out beyond this field,

Where empty air doth border plain of growth

And leafage, there gapes ope a cavern-mouth

Within the rock-shelves, that a man admits

Just hardly, and not horse, and nothing more

Than meager baggage. Winds that earth-throat down

To Midgard’s level; there thou mayst take road

At crossways next to Danish realm – a trek

Across the misty ways where sun’s not seen

And neither’s moon. I bid thee seek that king

Hight Frodi, of all Midgard-men most famed,

Most honored for what vassals he compels

And squires puts forth to field. All blandishments,

Save godly rank, thou mayst that man behight

(Whether or no I’ll grant them in the end)

To tempt him to join strife against the smith…

And stint thou not on darker promises

An he refuseth.’

*

                                 “ ‘Oh, that Aesir’s fame,’

Saith messenger, ‘hath fallen not too far

Upon the news (which smith shall blazon sure)

That gods withdraw, and keep their higher tier

By barricade alone; for sad renown

Ne’er coaxes much of aid! I hie and haste,

And shall keep shadow’s profile, lest some elf

Scouting the wilds arrest me. Look for help

From Denmark, if yet creatures aid their lord.’

*

“And emissary paces o’er the wolds

Where wounded languish, slips among the rocks,

Finding his passage: secret way he gains

As brood I on my hill, and wait what words

Might issue from the Nornies’ murm’ring lips.”

*

*

XI.

*

“Across the lands, in other realm entire,

Meantime smith’s son who came of Bodvild’s womb

(And knows naught of vast war, of clash of gods

And elfin clan, but only Freyja’s plight)

Hath clopped his horse through eerie scrub and shrub

At flagging rate. His stallion sips from pools

Scum-coated; all is grayish desert hills,

And not a wight Od passeth. From the boughs

Hang wads of moss, like victims of the rope.

Stones clatter in the gorges. Wind, damp wind:

On rocks drops spatter; Zephyr blows his spit

All o’er the traveler. Frigga’s spinnings pour

Low o’er the hill-crests, dyed as dark as soot,

And like a cup o’er-full, drip down through dales,

Wetting the beasts and leaves. 

*

                                                            “ ‘A dream,’ he thinks,

That moistened horseman. ‘ ’Tis so much like dream,

This afternoon of gray, these endless rocks,

Rich atmospheres around me, soughing griefs

That spill the heaven’s contents. Not a word,

No sigh of lungs, an empty middle-land

’Twixt citadels abandoned, ’twixt dead holts:

A barest nothing… Oh, how damp my clothes!

I must to shelter. Where’s a slab that hangs,

A dryish spot for rain-caught?’

 

                                                              “Late that day,

By light more drab, Od squints at cavity

So ominous, a hole in rocky roots

Of granite mountain. Iron-dark’s the hill,

Crow-black the cave. His horse is glad for rest,

For half-dry sanctuary, and the man

Dismounts, wringing his kirtle. Sticks he takes,

Strikes flints, and dries himself, and nibbles fare,

Drinks from his flask; and all the while his eyes

With fiery shine are glinting as he looks

Far down through creepy passage, tunnel black

From which a wind’s half-heard. 

 

                                                                  “As Nott assumes

The orbits of the sky, Od’s steed ’gins sleep,

Wheezing his honest wheeze, dreaming of hay

While Freyja’s lover stares where breezes well,

Much wond’ring on that cave. He takes as torch

One of the fire’s logs, and steps towards mouth:

Almost it seems that wind is whispering

Something he nigh discerneth –

 

                                                                   “Down! and down!

Unsteady rock betrays him! Feet fall up,

Od’s head swings down: The world’s revolving, dark –

Pure dark, a black like dragon’s gulping maw –

And tumbling, topsy-turvy! Rushes air

Around him; it’s in nose and throat and hair,

So damp-cold, cold as underground… and now

Od’s flank, it brushes slope of dirt and dust:

A long descending slide, painful and harsh,

Wounding his hand and arm – but all this time

The slope slows down his fall, e’er curving slight,

Roughs up his tunic, rips his sleeves, scuffs boots,

And spills him towards a floor, then coats his clothes

With welling clouds of motes. He winces, groans…

Then slowly lifts to knees.

 

                                                      “A light here shines,

The wight can see, e’en though his eyes are closed:

A pulsing flame’s light – but when Od peers round

Through dusty lashes, most the glow, it seems,

Off metal bounces… 

 

                                            “Stashes, marv’lous mounds

Of riches some poor torch jumps off, to spread

In throb of brazen brilliance! Grails and jewels,

Towers of coinage, daedal bronze device,

Guerdons for gods, dread iron armory:

All these disperse the rays, which hit no walls,

So vast that chamber is. Od thinks he’s watched,

And rubs his eyes – and sees he is correct,

For seated on that treasure-dune, upon

Exuberant throne with arms like wyvern-forms

And legs like lions’ paws, sits little dwarf:

A crownèd gnome with beard that reaches knees,

And has a face like knot in ancient tree –

A gray-brown beard, and face like whorled spot –

Who seemeth not surprised, but smiles on guest,

Poor dirt-clad man, who gingerly to feet

Hath lifted – now Od staggers towards the hoard,

As cracked-voice king begins:

 

                                                              “ ‘Oh welcome, man

Who stumbles on the realm of Hreidmar, king

Of mining folk so wee beneath thy toes!

Or most the time beneath – now walk’st on floor

Of men who once were maggots, our same tier,

This level of our living!’ And there glow

From every nook and hollow, Od can see,

Weird eyes, all gold and red, of wond’ring beings

Remarking stranger. 

 

                                           “Face of thine reminds

Me much,’ saith king, ‘of journeyman who toiled,

So many epochs back, at smithing arts 

And jeweling, weapon-framing, in these caves

At foundries, ’midst fell fountains of bright sparks,

Amassing treasure-mountains as my pay

For tutors I assigned. Of brothers three,

Most talented he proved; and not e’en gnomes,

Those masters best, his workmanship surpassed

By school’s conclusion… Oh! An age-long term

They served, apprentices to wizened dwarfs,

And nigh as long have plied their trade above,

But now swing swords, not beat them or make hiss

The cooling trough. Of lesser brothers’ looks

Thou something hast in countenance – but he 

Whose skill was foremost, most resembles thee.

But tell who art, what dost… I trow thy fall

Was hazard, not design.’

 

                                                   “And Od gives name,

Where grew he, princely rank, and how boar-hunt

Was much his wont ere manhood – but now seeks

Perfidious game, some knave who stole his love,

A town-maid blooming, soft, affectionate,

Plus twins who fleshen in her belly’s purse,

Daughters who’ll own her glow – all three he loves,

Three souls inside one form. ‘But ere all this,

This cruel abduction,’ saith he, ‘all my roam

Was seeking of my sire, or one who’d know

What man it was who Wolf-Copse prince begat,

What hero, scoundrel was – for my kind mum 

And mother hers, sweet two, they ne’er did speak,

E’en on the pleading, who had me installed

In ripening waist-nook, hence in royal rooms,

Our somber palace, towered block in snow…

But if thou sayst, oh gnome, this visage tends

A nearness to some smith, perhaps my first

Of quests obtains its fruit: Who was that man

So hammer-excellent, thou sayst could shame

All but the dwarfs in craft? And what mean’st thou

He swings the sword – doth war against some foe?’

*

“ ‘He doth: e’en those who Freyja would reclaim,’

Saith Hreidmar, ‘for the smith did steal that girl,

E’en as thy love was stolen. Fain he would 

Exchange for Idunn, sister who hath left

Elf-realm for Asgard – but the gods declined,

No bargain deigning with such lesser race

To strike, as though confessing parity.

And Völund now – for so that smith is named –

Besieges tier celestial with his host, 

Bold knights of Alfheim, numerous as stars,

Outnumb’ring Asgard far.’

 

                                                      “And Od turns white

To hear the name of Freyja, and to think

That lady no mere wight, but one of beings

Most good and puissant – and to think that grows

By seed of his, two demi-goddesses

In womb of gorgeous, glorious dame divine.

‘My blood ascends to Asgard,’ marvels he,

‘And mingles Aesir’s race with Völund’s line –

For mark, oh king, how smith-lord was my sire,

And now, how self-same lass whom rapt he off

Is her I search for, in whose midmost blends

Inheritance of siegers and besieged!

But what ought I? Two seekings intersect,

And stand I at their crossroads… 

 

                                                                    “ ‘God gives wrath,

And gives the tender feeling, and they bloom

Not full distinct, as when from mother’s womb

Twins issue joined at flank. What loyalty

To sire who left? But oh, I left e’en so

Beloved Freyja – left among cruel weeds

Where none would pluck them and so guard her heart

From strangling roots… What course, what destiny?

If Norns have knowledge, why not I, the soul

That fate enacts? I either wrest with lord

Whom Bodvild knew, who gave to me my form

And station, my whole self: keep true to blood…

Or part with filial feeling, tend to rose,

Release the choked plant, cleave to god-tribe hoop’d

All round by adversaries… Where lives love,

Where honor? In both places? One? Or none?

Doth heart null self-same heart? Seems peace were best,

A peace ’tween armies – but if that’s straight out,

Then peace within pained breast, and that should need

No more this mortal situation’s choice!

I would relinquish all, damned piteous choice

T’eschew – but that ’bove all would be most poor:

A full-black night, when half-moon ought to glow.

But Hreidmar, speak – what dost thou say to this,

One man split into two?’

*

                                                   “And wise dwarf stays

From answer swift, but at the last declares:

‘ ’Tis true the Norns know vision thou dost not –

But what they ken is what thou dost decide:

Their sight from act proceeds, not act from eye;

And therefore fateful grandeur bides in thee,

Not ’mongst the sisters. Whate’er be thy deed,

It forms the beauty and the arch of fate:

Betrayal and honor both, both love and hate,

The rise and fall of races. ’Tis thy feat,

Thy act of destiny… but falls to me,

In what I grant thee, to assure thy will 

(Howe’er it springs, where’er from first it grows)

Hath body, form, and motion, and proves not

But air and unworked aim… Now take this gift,

A boon for thee, some help in what thou dost,

Whoe’er it aids: a craft thy father made,

One of those many which were wages owed.’

And gnome-king raises fist, and knuckles raps

On cavern rock – where’pon a dwarfling page

Drops from a hole, then scrounges ’mongst the heaps

Of sparkling wonderment… At last he hefts

A targe triangular, with topaz trimmed,

And waddles it to Od.

*

                                             “ ‘On thy command,’

Saith king, ‘this shield shall change to rowing-skiff

Or winter sleigh, to bear thee smooth and swift,

Then back to sword’s-wall soon as speaks thy wish.

In nadir of the cold, or summer’s pulse,

This ought thy trip-term prune… And one last thing:

If wishest thou to meet with kindred thine –

Thy cousin-peers, each taking Völund’s part,

To ascertain their reasons, loves, and hopes

In raising banners counter to the gods –

Upon an isle in Wolf-Copse lake they bide,

Not far from towered block where thou wast raised,

Where little cubic houses cluster ’round.

Whether to join campaign, or state thy hate,

There mightst thyself declare, amid that lake,

Where young smiths armor forge. And now as guide

This dwarfling page shall serve: yon tunnel winds

To sunlight, or to mildness of the moon…

Long since have I lost track of which doth glow.’ ”

*

*

XII.

*

“Like sea-beast’s flippers dip and swish the oars

As when brute skims o’er surface of the depths:

A streamlined slide through water, easy pace

’Midst nary a choppy wave, and Od descries

His kindred’s isle in mist. He goes and glides

Still secret, draws his gunwale to a ledge

Of land some feet ’bove water – hawser ties

To beech tree, stows the oars on deck, and steps

Through vaporous land. 

 

                                                  “The winter in its ice

The autumn hath usurped; small creatures sleep

Beneath the sinewy roots. An hour he walks,

Letting the needles comb his hair and clothes,

Walking the island’s curves. His sword he’s left 

On ship – no menace wishes he t’appear

(Lest arrows or the sudden blade him slay),

But rather roamer, taking idle day

To visit hinterlands, remote retreats

His fancying eye hath longed for. Glades and brush

He passeth, crunching frost. Day brings no warmth

In first of world’s great winters, bluish chill

Descending once began smith’s awful war:

Cold sympathy of seasons with the mood

Of mortal races’ anguish.

 

                                                    “Chime and clank

Ring down like music ’long the island’s spine,

So delicate at first, like fairy-bells

Gonged for to grace orisons to the gods

Of bright dimensions… Louder now they peal

As Od gains island’s heart – those are the clangs,

He knows, of smithing clan at anvil-work,

Grand hammer-noise announcing weapons’ births,

Parturience white-hot of arms and shields,

Knitting of hauberks, forming of the faulds,

Gauntlets and sabatons, gorgets and greaves,

Armets and bevors, sallets, cuirasses,

The rock-hard cuisses, vambrace, besigaws:

A wealth of metal coats, shaped piece by piece;

And Od perceives now labors well as noise –

Sees boys and blokes upon a clearing broad

At maulish metal tasks. Hammers and tongs

The striplings scurry with… Those youngsters drive

Their striking instruments now down, now lift,

Now smash again, mashing the massy folds

Of steel and gold. Upon an ash tree’s boughs

Hang pieces ’nough for thousands: some for elves,

And some for men much massier – those helms

Might cap a mountain’s peak, and those hard gloves

Could fit huge hands what clap the thunder’s peal.

*

“Od shouts hallo, and shows his open palms,

Pretends a limp, and walks the workers ’mongst,

Who cease travail and eye him, while first son

Of Völund lists to stranger:

*                                    

                                                        “ ‘Oh good crew,’

Od saith, ‘what host so grand enlists your work?

What army has your hire? I came by boat –

A lazy drifter, I – and thought to drowse

This icy afternoon upon some swale

Far out on lonesome isle, in hermit’s peace…

But toil of yours hath crashed apart my nap!

And for that, I should think ye owe me stew

And loaves, a filling supper… pillow, too,

Within this cabin. Say, who might be lord

Of lake-isle this? Such handsome pieces hint

It might be smith-king, elf whose fame is broad –

And ye, his atelier.’

*

                                        “ ‘Völund indeed

Reigns o’er these foundries,’  Heime saith, ‘as he doth

All Wolf-Copse, and yon distant isle of elves –

And soon, much higher realms. Know’st not of war,

Oh vagabond, wracking the midmost plains

To westward – war ’twixt elf-folk and those fools

Who trow they cosmos rule? While winter shuts

Red petals of war’s bloom, my cousins clang

A grating music, taking little rest,

Girding their kind in thickest outfits, proof 

’Gainst lances’ points and barbs of bow-sent shafts!

But Völund – who my sire is, and is eme

To all else here, save those his other sons –

Thou shalt not find among us: he retires

To hideout under earth known but to him

And me, and uncles mine who man the siege 

Of stronghold-heaven! There he crafts a thing

Shall be the high ones’ downfall… but I speak

Beyond thy care, I ween. Thou wishest meat,

And that we have, enough for tramps like thee

Who stumble here but every now and then:

We’ll dine on chines and quarter-beeves and breads,

And stew of quinces, berries of the glades,

And mead to make ye stagger! When is done

Our day of breastplate-banging, thou mayst join

In dinner-gab of ours, and share our horn

’Til bed’s thy only succor!’

 

                                                      “And that eve

Proves brew-befuddled, just had Heime had told:

Mug-muddled, beer-bewild’ring, and quite glad,

With talk as loose as Freyja’s bodice-strings.

All rims o’erspill ’til floor’s a shallow sea,

All songs are sung in keys that fit no doors.

Of tweaking dragon’s nose, Od spins romance –

And once he giant-passel slew, he claims

To much acclaim, and half-believing hoots

And doubting scoffs… then wonders what they mean,

Those monstrous metal suits that hang without,

For no elf born might wear them!

*

                                                                     “ ‘To be sure,

They fit not wights our size,’ saith Heime with cheer,

‘But match they well with girth of those new-linked

To Völund’s push ’gainst Valhall: race that nigh

Had smothered ’neath the gory waves, except

Bear-Yeller rowed with wife upon a raft

To breed anew once bloody ebb-tide drained, 

Preserving troll-line down to fatal day

When ettin-allies shall o’erwhelm that brood

Whose cursèd first ones shattered giant-sire!

From all points, come the spring, the giants move

Beneath crude banners, joining elven host

In ranks of thousands – Mo and Go their chiefs –

By files of millions – Flame-Beard, Thrym, two more –

Thiazi, Rime-Hair, Hrungnir set for fight,

And maids of battle: Fenja, Menja called!

For drowsing ears of giant-land slept not

Profound enough to clashing arms ignore;

And stumbled out those louts from idleness

In blank brute lands, and blinked in hazy day,

Wond’ring at sounds that rang from far away,

And found, peeping their eyes o’er mountain-ridge,

That brazen army challenged gods – and won! –

Throwing proud family back to haughty heights,

Encircling stronghold; and now elves forge picks

To break a barricade was heaped up high,

Sealing a shameful flight! The trolls sent spies

To learn who trounced the Aesir, and a pact

And pledge secured this concord: Elf and thurse

Shall march as one once weapon-clang renews;

And after triumph, soon as gods are flung

By brawny victors down to Nastrond’s pain,

Proud elves shall own those crystal Asgard heights

While jötnar all the earth-lands far below,

With whole of Midgard, for preserver none

Might men rely on then…’

*

                                                       “ ‘But e’en with this,

These hordes of Jotunheim, who knows if smith,

My father, shall the Asgard peaks o’erpower,

For strengths unknown and mysteries of force

Still thrill through Aesir’s ether: Planes and tiers

Of empyreal gold and diamond-might

By fulminations shine, and by huge bursts

Of scatterings electric… Muscle-forms

Shift in the storm-whirls; eyes and eerie things

Stand yet gods’ allies… And some shrieks bizarre –

Witchy and girlish, matronly and deep –

Have heard we in this house of several nights

Passing o’erhead, like trains of women led

To ecstasies by devils up in clouds!

And therefore, ’gainst such all-surrounding powers –

Such strange sublimities, dark depths of rule

As sometimes met in dreams, stark nightmare-sense:

An adamantine wall, a soaring tower,

Harsh heaven-fortress, death-hard citadel –

My father forges weapon for one year,

One year of sweat and ceaseless miseries

O’er anvil and the blaze, that with the spring,

Amid a waking world, a brand might gleam

Annulling what defies it: courage-blade,

Gods’ bane – the Sword of Valor! – and men’s doom:

An edge restoring Idunn to her clan,

And Lady keeping ever in her tomb

Of thorn-jabbed drowsing death that is not death 

(Sure chaperone of purity for aye) –

An edge shall drive god-tyrants from their spires

To fall in shrilled despair, through cumulus, 

Past cirrus-layers, down through glooms, abyss:

Such dismal drop, ’til eon-long they’ll writhe

Upon dark strands of pain where dragon’s ears

Know only calls of woe, and outcast souls

Drink cups of gall each heinous wretch deserves!

I bid thee hail, with mug in hand, oh friend,

My father and his year-long fashioned steel –

But half-accomplished yet, in winter’s vale

Still gath’ring force, still drawing fate within

Its flawless shape – it is the key shall turn

High lock to heaven, and all lesser beings 

(I add not thee, of course) shall sweep away

To hell’s oblivion-holes, and station smith

As world-king – brothers as his surrogates,

And I, young Heime, as prince! Thou shalt be friend

At Asgard court, and every elfin lass

Shall o’er us drape her arms. Let’s toast again –

All present, lift your flagons – sword and spring!

To battles past! To war that low’ring looms,

And deaths of Aesir by smith’s glitt’ring point!’

*

“And all that comradeship and clan shout glad;

And Od acclaims as well, but without heart –

For thoughts of gods’ decease stir piteous woe,

And Nastrond’s horrors tighten strict his throat.

He drinks with all – but deep in tender soul

Inside his breast, the Nornies weave their work:

Now broods he on sweet Freyja chained for aye

Inside the cold and dripping under-earth,

Unvisited, unmoved, unsought, unloved,

Her twins forever locked in womb that sleeps…

And thinks he eke the pity of such sight

As bright breed brought to woe, the sons of Bor

In Hel-drake’s maw e’er chewed, ’til rocks shall break 

In final cataclysm, and the sweeps

Of sky and sea scream out to vast unknowns. 

His pity drips from eyes… On sly he weeps,

His tears mista’en for mead-drops; but Od knows

He waits no more at crossroads. To the prince

Of future realm, he drunkenly inquires

Where clever smith-king hath concealed the lass

All Asgard misses – same place where he clangs

His hammer through the dreaming snowy sleep

Of year’s night-length, and more.

 

                                                                  “And Heime replies

In fellow’s ear; but so loud’s supper-talk –

Bobaunce and bragging, shouts and boozy taunts –

Around that mead-house, that I cannot hear

How one might reach the place where Freyja’s kept.”

*

*

XIII.

*

“A land as wasting cold as polar cap,

Where only well-furred creature might abide –

For weeks o’er such a world Od’s magic sleigh 

And conjured reindeer (strong ’gainst every harm

Of element and hazard) sleek convey

That youth who’s learned where Völund’s lair doth hide:

Behind a frozen waterfall, ’mid mists

Of edgeless nowhere. Stars he spies by fits

Whilst drop the fogs, and by their chart he guides

His swishing team, his rails that cut the slush:

O’er white and white and white the charmed hooves drive,

’Cross rolling drifts e’er same, e’er wavy same,

Like cresting, heaving main – a sea of snow,

And sleigh enchanted ship, never to sink,

Wreck, list, lose speed, or founder. On the move

It slices ice: that transformed shield skates swift

Like shoe with double blades, wide-spaced and sharp.

And ere a moon’s life dies, Od spots the peak

That drunken Heime described: a glassy tor

From gentle mounds emerging, like some berg

On rippling sea-foams floating… And beneath

Its beetling icy cliffs, where vernal months

A sparkling stream drops off, half-darkness hides:

The mountain’s mouth, where ’midst gray shadow’s set

A door with triple lock. Long icicles

Depend from edge of cliff, all stiff and slick

From top to tip: grim claws of rimy green –

A poised paw threat’ning death. 

 

                                                            “Od pants thick steam,

Lets go his reins, steps off his sleigh, and claps

His mittened hands – hey presto! – targe returns,

Already on his arm. Now ’neath those spears

Of dangling frost he treads, o’er stream hard-fixed

All in one solid moment… At the gate 

He steels himself – for as he feared, ’tis shut –

Aye, trebly shut. The padlocks feel his blade

And smart beneath his hilt – but they’ll not budge:

The three bolts sit like three dark mocking thoughts;

And door by shoulder-shoves proves unimpressed.

Oh cursèd Heime, who nothing spoke of bolts

By magic reinforced, which none might flout

E’en though one strike with strength! Od stamps, full vexed,

Nonplussed and wretched, shiv’ring ‘spite his furs

As snowflakes shower round, white-petaled blooms,

And diamond flecks blow like an arctic dust.

But ’midst that chill, Od hears a crunching sound,

And holds his breath, and quickly turns about,

Wond’ring from where it comes. They seem like steps,

Those mashing, scrunching thumps… but all around

He nothing views! Now feeling twinge of fear

Along his spine, and eerie twist of gut,

Od scrambles down the stream and hides behind

Some river-wave caught midway in its roll

As sudden winter fell – and from there peers

All o’er the mountain’s porch, its door so dark, 

O’er frigid slopes and terraces of ice;

And still he hears those snow-steps… 

 

                                                                           “Soon appear

’Cross snow-smooth way to doorstep, out from fogs,

A line of foot-tracks: one by one they come…

But made by what? No figure shows, no wight –

Just marks, like boots invisible might press.

And now the wondrous trail tends toward the door,

And now Od hears the harder thumps produced

As unseen feet o’er frozen river clomp.

A jingling noise – Od pricks his wolf-keen ears,

And listens – hears the wards inside one lock

Turn creakily. Now first of bars slides ope…

More jangling… now the second padlock clicks

As Od resolves his deed: With stealth he creeps

Toward where that hidden minion door unbars –

In silence draws his sword, makes ready targe…

And once door’s third impediment is cleared,

The hero blindly hurls himself, his shield

A bashing front – some unseen form he knocks,

Some shrieking creature, heavy in its fall

Against the cracking ice! Od points his sword

Where thinks he throat must be – and tip intrudes

Against soft surface, making fellow howl,

His coat and skin invading.

 

                                                       “ ‘Stay, oh friend,

Thy sword insistent!’ thrown wight pleads with moan:

A craven voice, a creaky, croaking groan.

But Od his killing point doth press again,

And hollers: ‘Oh thou being strange – pure clear,

But not unbodied – own thyself, if canst,

To comprehending eye! And tell who art,

And what thy charge is, op’ning locks of door

To lair I mean to enter!’

 

                                                “Squeaks the wretch,

Wincing as weapon prods him: ‘Hold thy claw,

Oh bird of prey, oh eagle in thy might,

And I’ll disclose to thee! Smith’s spy am I,

And wastes all round I roam, that such as thee 

(Some would-be burglar, or lost wand’ring man)

Völund might know approaches. I go in –

Or was about to – telling naught stalks nigh;

But thou above me show’st I fail my task

And keep a lousy gate! Poor clear-through me

Was spotted, while you bloke, all plain to gaze,

Evaded eye! ’Tis ’nough to make me weep…

But I am straight defeated, and thou bidst

I show my substance: here, mine helm I doff.’

And instantly, the rascal now is seen,

Pinned down, removing casque – a green-skinned man,

A goblin, evil slave, who saith to Od:

‘ ’Twas given me, this magic helm, by king,

That overlord I serve, who lives below

And always hamm’ring keeps upon some blade,

Some mighty spike that never perfect seems

To fusspot eye of master, but asks months

Of laboring strokes, a whole year’s worth of blows

Minus that time the smith sleeps on his throne,

His sword lying not far. A dame he keeps,

And drowses she as well, and never stirs,

By some strange spell kept wakeless – but of girl

Naught toucheth mine employ… Say, lift thy point –

I’ve done thy asking, and if let’st me go,

I’ll scamper towards yon snowdrifts, speak no word,

Abandon master, find some other gain;

And thou mayst act thy will past open door.’

*

“ ‘Begone then, caitiff!’ sneers the conquering one.

‘I would all slaves of Völund prove as true

To nemesis past doorway, lord who would

Consign the Asgard bright ones to th’abyss,

Conferring pain, when joy might equally

Pertain to elves and deities alike:

A universal bliss – but oh, smith’s ire

And vengeance-wish holds Lady, for to spite

Those higher natures, vaster world-souls,

And force return of sister, though was free

Her progress up sweet rainbow… Run, be off:

Leave helmet, take all else for thy support,

And choose a better ruler!’

 

                                                       “And he hies,

That scallywag, through winter’s wilderness,

Glad for his life… and Od looks o’er that casque

With one of every gem, it seemeth, stuck 

Around its crown, and odd and eldritch runes

Scratched on each open spot… He puts it on,

Feels nothing – but when peers he at his hands,

Appeareth naught before him; and that man

Then thrills to know he’s veiled, he’s turned to air

As far as eye’s concerned. Od pulls the keys

From lock to pocket, and the door yawns ope:

All’s dark within, and hero feels the stairs 

Begin beneath his feet just past the gate,

Where shadow’s absolute. With hand on wall

And careful step, a staircase Od descends,

Naught seeing, and himself doubly unseen

By any eye might look – but none doth gaze.

All’s silence, all’s a spiral winding down,

All’s touch of rock and little grains that loose

As fingers skim them o’er… How long he walks,

There is no measurement, nor of the length

Straight down through flesh of Jord. The air blows soft

And gains a moisty warmth – the bricks seem dewed,

The steps turn slick. 

 

                                         “Od apprehends some glow

Arriving faint, so faint, on staircase walls;

And as the minutes pass that weak shine swells,

A dripping wall revealing: like snail’s shell

It smoothly turns and curves – and with a burst

Of door-shaped light, Od reaches stairway’s end.

*

*

XIV.

*

“And now, oh Lodur, list to what I say –

What I describe, and all this eerie crux

Of my great tale: Imagine such a scene

As eye might glimpse, but not take in, not though

A thousand years be granted he who gazed,

And never, not one hour, he closed his lids

To drowse or idle. Picture suns and orbs

Within a mountain – but no little sky

Are they allowed: this inside’s not a room, 

No chamber, not a cavern, gallery –

No place contained, as one might well expect…

But rather world as huge as what’s above,

Or huger still, confounding mind and sight:

A vaulting vastness inexpressible,

Great underbelly of creation’s sweep,

Which dazzles Od, and makes him doubt his sense. 

Below lies rank confusion: orchard-miles,

Fruit-myriads, sour fountains and gruff fonts

Their muddled musings murm’ring, seething spray

’Cross silhouetted space; while realm that asks

One crane one’s neck, it spans like dome surreal

By comet-welters streaked, adorned by bursts

Of stars cavorting: demi-chaos strewn

With fireballs and bolides, plus what seem

Half-wraiths, strange ghost-suggestions, flitting blips

And bodies ill-defined, some whirling round,

Some merging, meeting, others splitting up

Into vast fry and progeny, the rest

Blazing aloft and blinking, never still,

All restless, troubled, irked. Each section small

Of nether-sky – each little congeries

Of shapes Od squints upon, to learn its feats –

Proves all some wild astronomy: each glimpse

A world-in-world regression… same below,

That wilderness bewild’ring! Youth stands fixed

Upon that threshold at the stairway’s end,

Biding some timeless term plain stupefied,

Unsure if day or night down here obtains,

If light doth wane or wax by any rule.

But at the last, his boots attempt a slope

Progressing down toward what seems land half-crazed

As man might turn half-crazed: a faulty wold,

Illogic’s home-realm: Rivers swell and die,

Pink groves stay not the same… no path is found…

And forest’s now not forest, but bizarre

Sequence of rooms where shrubs from ceilings grow,

And sentry-goblins march, sharp glaives in hand,

All clad in shabby tunics, dull and bored, 

Slouched in their marching, circuits that they keep

Through ivy-tod, and up and down strange stairs,

Down hedge-rows, into pyramidal rooms,

Across arch-bridges. Od’s helm keeps him hid,

And cautiously he steps – no sound at all –

And flattens ’gainst the walls, those guards to slip,

Remarking dismal malice in those green

Repugnant minions’ faces – yet some grief,

Some weird half-mournful look in visages

As well… but stays the hero not to brood

O’er strange parade of wardens: E’er through maze

And spinnies labyrinthine he picks and slips,

By some uncanny hunch led, deep and far

’Til vision massive meets him:

 

                                                               “ ’Midst that land

So dreamish-rare, ‘top base of brass and bronze,

A bastion rises high above green growth:

A fort of towers nine, as many walls,

Nine pyramidal roofs, and one firm door

That glows nigh much as netherworld’s arch

Had shone in eye of Od at base of stairs.

A set of keys he brings – yet somehow knows

That delver that he shan’t see what’s within –

Not just this hour, at least: no key might serve…

And round wide citadel his gauzy gaze

Doth guide him. 

*

* * *

*

                                   “Here are treasures, here are gold

And silver fortunes, stacked and dragged by imps

Who babble grasping phrases – down through dens,

Tunnels and holes, they stash and steal those hoards:

An endless robbing, robbing back again,

Thieving from neighbor, adding to one’s own

E’en as another’s filching. Goblins squawk,

Squabble and quibble, tugging o’er gold cups

By rival handles; coins are spilled and grabbed,

And hobs all ’cross that zone e’er nothing gain

E’en though they’re always pilf’ring. Toss and bump,

Jab, butt, and nudge, and shove – ’twill never end,

That poaching madness, swirl of currency.

Each gem doth pass through hundred heaps a day;

Each jewel its owner hath but for a trice.

The landscape swarms with greedy little fiends,

A rugged, lithic outlook, craggy, crushed;

And through such grasping scene poor Od must wade

As instinct him doth pilot. Goblins bang

Against his shield or jacket, fall to ground –

But rise without a thought, and emmet-like

Continue on their scrounging, scrambling trek,

Or chase down villain who their pillage nabbed

When out their hands it spilled… and no one recks

How something unseen smacks friends flat to earth!

Past spectacle so strange anon he’s stepped,

That unglimpsed man much-buffeted: Od strides

From stones’ unevenness to smoother hills:

Smooth hills that slowly smooth e’en more and more

’Til all that land seems flat as sea might bide

Were tides and winds to perish. 

 

                                                                “Here the doors

Of west and east swing ope in open sky,

Those passages of Sol and Mani’s route,

Where wheel they down from upper world to float

With burning majesty athwart this air

Of dreamy under-space, then rise in east

To shine again on countries and vast flood.

Od views those wagons twain e’er chase and chase

Rightwards from door to door – when one hath left,

The other enters opposite. Pursued,

Pursuer both are; so both flee and chase

Each other ’til great world-doom in this wise.

And ever cycle so as well the Hours:

Twelve always moving here below, and twelve

Marching above where time doth reign and rule.

The day and night may soar, but Hours must walk,

Those twice-twelve maidens: half of golden hair,

White-clad in dresses (those who keep with Sol),

And half the somber coal-dark lasses dight

In purple raiment, who the moon attend –

All passing down from leftward gate by slopes,

Then up by steps, from door of west to east…

And at the nadir, ’midst that empty land

Od now explores, they pass the river Slid:

Oh treacherous Slid! that stream infused with swords,

Which flows from Niflheim, another world,

Passes through Asgard, carves a thousand caves

In Midgard’s woods, then towards this lower land

Must move with reticence, for where it flows

When passeth it away, none claims to know –

Perhaps to Death, that nullity and blank

Who liveth nowhere, in a nothing-realm

Beyond the blackest margins. 

 

                                                               “Every Hour

One stalk of water-dropwort bears in hand

(Clusters of white atop a stem of green)

In all her circling travel, and this charm

Protects her from that weapon-water when

She must wade through: her legs emerge unscathed;

Her dress comes wet, but nowise slit or torn,

And so to passage up to overland

She e’er arrives uninjured. Floral charm

Grows thick here by the bank… Od stops and marks

How fearless damsels ford those waves of knives:

Serene in mien, upright, surreally calm,

As though no blades revolved where feet must tread.

And now one weed of cowbane Od doth pluck,

Trusting its virtue – and the stream he tries,

Proceeding softly, feeling ne’er that steel

He knows within its currents turns and whirls,

Missing his shins, avoiding ankles, toes,

Each part of leg, skipping its chance to harm;

For warding strength Od bears.

 

                                                                “On farther bank

His path veers from the Hours’, for up they go

While hero downward treads, through thresholds soft

And winding warrens, all an easy maze

That no one comes to visit: quiet, faint –

Doorsills of lavish earth and pastel light,

Not seeming underground, but more like halls

Of welkin’s wonderments – as rich as stars

In dewy pureness. On Od’s sleeves it wipes,

That sodden shaggy flora, greenish blood,

A sap and water… Mounds of minerals

Below stalactites bud; and liquids run

With grumbling far below, hot water-veins

Of even deeper earth. Red mushroom-tufts

From floors and walls sprout thick, toadstools much-flecked –

Some harmless, some with venom in their juice –

While tangled root-ends from dim ceilings hang

Like dangling snakes or worms… And now there swells

In breast, a golden ray all holy, pure,

As though Od neared the center of all things,

Some pulsing, tragic core.

 

                                                       “Here is a door

With one sole lock – a door apart from all,

A door in gentle nowhere. Od applies

His stalk of water-dropwort – and they fall,

Both lock and plant: the cowbane wilts and dies,

Crumples in hand – the wards are guards no more,

And portal yields to hand.”

*

* * *

*

                                                       “At Völund’s feet

The flaxen goddess sleeps: her dress shines white

And’s trimmed with silver. Swirls of hair like waves

By sunlight lit, spill o’er the velvet steps,

O’er all her cushions. Belly swells with twins,

A fruitful bulge; and copper floor beneath

Her eyes shines green – a melancholy stain

Where tears have dropped… The smith upon his throne

Doth sleep as well: his head nods in his hand,

His lips breathe faint; and webs of mail drape

His shoulders, like the nets shy spiders weave

O’er long-unpolished statue. Jeweled rings

Cling round his fingers, charms and talismans

Weigh heavy on his neck.

 

                                                    “This place hums rich

With beauty, like some hazy golden thought –

A thought uncanny, eons long ago

Conceived in dreams, strange atmosphere sublime

That lost was ’midst storm-anguish, winds of woe,

But now’s recalled… Od looks upon his love,

That love he left, though sore regrets it now:

The sleeping Lady – then on father glares,

That gray and bearded sire he’s never seen,

With head of rolling hair much like his own,

And long consults his face – that face of age,

That face of sorrow, scorn, aspiring toil,

Of forge-heat, gold and silver, battle-blood,

And deepest slumber.

 

                                              “Od takes off his helm,

Slings shield o’er shoulder. Near the sleepers glows

The smith-king’s furnace – nearby lie his tools,

His hammer and his tongs. On anvil lies

A sword more pure and perfect than might forge

The wisest gnome. A hilt of gold it hath,

And blade gleams like some crystal shard of force,

A flake from heaven’s tower. Od walks and views

Fine tracery above just where his hand

That brand shall grasp – the bloody flood it shows:

Primordial deluge, gore what swamped the hills,

Rushed down through gorges, drenched all pinnacles –

Shows giants drowning, chaos and the surge,

High-flailing arms, Bergelmir on his raft,

And I, All-Father, with my brother-gods

On Ymir’s corpse escaping. 

 

                                                       “Other side

Of hilt shows nothing. Silence is a throb

Of blood in ears, and in that room Od waits,

The Sword of Valor holding. All the world –

All under-earth, all Midgard, all the skies,

All cliffs, all spaces, stars’ domain so huge,

Wide yonder darkness, Life’s domain, and Death’s –

Seem trembling on that point, that glinting tip

Magnificent with beams. Od looks again

Upon his drooping sire, upon his love –

And stirs himself, and tucks his new-found blade

In belt beside his own. By girl he kneels,

Feels warmth of beauty… puts his lips to hers,

Leans back, regards her – thrilled, afraid, o’erjoyed.

He knows not where he is, or where she breathes

With coma-lightness, but he knows her chest

Respires now somewhat freer than before:

Her lungs fill… head and hands give little fits…

And with weak flittings, eyelids ’gin to ope.

Through narrow slits she seems to watch the man –

Her lips ’gin curl, her cheeks are growing red…

Her eyelids part much wider. 

 

                                                           “Freyja lifts

With love and longing to the man who bends

His head to kiss her. Od’s hand feels the place

Where daughters kick in womb so gorged and swoll’n:

His children, soon to grasp for outer light.”

*

* * *

*

“Od bears the girl like bride in burly arms,

His helm restored – she’s clear-through now as well –

And reaches bank of Slid. 

 

                                                      “No cowbane grows

Upon this side. The hero studies long

Those swords that flow and twist beneath the waves,

Circling and cycling, end o’er end, for aye –

Sensing their rhythms, courage gathering,

Then tries the river. Halfway in, one leg

Is slightly cut – a thread of red dissolves

In pouring flow. He reaches other bank,

Limping so lightly – ever after shall

That hero hobble; but he recks it not,

And nowise slows or falters – wound is slight,

His leg yet sturdy.

 

                                     “Past the scrounging imps,

The beauteous woods keep silence. Fort of gold

With towers nine now shows an open door:

A tree’s within, an ash. It is a grove,

Immortal acre; and two children play

Around thick roots, and hide within the trunk:

Two naked creatures, like two prancing fawns,

A boy and girl. They hide their eyes, and laugh.

‘My name is Life,’ saith girl. “Life-Raiser I,’

The boy tells Od. They clap their hands and chase.

A wind blows through those woods, but does not touch

The leaves within the walls.  

*

* * *

*

                                                           “Beyond that place

Is passage back to snow-land. At the gate

Of three unbolted locks, a waterfall

Now pours from glassy tor – a screen of spray

Producing rainbow, sloshing down through rocks,

Down mountainous crags, down slopes that now unfreeze,

Thawing the landscapes. Freyja smiles at Od,

One hand upon her belly, one around 

Her lover’s shoulders. Towards the east the sun

Like glorious god is rising. 

 

                                                       “Valhall shines,

The end of rainbow’s stretch. ‘To war, oh bride,

I must – and soon,’ saith Od. ‘Thou hide away

With womb much bursting: let not noise of wrath

Upset our daughters’ ears. To glory fly

All-Father’s fighters: worlds shall bleed and die –

But not the line of Od, not Freyja’s line,

Our holy offspring! Mark those banners black

Proceeding from the east… Hark, shouts in air!

Fate quickens: Storms shall roll, and waters rain –

And sword half-finished now’s a tongue shall sup

Much elfin blood, and trolls’, ere sunlight’s fled.’ ”

*

*

XV.

*

“In lair, the smith-king wakes – his yowl of rage

Sends shivers through the tor from roots to peak.

His goblins start, the warders blanch and fret;

Fair Hours glance round, but slacken not their pace.

Benimmed of hostage, and of wondrous sword!

That sword of six months’ toil! His furniture’s

Ne’er borne such suff’ring: stools and benches fly,

Tables and couches; beds he overturns,

All in the pleading hope his blade’s not stol’n,

Only misplaced – fond thought! His labor’s filched,

And swears he torture on the burglar’s flesh! 

Alarm, commotion – swiftly spies are cast

’Cross lands outlying, but Od’s much too fast:

Already lays he Freyja in a bower,

A sweet and rustic shelter: There she’ll birth

Her cramped and twiddling twins – and fairies shall

Act midwives, and the dryads swaddle bairns.

*

“From glassy monolith the king rides out,

His beast a muscled power, his weapon dressed

With not one-tenth of magic of that blade

In hand of Od, but dreadful nonetheless:

A longsword charcoal-black, his next-best steel,

Avenging edge, a brand shall muster thanes

And trolls to foe-man’s ruin.”

*

* * *

*

                                                             “The giants march

O’er hill, through combe, o’er peak, down valley’s depth:

A sea of trolls – all compass points they touch –

A wriggling carpet, boundless in its breadth,

A million-leggèd beast… So trembles land

That gnomes below run cow’ring, hands o’er heads,

Escaping falling rocks: To bolt-holes rush 

Those skittish fellows, deep ’neath granite shelves.

From Jotunheim to Asgard’s doorstep blare

Crude horns by troll-lips blown; and elfin host

Acclaims allies’ arrival: Mountain-thurse,

Frost-ettin, e’en the jötnar of the storms

Who make the swoll’n clouds vast their citadels,

Stomp forth in legions. Strongest of those bold

And bulky knights race up the foothill path

As Völund’s soldiers cheer them. Armor clangs

Like crash of jarring plates, the jostling iron

By Heime and uncles fashioned: sculpted shells 

Encasing brutal bodies, joints so hard

They might the lightnings bounce! 

 

                                                                    “Up narrow gorge

Those champions hie, while from his turret tall

Atop a spire of Asgard, Ull takes aim,

That archer-god whose shafts are meteors,

And plucks his one-string tune of instant kill –

But all his darts off armored trolls rebound,

Scatt’ring across the slopes. The sniper fumes,

Fires faster, seeks to aim at neck and face…

But nary a troll doth slay. 

 

                                                    “Where pick and axe

For six months, through decline of warmth and rays,

Have toiled in elfin hands, making slow way

Through barricade the gods cast down of rocks,

Of trunks and shrubs and sludge, those ettins now

Draw nigh; and once close under lee of wall,

’Gin heft huge boulders they, with hardy hands

Tossing downhill! The great stones spill and roll; 

The pine trunks bounce and crack and crash down slopes:

Another avalanche, and all below, 

Both elves and giants, make way for that slide

As gods’ defense grows slenderer by hour,

Their rock-wall torn apart, their roadblock breached;

And Aesir agonize, and Ull expends 

His shafts to no avail. The trumpet-ranks

Ring loud, a taunting chorus.

*

* * *

*

                                                              “Look to north,

Oh look to hideous north, oh quailing crew

‘Top Valhall’s bluffs! – it is the king of smiths

Riding to multitudes, riding on steed

That seems a very dragon, hoofing sparks,

Smoke in its nostrils, haloed by a dim

And wicked fog; and in the rider’s hand

His dark sword seems to cast a weather-gloom

Of whirling cumulus, nimbus, and murk –

A surging vapor-front, all summoned rains

Swelling behind him… Trees are blown apart,

Their twigs losing to zephyrs, limbs to gales;

Then trunks loose from their moorings, off to sail

Through regions of the air, those tempest-swept

Mist-spaces o’er the armies, cyclone-vexed

Steep stretches of the sky! All Valhall cling

To what’s at hand – the storm hath reached the face

Of mighty god-high cliffs, rough mists and winds…

And from my high command, I, Odin, glimpse

A glinting world of roiling elves and trolls

Spread all below, ’cross Asgard’s lowest lands,

O’er ramps and shelves and rises, hills and plains

That form the doorstep of great Aesir’s tier.

’Gainst ramparts titan-tall, the storm clouds crash:

Their downpours chafe and grind, frustrated, crazed,

Searching for farther spaces, earth to soak,

Expansive lands to drench – they well up walls,

Climb o’er the rim, and wet the lofty plains,

Wet golden helms of Asgard, wet our spears,

And mist that very garden where the god

Of golden harp his tender Idunn holds.

Precarious fruits so rich dangle from stems,

Uncertain if to drop, or cling to limbs,

While lovers weep in mist; and teardrops mix

With moisture on their cheeks, and in their eyes. 

*

“Now Völund ’mongst his ranks, through hails and calls

Hard gallops, raising sword; and Aesir ween

That brand assures their downfall. Heimdall sets

Resounding-Horn to lips, and teeth of gold

Are set to shudder – but I lay my hand

Upon his shoulder. 

*

                                        “Gullinkambi shakes

Atop his casque. ‘Oh stay thy note,’ I bid.

‘Set down thy blasting trump… It comes not yet,

Grim day of fire’s dominion – rather hour

We fate refuse, and scorn what Norns might tell.

This clash shall seem but naught against that stour

When worlds shall crimp like cloth upon the hearth,

The woods a bonfire, lakes a cauldron’s steam.

The early days have passed, and midmost ones

Of noon-sun now ascend.’ 

*

* * *

*

                                                         “Through chasm-cleft

The trolls have dug their way. Towards Valgrind surge

Those hordes that mean the sky and earth to rule.

But savors sweet now wind within my nose –

Burnt flesh of hecatombs offered by men

Far down in Midgard: oxen-slaughter huge,

Grand sacrifice to Asgard, for to cheer

Supernal powers. Now the mortals move:

From Midgard march the hosts of Frodi king,

And Hermod rides beside him. Banners rich

With red and gold now crash with those black,

And men and trolls fall thick. Of Frodi’s host,

The meek knights with the great in puissance vie,

For every human kingdom stands to fall

Should Aesir drop from sphere, and giants own

All lower world with patron perched on high,

An elfin smith-king cruel.

 

                                                     “Rime-Hair the thurse

With frosty mace attacks the famèd king,

Whose shield defends like sea-cliff ’gainst the sea,

Ne’er giving way – a hope-sign for his men.

Now clubs and swords all mix in horrid stew,

A bloody cauldron: horns are hacked from lips,

Grim cries like tortured eagles far ascend,

And fylkings scream: the world is torment’s toy.

Above, fierce elves and giants batter gate

With beating fists and hammers: planks are rent,

Great missiles crush the stones and ramparts stout:

The mason’s work is shattered – towers fall,

And demi-gods inside are crushed and bleed

Their ichor ’midst the ruins. 

 

                                                         “From on high,

From gray rocks and the mists, I all observe,

And Thor crackles with rage – his maul once more,

Repaired, chafes in his knuckles. Asgard’s ranks

Resplendent lock their shields, as elves ascend 

Black hills and wind-brushed slopes, far-off and wild,

Those last few leagues ’twixt armies. Orbs and storms

Contend across the welkin… fits and blasts

Of rays and rain like arrows clatter thick,

Bewild’ring all the world. Sol cracks the clouds

And moves aloft to noon.

 

                                                     “Now from the sun

Effluvia sputter, jets of golden fire

Spurt ’midst the air; and tremblings emanate

Swift through white firmament, when – lo! – a door

Doth ope, a door in disc, and from that square

Of empty blackness ride the frenzied shapes

Of Olrun and of Swan-White! Dozens more

They’ve gathered in their tour all round the worlds

Follow behind them: battle-maidens girt

With cloth and mail for blood-clash! Dapple-gray

And red and black their horses, dun and white,

The company descends, flashing with beams

So armor-lucent… Now the squadrons smack

The shields of elves, and flying hooves break swords,

Shrill screams affright the trolls. 

 

                                                                   “Confusion runs

Through endless host. I speak the word of war,

And Aesir march upon them, blocks of gods

Bristling with iron touch – our lances pierce

That howling enemy. From three sides pressed,

He gnashes now in crampèd, stymied wrath,

While on the fourth side – oh, what sight so fell:

For fogs disgorge a figure lifting blade

As brilliant as the smith’s is dark and foul –

And elves now ’fore that doughty warrior fall,

As helpless as the wheat stalks ’fore the scythe.

The legions perish – each stroke slays a squad…

How reels that horde; it screams in high despair!

Now Egil falls, and Slagfinn… and young Heime,

Who thought that man a comrade, and doth drop

To ground with woeful mazement and dismay,

Feeding the heath-gorse drops of richest gore.

Those three souls flee to Helheim, where they see

Red castles seethe and blaze, the dragon gnaw,

And wyrms fly bat-like through the dreadful black:

A place they’ll stay, with death-queen in her hall.

*

“Now Völund shrieks, and curses man who slew

His brothers and his son – and with that sword,

His stolen sword! He whips his rageful horse, 

And wrathful, rides to kill… but thund’rous steed

Crumples beneath him! Völund spills to earth –

He rises, and no sooner hath he raised 

His weapon ’gainst his foe, than blade is cut

Clean through, sent spinning ’cross the scene of blood

By shining Sword of Valor! Od hath sire

At mercy of his point – that point that holds

All worlds in awful balance.

 

                                                          “Elves lament

To see their king so mastered – giants quail

And forfeit battle-heart. Aesir and men,

The riding women, and great brand of doom

All press the rout… Invading hosts turn back,

Discarding spears and shields – down hills they pour,

Through gorge, through forests, and through meadowlands,

Through rocky parts, down moss-slick stark descents,

Towards plains where once their force knew victory,

The central steppes, the gray lands flat and wet –

Racing and racing, harried by new shots

From Ull upon his tower, and by those hoofs

Of swooping maidens’ horses.

 

                                                                “Frodi leaps

At Rime-Hair with his stroke; and giant-king

Collapses, clangs on stones, and prompt lies pinned

At throat by sword-point. All his knights retreat;

And Frodi makes to slay, but Rime-Hair speaks:

‘Oh cast not noble soul to manse of death –

Such mansion as suits not a regal heart

Like one that beats my blood, or that beats thine!

Consign me not – I’ll offer boon that might

Thy blade’s forbearance buy: See giant-maids

Off yonder, those who guard their comrade’s flight

And give to foe but grudgingly their ground –

Fenja, Menja hight. Send all thy force

To swarm them, strip of longswords, bind their hands,

And take as slaves for toughest tasks thou hast

At home in Denmark – for they ne’er do tire

At drudgery, however hard the chore

Or long the laboring. Let me loose, and I

Shall order them to stand, budge not an inch

In battle, come however many men

From all points round them: then thou mayst subdue

Those sisters for a yoke of endless toil

At mill or trench or wall – worth fifty men,

Each maid o’er yonder!’

 

                                                   “Frodi gives his nod,

And looses wretched giant-king to wreak

Betrayal on such loyal damsel-thanes:

He shouts his hest, and sisters two stand fast.

’Mongst fleeing trolls that king most nimble is,

Picking his way to front of running horde,

Departing Asgard, back to Jotunheim

Far off to east, to hide again in holes

And places shunning sun. The valiant twain

By thousands are surrounded, and they yield

To threat’ning ring of spears. 

 

                                                            “The elves lie dead,

Or swift have dashed to edges of far lands,

Hiding in forests, seeking paths to ports

Where barques might bear them back to Alfheim sweet,

Their holy home, their music-isle of peace,

No more to follow rage, or clash with gods,

Or seek to kingdoms add.

 

                                                     “Seeing his loss,

Seeing his brother’s corpses, and young Heime’s,

Atop the piles of kindred that are dead,

The smith-king falls to knees and, silent, faints

For very grief. His son upon a horse 

Places that lord – he bears him up the road

Past carcasses the buzzards ’gin to pick,

Beneath slashed banners black that hang from poles,

Beneath subsiding storms. Through Asgard’s gate

The loaded horse clops slow… I see the man

Who Sword of Valor bears lay father out

Upon the gray grass. Clouds that swish and seethe

Are falling silent. Gloaming creeps upon

The plains of Asgard and the dropping lands.”

*

*

XVI.

*

“All fall asleep on grasses, and cold night

No soul shakes from his slumber. Morning shows 

The dead that stretch to end of eye’s domain

Where clouds laze o’er the hills. I watch the maids

Who sallied from the sun: Olrun, Swan-White,

And dozens more – they stand before me on

The field of Idavoll.

 

                                         “ ‘Ride forth,’ I say,

‘Across the clouds, to seek where men make war,

And serve me thus: those bravest in the fight

Who perish, lift their souls to where we stand

And into Valhall – those shall heroes be,

Passing through open Valgrind, joining souls

Already at our benches, demi-gods

And champions rare, those men divinely touched

Upon conception, great ones of the dawn

Of mortals’ age, who ’neath the beast or sword

Did hard succumb. And all these – hearts of yore,

And hearts to fill our feast in future span –

Shall stand with gods when greater foe appears,

All worlds to overwhelm: Einherjar called,

These one-time fighters, from the doors they’ll spill

To match the wolf’s host… And ye shall be known

As valkyries, those who choose the valiant slain,

Uplifters of those mighty in their wars.

And some among ye shall the honor know

Of serving man and god in banquet hall,

Bringing the mead-horn, shanks, and suckling pig,

Spreading fine cheer, and feeding greatest souls.

Ride off… search round the earth… I bless your chore,

And hail ye airy amazons of war.”

*

* * *

*

“Before me at my throne is Völund brought,

Defiant, dour, his coral crown still perched 

Atop his pate. The Aesir all about

Stare coldly on the captive. Od hath told

Of parentage, his sonship to the smith,

His quest, how Freyja bides in shelt’ring bower,

And how great sword he stole. 

 

                                                                “The judgment rests

With Baldur, wisest and the best of gods,

To say the villain’s sentence. Some of us 

Urge death, some others prisonment for aye

In Valhall’s grimmest dungeon – but the god

Of justice, with his wife and son at side,

Speaks milder verdict: ‘Let the king return

To Alfheim soft, to rule (if elves should deem

Him still their lord). Let music once more ease

And temper furious spirit, which did sleep

For eons ere this war, content to work

At peaceful craft, and reign o’er music-isle

In tranquil time, that golden term of yore

When world still knew its spring. He’ll bide once more

In mildness; war rests vanquished in his heart –

I see it in his face. No more shall draw

Stern elves and trolls in numbers such we saw

To one who speaks of conquest o’er our race:

Those beings know our power… and great sword

Resides in Aesir’s keeping. Let him go:

Let walk his way to east, let sail from port

To search the sea-lanes, and his home descry

Where arcades carved in stone like belt surround

The waist of that green outcrop. Let him rest:

Let rest in room where once Ivaldi reigned –

Ivaldi father, son of perfect Sheaf,

That infant who from storms, upon a raft,

Washed up on fairies’ outpost. Let him die:

For die he shall – his father’s deathlessness 

Made wat’ry was by Star-Frost’s mortal blood

In progeny: he may for age to come

Yet eke out breathe, but ere this world’s doom

He shall pass down to Helheim. Let him join

His son, his brothers, where the Hunger-plate

Ne’er feeds the stomach, and the servants slow

Ne’er reach the table, and they nothing bear.

Idunn remains with us, and Freyja shall

Return anon – lo, even now she nears

Our rainbow-causeway, daughter sweet of Wanes!

Unlock smith’s chains; let rise the captive king –

Show him the way from Valhall.’

 

                                                                    “And now’s led

That shattered monarch from the lofty field

He sought to conquer, down through Idavoll,

Down through the endless path from sky to plains,

Past wreckage of his war, past buzzard’s meal…

And now he’s left in Midgard by his guards,

His sister Idunn nevermore to see,

Ne’ermore to list to music in her arms,

And of sweet golden apples ne’er to taste.

He walks amidst the chattering of birds,

Through regions gray, then green, then thick with woods –

A blank within, an emptiness, no thought

Nor feeling stirring; and in month to come 

He finds a ship at port by gray-blue sea,

And sails to Alfheim, coral isle of elves.

*

“And Baldur saith, as son and wife do list,

And Od, and Odin, and all gods who gaze

Upon the Sword of Valor: ‘Frey shall take

That triumph-brand: he is the god who’ll serve

As distant overlord – o’er elf-isle watch

From Hlidskjalf, Valhall’s spire which punctures sky

And toucheth downmost spike of lowest star.

From throne so high on pedestal thou’lt gaze,

Oh Frey, with youthful eye and steady mind, 

With edge of steel in hand, and surety keep

No smith-king and no creature e’er again

Prepare against us. Ingvi, thou’rt most young

Of all divinities – most keen, alert,

Save Heimdall, who hath place at rainbow-top.

*

“ ‘Oh mortal Od, who bor’st sweet Lady from

Great glassy tor of goblins, and hast saved

From vicious rule this lofty sphere, and us

From Nastrond’s pain – pass weapon now to Frey,

Thy loved one’s brother. He shall be the lock

And key that close the chest of envy and

Cruel malice, guarding Asgard from such war

As we have seen this day. On point of sword

The balance of the nine worlds rests… In hand

Of Frey, the blade stands true, and all shall keep

In peace – ’til Norns decide doom must descend.’

“And Od the hero, lightly holding sword,

That golden-hilted blade which shows the flood

Drowning all jötnar, save the raft-borne two,

Passes its shine to lord of life and wheat

And sun-beams – now the lord of elves as well;

And Frey ascends the tower. Amidst the clouds,

Amidst the coldest winds, he sits and views

And broods, a god most beautiful… but glum:

Glum sometimes, for he e’er must sit alone,

O’er elfin mirth to watch, and skulking trolls,

And fairer giants – giantesses eke,

The golden-haired, like Völund’s mother was.

He restless sits, such beauty ’cross the lands 

Compelled to witness, but not touch or pull

To lonesome breast. He sighs – the winds run cold –

The tower’s remote from all.”

*

* * *

*

                                                             “Meantime, a steed

Hath clopped up rainbow-bridge, passed slain souls’ gate,

And now’s relieved of burden: Three souls slip

From back of hardy beast, a mother and

Two babies tucked in arms. The door swings wide,

The Lady stands at threshold, passes in,

And all regard her. 

 

                                       “In a crib now sleep

Desire and Treasure, daughters of that dame

So fresh and beauteous, the maid of Od –

That goddess not a virgin, but e’er sweet

And pure as girl who first feels pangs of love.

In crib they sleep, and Od regards them long

Amid the apples gold, beside his love.

All Valhall trows fair nuptials impend –

But Od thinks oft of leaving, much to roam.”

*

*

XVII.

*

He lets his fire die, the lord of gods,

And by its ling’ring coals he sees his guest’s

O’erawed by what’s been told. His beard runs long –

Some slight bit longer than when tale began –

And marv’ling sadness glimmers in his eyes,

A wonderment that pricks and halts his tongue

At once, but at the last he asks of god:

“And what becomes of master of all smiths

Who’ll brave the heights of Asgard: grandson of

That being whom I formed – shall live for aye

On elfin isle? Or shall slow-creeping death

At last o’ertake him, as the justice-god

Shall say will be his fate?”

 

                                                   All-Father tells:

“Smith shall indeed Resounding Bridge cross o’er,

And bide with brothers and the young-plucked Heime

His son, amid such gloom, behind those drapes

Called Black Misfortune. Grief cuts short his life:

His grief o’er loss of sister, loss of hope

To ever taste those apples rich with life

That bloom in Asgard while with Bragi she

Knows happiness… The centuries he’ll pass

Upon his elfin throne, beneath his crown

Of coral – but all life to him is ash,

As much a slav’ry harsh as when that king 

Of Wolf-Copse kept him prisoned. Misery

Soft-slips upon him while he dreamless sleeps,

And shall be knife that slits his throat and drains

All lifeblood from him. Elfin rites bedeck

His pallid corpse with gems, with blooms, with arms, 

With trophies ta’en from regiments of gods

When Asgard routed on the grayish plains:

Broadswords of silver, banners of that house

I long ago with handsome Frigg did found,

And flags our thanes shall yield when they are slain,

Strange emblems of the rainbow-accessed world.

The fire consumes it all, a week-long flame

That lights the ocean gold; and monuments 

O’er centuries, o’er thousand thousand years

Remember Völund to the deathless elves

Who sing his name and feats in deathless songs,

Those songs of harp and reed and breathless voice

That drift across the sea-roads. 

 

                                                                “Od, long ere

The day his father dies, shall eat his fill

Of flesh delicious that glints metal-like

In Valhall, staving off that day he’ll pay

His debt to hoary Death. His daughters twain

He watches Freyja raise, but soon shall roam

Where none of us might know – the poor girl weeps

In Folkvang for her sweetheart. Bragi sings,

Idunn doth listen; parterres bright and great

Surround them, close-clipped gardens rich with blooms;

And kestrels, robins, owls list from high limbs

Of ash and fir and pine to harp-god’s strains.

And heavenly beauty there shall live and bide,

A paradise atop the mist-cold stones,

Atop an eeriness that drips so bland –

The height of mountains, from which sweet springs splash

And dribble through the moss. The sky rests gray,

The garden shines with gold – a future rose

Surpassing all the ornaments of worlds;

And through long ages ever shall it shine,

Through generations of the mortal men

Who live and die below… Yet apples shall

One day extinguish, even those fair fruits

That are long life itself and purity

Of soul: those golden spheres that swell from trees

Amid the world’s decay.”

 

                                                    And Lodur breathes:

“Oh friend, All-Father, thou who from thy tower

Saw’st much that was, and in thy vision seest

So much of what shall be – mine eyes keep not

Their salty weight: I weep for gladnesses

And for great griefs the same: glad that my race,

This rose-bloom which grew where Sheaf sowed his seed

Such wondrous heights attained… and still attains…

And shall – though in that shall there is much grief,

Such shame my blood shall war with splendid thine,

And nought averts it. Were I much to sail

And find, somehow, that isle where smith resides

And reigns, and speak with him, tell who I am –

Creator of his father’s sire – and then,

Urging forbearance, urging calm restraint,

Compel his vow no cause might prompt his sword

Unsheathe itself ’gainst Asgard… tell him naught

Avails to unseat gods, not though he massed

All war-wights ’cross the earth to his command –

And that, should something dear to him he lose

In future days to Valhall, he ought mourn

But nowise think of vengeance… If I spoke

Such warnings and advice, in council-hall

Before his throne, before his ministers,

Before his sweetest Idunn, even she

Who age to come shall see elope and leave

Her jealous brother – dost thou think such could

Thy vision alter? What thou think’st be fixed

May yet be free – who knows? For Hreidmar speaks

On far-off day to Völund, as though sayst,

Norns’ sight from act proceeds, not act from sight.

Could wrath be quelled? and blood kept in the veins

Of countless lofty offspring – rage allayed,

Our clans unmurdered, and thy vision rent

To form a sweeter sweven?”

 

                                                            And the god

Who knoweth runes and mysteries of fate

By subtle seeing, sadly shakes his head

And saith: “This sweep and scale of awful things

Rests firm beyond some meager pull or push

Thou mightst apply – or I might. Some small choice

Have god and man, decisions in the day –

Some liberties by weeks, perhaps by months

Or even years… but ever roll the winds

And surge the seas as greater purpose bids:

A purpose strange, of things inscrutable,

Things e’en the Norns glimpse not… 

 

                                                                           “But I descry –

I must confess, I gazed it long ere now –

A something in thy face what jabs my heart:

Thy features stir my memories, e’en hid

By such full whiskers… Art thou not the god

Whom once I knew as Vili, even he

Who with me and one else, vast giant slew

So very long ago? Art brother not

To me, dear creature – fellow son of Bor –

Who built the earth, and built Valhall as well,

Beside me toiling? And to Embla gave –

And Ask as well – their hearts, to love and weep,

And minds to ponder long? Art thou not he

Who disappeared ere I my family formed,

When Ve as well did vanish?”

 

                                                            Guest grins wide

To be found out: “ ‘In vain one hides from lord

Of Hlidskjalf’s perch! Far off to east I fled

Once mansion was completed, there to set

Upon that isle where infant Sheaf I made

Once solitude so sweet at last did pall

And wished I for a child, though women none

I found about me. Silence is the song

Most grazeth heart of mine, and loneliness

Ambrosial drink, half-bitter and half-sweet,

Which sip I with soft relish… Ve did fly

As well, I know, some short while after Frigg

Thou took’st to wife.”

 

                                             “The Vanir did he sire,

’Tis told by some,” saith Odin. “Wizards cold,

Frost-sorcerers… and others say he fled,

Once this creation done, far off to south

To reign amongst the fires of Muspelheim,

Domain where only devils might him serve:

A waste realm and a black, a charrèd holt.

If sooth, I cannot tell: my sight extends

Not o’er that burning world – but certain ’tis

I have not seen him since the day I wed.”

*

The fire is spent, the wain of night flies swift,

And only by the moon’s glow might each glimpse

His brother’s face. The kinsmen part in peace,

Calm peace and love, soft blessings and good wish.

Both leave the cave, All-Father towards the west,

And Vili towards the east – the place each came –

By Mani’s splendor guided. Stars appear,

Hot sparks cast up from flame-land, there to burn

Amidst the upper void. With gentle steps

Down either side of mountain they return,

Treading with staffs, wending with cautiousness

Back towards their homes, to island and to hall

At far-off depths of realms – and each shall rest

In perfect easiness, with hushèd soul,

Knowing the words of Norns might not be changed.

**

**

(illustration by Katharine Pyle)

*