*
I.
The god atop tall spire, he longs for sleep:
Reluctant-perched, his sword long lent to wife,
He nods his head… now chin drops from his palm,
And no eyes gaze to check that elves are quiet
And stir not towards some second war with gods
While Frey’s fair head upon slack shoulder rests,
His hair by coquette winds tousled and pulled.
It seems pure lonesomeness at tower’s tip,
But soon through dreams sweet Yngvi leaves his ache,
Attended by four winds, which are his friends
As bear they him in spirit ’cross the worlds
To speak with fellow creatures, each strange sprite
And elf and animal.
Within his mind
He joins gay gambols, merges in wild dance,
Swift round and roundelay, quick joyful jigs
Which step and jump to rich and mystic tunes
Buzzed all about by bagpipes deep in gloom –
Unseen musettes, the pipe and clarinet
Turning that wheel of frantic revelers
Of which he makes one felly. Now he spins
Off towards e’en gladder scene his sweven shows:
Some narrow arch-road, lantern-lit, towards bliss –
A bridge through thick of night, ’round which revolve
In rings some star-white wingèd guardians
Who hold the secret of where leads that road
High o’er precarious void – what walls, what towers,
What gate of gems and endless rows of rooms,
Each lucent as the moon, run on and on
Past chasms, frigid endlessness – what burg
And castle ruby-bright abide fore’er,
Waiting each soul who yearns for them in sleep.
And so the languid god races that road,
Steep path to Gimle, utmost hall of space,
Deep in his snooze…
Until, below, his wife
Doth chance to pass, on drugd’rous errand bent,
Past shade of spire, so far below Frey’s dreams;
And hearing how he snores, she looks, and calls:
“Oh rouse, ye lurdan, worthless husband ye!
Thou shirkest thine employ for sleep’s embrace –
Such easy duty, and it wears thee down?
Should Ygg the wrathful spy how thou dost nap,
Thou oughtst account thy luck a vig’rous thing
If thou’rt not hurled to Helheim!”
And he wakes,
Poor Frey, his vision sharp-snapped like a twig,
And yawns, and grumbles, waves harsh Gerd away,
Then settles once again his chin in palm,
Spying the harmless elves as wife stalks off.
The sun retires, Sol’s wain hides ’neath the hills,
And Yngvi broods with sad heart at his post.
The wind blows cold here, close beneath the sky,
So close to where the cherubs of the night
And moon-ray angels doze their dark-sweet hours,
Some nestled on the waning crescent’s curve
(One dangling legs, Frey sees, from bottom horn)
While others nap upon high silver stars;
And Frey in envy sighs for happy rest,
Such rest of things so innocent above.
His eyelids wish to shut, his neck to bend,
His back to lean deep in the burnished throne –
And not for long now might our young Wane strive
To shoo away soft bird of subtle sleep
Flapping its feathers o’er his eyes and brow.
Soon loosen all his sinews, limp his limbs…
Anon again in thoughts he roams strange realms,
The darkling deserts, golden canopies.
*
His wife bides far away; no god him sees
As on through night and day he charge neglects,
His tedious charge to constant watch from high
The race of Völund far off on their isle.
The days turn weeks; now shrinking days of fall
Ought shed their beams upon the furrowed fields
Planted with wheat, to coax the timid germ –
The buried seed, the promise of rich grain –
Toward sprouting strength…
The anxious farmer peers
Along with wife and young ones ’cross the sky –
Vast cloudscapes of no fissure, passage none
By which Sol might intrude, might cast her rays
To bless the ploughman’s work. The crop comes poor;
And after snow, weak once again appears
A struggling growth, for clouds shall not abate.
The stalks go wilting even as they’re born,
Drooping and dying. Now a hunger looms:
The stores ‘gin dwindle, no new loaves are baked
In town and hamlet as the spring tops out
At peak of day-length, sky as overcast
And drear as ever.
Farmers Frey implore
At shrines and sacred spots that he break the sun
Forth from her prison, that bright nourishment
Should wasting fields redeem. Fine wine is poured,
The slaughtered ox and sheep consumed by flame,
And idols pleaded with – but holds the sky
Still resolutely gray; and bellies soon
Go rumbling. Fat declines on kine and hogs;
The land looks lean.
“To temple of high priest
We hie,” the worried husbandmen declare,
And o’er the roads they haste, rough Sweden-paths
From all directions, towards Uppsala’s fane:
That mighty house surrounded by a chain
Of glist’ring gold, where close by lives a well
Forever bubbling, outburst of the earth
Near sacred grove of alder, rowan, birch,
Firm fir and ash. The high priest sees the crowds
Of farmers and wan families arrive
O’er many days, and e’er more worried grows
As prayers of gath’ring horde meet no reply
From gloomy firmament… Frey’s idol hears
A thousand supplications, smells the smoke
Of desp’rate incense wafted to his nose;
But still that god full negligent snores on
High up upon his Hlidskjlaf.
Goats and rams,
Cats, dogs, and lambs are hanged within the grove,
And mice and birds transfixed with darts, then pinned
All o’er the trunks – the ground is soaked with gore,
Hoarse songs are heaved to heaven. Summer goes,
Yields up to fall – the doubtful seed is sown
Beneath a stubborn welkin.
With no aid,
No answer and no succor, now irate
The families ’gin mistrust and curse the priest
(A man rotund, who hath no want of food),
Bidding he sell that chain of gold which wraps
Wide sacred house, then bring them all much bread
From marketplace.
“Oh patience, all of ye!”
The nervous gothi begs. “Be you assured:
Though Fricco acts not yet, he’s heard our voice,
And weighs our pleadings (plus rich sacrifice
This grove bedecking) ’gainst what wrath him prompts
To work our suff’ring; and he’ll sure remit
Some portion of what hungry term he’s deemed!
It seems we have neglected him of late,
Not mindful ’nough of gifts of meat and wine,
Of fruits and grain: I say we pile them on,
Though stores are dwindling – heap them on a blaze,
And venerate Frey’s statues earnestly
Throughout the coming winter. I shall hang
Nine criminals within our grove of death
Amongst the carcasses: how could he not,
Great god of growth and sunshine, grasp such gift,
Not let it soft his anger? Look to spring,
His season, when ’tis certain sun once more
He shall unbar, and add to boon of showers
His vital gift of rays!”
The crowds obey:
In flames they forfeit much of what’s still left,
While gothi sees that wretches who shall feel
The teeth of Nidhogg scraping o’er their flesh
Are dangled from high boughs: They choke and twist,
Their eyes out-bulging, tongues wriggling like grubs –
And soon go limp. The fane’s well freezes o’er –
The chill time grips the world, hard time of frost;
And parents, children sleep, not much fat left
Upon their flanks. Each stomach moans, complains;
All lean and lanky grow the populace;
And ’tis a famished-looking crowd indeed
Which at next equinox returns to priest
Before his prosp’rous temple.
“Where is sun,
Where mercy from our Frey?” each wight demands.
“We’ve sent good things to be consumed in blaze,
Adored his figurines… What wants he more?
Hears he our supplications? Doth he sleep?
Our foison fails this spring entirely –
E’en scarcer harvest than all previous!
What answer speak ye, gothi? Why this waste,
This dying of our grain sprouts, which scarce peep
From out the glebe? And say… why art thou fat?”
The restless mob now cries. “Why’s portly still
Thy frame beneath thy gown – and why still pouts
A second chin beneath thy proper one?
Dost hoard some rich fare while this country starves?
Art thou a fraud? Doth Fricco punish us
For that we’ve set a charlatan to speak
On his behalf, and tell our pleas to him?”
And menacing, the throng crowds round the man,
Earless to all his pleas they yet forbear;
And stout priest backs toward temple doors… when lifts
A shout from near the grove:
“The gothi’s son!”
An old wench shrieks. “He plays and rolls in mire,
And hath a figure of our Frey in hand,
Which he besmears, and dips in pond and mud,
Dishonoring the god!”
The people rush
To poor bewildered boy, Saklauss his name,
Who playing was with what he deemed a toy –
Had taken in pure innocence from fane
Such bauble to the yard, to dream up games
And fabricate adventures for his doll.
The famished folk surround, scream at the boy –
One man shakes him by collar, idol plucks
From little hands… Sweet lad begins to weep,
Asking for father, who through mobbing mass
Might scarcely claw his way; and tighter press
The terrifying folks. One slaps his head –
Boy’s tears flow swift, and through the crowd of legs
He ’scapes with sudden speed, a panicked flight
As gothi calls his name…
Quick through the trees
The lad darts, and the darkness him enwraps
Like quilt of utter black.
* * *
Deep in the woods,
In meadow which a great pine’s fall’n across,
That day the priest his son finds – torn to bits,
Half-eaten by the wolves. He cannot speak,
The gothi, and collapses to his knees,
Touching those shreds of clothing soaked with red,
Those limbs so cold, the body drained of blood,
The sweet head gnashed and gnawed… And loud he groans
So bitterly, and weeps with horrid sobs
Which sound through woods, tell searchers where he is
And that, indeed, some evil fate hath fall’n
On frightened little boy.
They go to him,
The shamefaced men and women, to the glade
Where priest holds tight the body, and all hang
Their heads in guilt and sorrow. Naught is heard
But wind, the call of birds, and gothi’s grief –
The weeping of a father who hath lost
His first-born son, the one he’d hoped would take
His priestly robes when old age, like a frost
Of early winter, settled on his head.
The man with Fricco’s statue in his hand
Himself sheds tears, and, hesitant, steps near
The boy and priest – and little figurine
He places by the corpse.
Back to the crowd
He wanders, and ’tis long before he looks
Up towards the sky – the sunbeams have glowed down
For how long he knows not… Clouds slowly blow
To wisps, and soon to nothing. Other folks
Regard with wonder how the great sun gleams
As hath it not since nigh two years ago.
In time, the priest’s lament grows faint and soft:
His eye-grief he hath spent. Anon he cranes
His neck, like flower straining towards the morn,
To wonder how the sky throbs, brilliant blue,
Obscured by nothing.
Sol’s gold wagon goes
At highest bend, with nowhere she might hide
Her light, as course she travels like a dream.
II.
One little plea, one cry of innocence
Like white dove fleeing fast from black earth’s grip:
’Twas all it took to start dull god from sleep,
From slumber deep as earth, and deeper yet,
Deep straight to lowest root of world-tree –
And sprang his eyes ope, gazed he all about,
The dreaming Frey, for ’midst his roam amongst
The worlds invisible, he’d heard some lad
He could not see, beg that his ghost not drop
To terror-realm of Loki’s half-dead child,
But rather pass to acres joy’s not fled –
Lands happy as some ancient infancy
As old as rocks and crags.
Awake, Frey knows
E’en now that boy is traveling to the world
Beyond a dismal gate – wee spirit flies
Across the passing day, through purple eve
And towards stern black lands. Clouds, like drowsy spell,
Now dissipate as Frey his tower descends,
Anxious, with still the dream-sense in his mind,
Vexed sick with visions yet of how young sprite
Through forests and thick Midgard-wilderness
From some grim spot now drifts: reluctant trip,
A grievous journey, bound to northern ice
And screaming storm-winds, emerald spikes and mounds,
Weird jasper arches, fastnesses of frost
Enclosing path which runs to bridge all pass
But none retraces.
At the tower’s foot
Frey leaps upon that golden boar was made
By Brokk and Sindri (one of treasures three
To Asgard’s gods delivered for to prove
Lok’s dwarfs not greatest craftsmen). Now he kicks
Gold Mane’s bright flanks, and rides through sunlit day,
So urgent, eager, praying he might catch
Lad’s soul ere Helheim take him. Grunts and snorts
The metal beast Frey straddles as it hies,
Well-fashioned, tiring not, and withal swift
As fleetest horse, or fleeter. Steed blurs trees
To gray-green smudge.
The northern chill draws nigh
Ere many hours, the arctic fortress dire,
As pass they from the lands of life towards death
O’er wraith-road somber. Blacknesses immense
Replace the heavens and the towering mounds,
Replace horizon, shrink the world to gloom
And weird shapes scarcely sensed. Gold Mane exudes
A luster from his bristles, casting beams
That guide the god; and many bridges ’cross
Half-frozen rivers race they. Eyes and teeth
Of hulking things go glinting in the dark;
Fell howls sweep the land. Cruel cackles crack
Hard rime, and fright the boar: Unsteady, he
Goes nigh to tossing Frey – but grabs the mane
That god so anxious, and he clings his legs
’Round ribs of beast.
* * *
A river, black and vile,
Sloshes with violence – o’er it spans a bridge,
Long arch of polished rock. In boar’s gold light
It winks like gemstone, sparkles as though leads
To some place gladsome, rich with vital dusk –
Some glorious night-thrill, promise of dark life,
The secret heart of being…
But that’s not
Where curve intends, Frey knoweth – not where souls
Arrive at far-off end. The cackles die
With long delay; the howls are growing less –
Save one, which seems to hold a steady moan:
Such piteous voice, young-seeming, hoarse with grief
And frost-afflicted.
Frey and steed have stopped
Where black bridge leaps, disdaining drop so sheer;
And now the panting god half-turns to look
Where mournful wail approaches, out from murk…
Looks hard, and feels sharp terror prick his heart
As from the gloom, frail phantom drifts in view:
A boy-small ghost, whose features Frey doth know
From dream-sense which he carries: ’tis the lad
Who pleaded ’midst this vast world’s cruelty
And hard indiff’rence – he whose little heart’s
Last throb startled the asa from his dreams.
The spirit’s moving close; it means to pass
O’er that arched road dread Hela built t’admit
The dead to where she rules them… But good Frey
Revolts to think such innocence be ta’en
To bosom of a gloom unending – turned
One subject more of empress who’s ne’er felt
A single twinge of joy, who relishes
The hopelessness of woe.
He moves athwart
Weird bridge’s entrance; and the spirit slows
To face sweet kindly god of growing things –
And young lad, weeping useless ghostly tears,
Now ceases sobbing – on the golden light
And loving face he fixes stonied gaze.
The two stare at each other, like some child
And parent wond’ring what the other thinks –
Amazed, o’erwhelmed at meeting; and the boy’s
Deep grief begins to lift like half-seen mist
Rising from water, as when morning draws
And curls a slow steam from the night-cold lake.
*
But then, above their heads, a third arrives:
A woman, hov’ring, thin, a floating form
Ashen of face, with cowl, and raiment long –
Grim tattered gown of black which beats in wind –
With aspect fell, eyes wide to cast her rage,
Who points with crooked finger at the child
And saith, with croaking snarl, to god who’s posed
Himself at bridge’s head: “How darest thou,
Oh son of Njord, to bar this spectral way
O’er Bridge Resounding, as though thou wouldst seize
This subject I am owed? What doth it touch
Thine heart if passeth he? Harsh wolves have vowed
His soul to kingdom mine: one meek life more
Amongst a thousand thousand every age…
What claim hast thou o’er him, insipid lord
Of harmless sunshine?”
And the fervent Wane,
Though by fierce apparition half thrown back
In startled silence, gathers all his nerve
(Strung tight by guilty ache), and speaks to Hel:
“This tender boy, oh lordess of regrets
And sobs and emptiness – oh sovereign dark,
Who gathers gibb’ring spirits in thy caves
And swayeth empire which e’er grows, ne’er shrinks –
Black empire of the dead – this lad was lost
To happy life by cause of my neglect:
For long I dozed upon my tower of watch,
And drove the farmers mad – mad how were lost
Two years of grain, as rainclouds rolled high o’er,
But never sun. This innocent they thought
The cause of meager harvests, for he played
With idol of my image like a doll,
Drawing a crazèd anger – and he fled
For fright, deep in the wilds, where beasts him tore.
I cannot let him cross so ere his time
This woeful span: I ask ye him remit
Into my keeping, as a living sprite –
A yet-young, hopeful soul, who over-world
Might still enjoy, delight in, for what ought
Have been his untrimmed term… I know thou shalt
Expect a payment, so I’ll offer one:
Ten wagon-loads of treasure which I hoard
In my rich home (so seldom where I sit)
And in the temples where men worship me
’Cross frosty Midgard. I shall thralls command
To haul these guerdons: half my goodly troves
To this same spot we stand; and thence thou mayst
Bid minions thine wheel gold and silver yon
O’er sparkling bridge above tremendous void
To dreadful throne room, past thy gate of woe
And barking Garm. I’ve plates amongst my hoards,
Gold saucers, horns, and silver chalices,
Long forks of bronze, and spoons that show one’s face,
So polished gleam they – things which honor speak,
And might and wealth and sway on part of her
Who lays them for her feast. Though Helheim’s men
Move slow and tardy, yet mine instruments
Upon thy table ought somewhat repair
An ache so tedious, hard hunger from
The long delay of dish… So, dwell upon
What offer thou hast heard – I, patient, shall
Await thy word.”
The minutes stretch while broods
Grim morbid queen, who on the child-soul looks
With eyes which seem the hunger of the void,
A horrid starving greed – then turns she towards
The one who waits her answer, and she shows
Her wolf-like fangs, and croaks she: “Oh ye fond
And pleading being, weak within the heart
For one dear innocent cut off from life –
Ye Vana-god of thriving surface-land,
Who cannot bear what only must ensue
Or soon or late – ye fool, ye desp’rate wight –
I say to ye, as smile I with these teeth
Sharpened to prey on all who pass this bridge –
I say: I reck not years, some little years
By which thou mightst put off this mortal’s trek
O’er sonorous arch thou seest! I’ll grant his soul
For what thou deem’st his life-length ought have been –
Unless untimely violence second time
Return him to this place… I give this less
For riches promised, than to prove there burns
Some slightest flame of pity in my chest –
This cold chest, half alive and half decayed –
Some little feeling, e’en amidst such dark
And screaming chasm.
“Bring thy treasures here,
Oh Frey; I shun them not, and shall enjoy
Gold gleam amid the dreariness of rooms
Cobwebbed and dust-clogged. Spiders shall make homes
At bottom of thy horns, the centipedes
Inside thy flagons; and ere long, this child
Whom thou’st adopted to thy care, shall join
The famished feast! Be glad for term thou’st bought
For precious soul: such paltry span shall seem
In time (as it already doth to me)
Mere nothing – all but nothing next the gloom
Of endless emptiness, eternity.”
III.
So wagonloads ’gin rumble towards the north,
Fraught with the moiety of the kind god’s wealth,
While spirit of young Saklauss yearns to pass
To tracts of gladsome lands.
“How dost thou wish
To pass thy purchased years?” Frey asks the boy,
Who hath already less of ghost to him,
And more of what he was ere life him left:
More color, ruddiness, the handsome cheek
And quick blood of a vig’rous blooming youth.
“What form, what figure and anatomy
Wouldst thou inhabit? Or wouldst thou fly free
Of any incarnation, and those years
Thou art allowed, move insubstantial o’er
This various earth – more loose to rove the lands,
More separate from what’s solid – perchance play
With Bil and Hjuki in their silver wain,
Removed from cares of earth?”
But Saklauss shakes
His little head and says: “I fain would live
Inside a forest, though in forest I
Did lose my life. I love the solemn wold,
Though love not dangers there. If thou wouldst change
My shape to something which no violence fears –
Great and imposing – liefly would I live
Inside that figure, in the heart of woods.”
*
And good Frey smiles, and ponders short, and saith:
“The largest beast, a thing of stature grand
To frighten any wolf – it is the Stag,
Great Stag, who standeth twice as tall as man,
And antlers bears as high as most the trees –
The prey of nothing! On the leaves thou’lt live,
An easy life; and if thou keepest hid
In midmost Midgard forest, thou shalt thrive,
I ween – for many years safe from all harm,
Far from the hunters’ arrows: tucked, concealed
Where never men dare enter (’tis too dark,
Too wild and tangled, and they’d lose their way).
Forthwith I’ll bear thee to that forest-core,
Dense wilderness, and there thou’lt watch thyself
To something stately change.”
And on the boar
They both ride, briskly – golden bristles shine
Their way through nighttime, back o’er frozen roads
To zones more cordial. Into brake they plunge
As dawn advances, and the trees loom thick
Around, above them – Gullinbursti shows
A way through murk as denser foliage
Grows all about.
A silent and a deep
Nook have they reached. The berries swell on vines;
A stream laps ’mongst the roots, and shadows chase
Swift o’er black moss and mushrooms, while the boughs
Above go ever-swaying. Both dismount,
Step gently ’midst the ferns in perfect quiet;
And now the god his hands waves, and he chants
Some words of transformation…
Saklauss feels
His legs and arms grow long, his face extend,
His size swell up, his skin sprout coat of fur –
And from his forehead, hardy spikes protrude,
Forking and branching! Hands and feet turn hooves;
His back hath sprouted tail, his neck is long,
And eye-to-eye he stares upon the god –
A height prodigious!
“Now thou hast thy wish,”
Frey tells the child, who no more is a child,
But one who marvels at his beastly frame,
Stamping and snorting, wishing he might speak –
But only manages a honking moan
And bellow – but feels satisfied, and bows
His mighty antlers.
“Thou reign’st, monarch now
Of where men’s boots ne’er press!” Yngvi proclaims,
Sweeping his hands; and grateful Saklauss bounds
With final snort within the trees – and’s gone.
* * *
In Asgard, every eye on Frey appears
To cast an anxious glance – the Wane attempts
To sneak to Hlidskjalf without crossing path
Of terrible All-Father… but he waits,
Dread Odin, at the base of that high spire,
As Yngvi spies with shock as nigh he draws.
So simp’ring god approaches on his steed,
Eyes fixed upon that asa wrathful, grim –
And stern Ygg speaks, a darkness louring now
Across the air and earth: “Thou hast thy charge
Left vacant! and the elves go all unwatched
Whilst thou upon thy boar dost range and rove
For worthless purpose, whate’er it might be –
For what requires thee more than vigilance
Against that race which nearly threw us o’er,
Toppling our sway benignant? Thou’st betrayed
The tribe of Aesir, which did thee absorb
(Thy father, sister too) and made thee one
With such close clan, forgetting quick that war
’Twixt blood of Vanaheim and Asgard’s house!
Forbearing’s been my stance, whilst thou hast bent
The letter of thy service: naught spake I
When thou sent’st Gerd thy sword – that fateful steel
Of Völund; for the wife and man are one,
And what keeps one, the other doth: so I
Did reason, as perhaps thou didst as well –
Though still thou oughtst have asked thy lord his leave!
I let thee trek to Bari forest when
Thou took’st thy Gerd; while lasted nuptials
I acted lookout – is this not enough?
Thy post goes easy, doth not? – but to sit
And roam the eye, and only now and then
On Alfheim concentrate, and only stir
To warn, if war-like hints therein ye find,
Rebirth of wrath. What tedium lives there
Upon exalted seat, when all vast scenes
Of nine-fold cosmos, order manifold
Might fascinate, delight thee? Not again
Desertion such as this shall I endure,
For thou oughtst no complaint think. No excuse
I’ll hear for future absence, save if thou
Some proper substitute on spire install’st
While thou’rt away, whose conduct in the task
Thou’lt answer for as if it were thine own.
Now up – obey! Speak nothing. If again
Elves go unmonitored, no more with us
Shalt thou remain, but in another realm
Thou must find residence. Climb up, and sit
’Til I do thee remove from what I bid.”
*
Shamefaced, the Wane begins to speak what cause
Compelled him from his perch – but Ygg cuts short
With gesture fierce his words, and points Frey towards
Tall door which leads to tower’s winding stairs –
Long staircase that he climbs, grumbling and glum,
’Til at the top, once more, great seat receives
His slumping weight. He sets his chin in hand,
Scans far across great mountains, cities, clouds,
And counts himself half-glad, at least, that woe
No worse than lecture stern him hath befall’n –
When from below, a new voice, harsh, assails
Reluctant sentinel: ’Tis Gerd, and she
With hard reproach lungs loudly, both for wrath
And so that her harangue reaches his ears:
*
“Thou dolt! Half of our treasures? Thralls who drove
Ten wagon-loads did tell me how thou bought’st
One measly soul for fortunes! Climb down here,
That I may buy my soul’s relief with blows
Upon thy brainless pate! Full empty as
Thy skull now sit the half of our hall’s rooms:
Embarrassment ’fore guests! What dost thou do
With Hela bargaining, when Odin’s bade
Thou must not budge from station?”
On and on
Her chiding goes, with scarce reply from Frey,
Who after while sits back again and sighs,
His chin in hand again, his pupils dead,
Not looking down, letting abusive words
Fly up ’til daylight dwines, and Gerd him leaves.
III.
The dawdling weeks drag on, and Frey’s resolved
To serve his office well: his heart shall be
A vacant phantom floating ’midst the clouds,
Resigned, inured to solitude, past ache:
A sacrifice to duty, free from weight
Which drags all flesh of futile beings to grief
At low points in the land, the lowly ditch
Of anguish, hopeless yearning, restless wish
To e’er sit someplace else. He shall not fret
If centuries transpire and there’s no change
In where he’s stationed, how his talent’s used,
But shall keep tranquil, calm above all things,
Plain passionless, content there’s naught to do
But high god’s word fulfill.
The elves no hint
Of discontentment give: their songs ring soft,
No metalwork glints from their coral isle;
And years roll on – the snow and heat exchange
Dominion o’er the earth. Frey Saklauss sees
Leap swift and graze upon the grass and leaf
Inside his forest-fastness, and cavort
And frolic without fear, a merry deer
Who lords it o’er all lesser beasts of woods,
But reigns as king benign. In sun he plays;
In winter’s still content, stripping the bark
And nibbling twigs to heat the furnace of
His hungry stomach. No man e’er he spies;
No arrow threats his head – and Frey is glad
He did dread Ygg defy to free young child
From Hela’s sentence ere his proper hour.
* * *
One morn, while sits content enough the god,
Sweeping his philosophic eye all ’cross
Vicissitudes and visions, sundry deeds
Of men and giants, elves, and darker souls –
’Cross ships at sea, wide stretch of many worlds
He barely fathoms, blue plains and the green,
The heights of tumbled rocks, the nights and skies
Backdropped by starlight or by glowing gold –
Amidst such prospect (which at edges blurs
To sparkling splendor, hinting that there lie
Beyond his ken more wonders) god rests eyes
Upon one sight seems strange, at Midgard’s bourne,
Not far from woods where Saklauss keeps well hid:
’Tis someone suspect picking ’long the wall
Of Ymir’s eyebrows, barricade which keeps
Men safe from jötnar: quite a mighty bloke,
Upright and thug-tough, looks it – tow’ring, too:
High as the pine trees, poking at the fence
With fir trunk for a stick – and on his back
The giant (for such creature must he be)
Carries a bow and quiver.
Frey strains close
To see what mischief works that lumb’ring hulk
More massive than but few of his ill race –
And soon he spies that jotun vig’rously
’Gin pry some hairs apart where stand they weak:
Attack those bars with club, ope wider way
Through eyebrow huge, to man’s realm.
Yngvi knows
What meathead thurse intends – soon as the thought
Strikes mind and heart, he’s racing down the stairs,
No time t’alert the other gods – he leaps
On Gullinbursti once he’s out the gate
At tower’s base. Now spurs he swift his pig,
Racing down Asgard’s plains, racing through man’s,
Through endless lengths towards where that jotun’s stol’n
Inside protected mid-earth.
On his way,
Now deep in tangles, deep in monsters’ haunts,
He reaches midmost nook of thickest wilds
And catches sight of Saklauss, who ’mid feast
Of rain-sweet herb, hath pricked his ears to catch
The sound of heavy hoofs upon the ground,
Rough crush of leaves and needles.
“Oh my friend!”
Frey calls to stag. “ ’Tis benefactor thine:
The god who rescued thee from Hela’s claim
When thou wast new-teeth young! I bid thee list…
No, no – don’t that way run! Hast thou forgot
Thy life before, as child, and who I am?
Thy creature-life hath ta’en thee whole, I trow,
For nothing in thy brow or eyes might tell
Thou knowest me… One leg thou hold’st bent o’er
The mossy floor – thy frame stands braced to bolt
Straight towards a danger all unknown to thee!
Bides Saklauss in thee still? Thou art as tall
As man perched top of man: there must be space
Somewhere for little Saklauss still to live
In thy great figure… If be so, oh list,
My little child: a giant hath broke in
Through fence All-Father staked, to woodlands these,
Not far from where we stand! Means he to hunt,
I’m sure, for darts aplenty fill his bag,
And club he bears, like something which could slay
Behemoth with a tap! Thou must leap far
To westward, towards far purlieu of these woods
While I the thurse detain, and find some way
To drive him back – or fell his awful might.
From margin of these wilds I’ll thee reclaim
Once peril’s all repulsed… Dost understand?
Oh Saklauss, heed my speech!”
And just as Frey
Believes his words sheer uselessness, the stag
Seems gradually to nod, then stamps the earth
And turns his frame – and where the kind god points,
He leaps into the ferns, his gaze bent back
On Frey for just a moment.
Yngvi breathes,
Slumps ’gainst a pine, then wipes his brow with sleeve
While Gullinbursti slurps from sloshing brook
Not far away. Soon Frey is up again,
Pacing, retracing, wand’ring in a ring,
Dwelling upon how jotun might be tricked:
One middling god against a vaster wight
Ten times as tall as he, strong in his limbs,
Well-armed, well-practiced sure in killing things
Much weaker than himself… Frey fumbles much
With frantic thoughts – as when a servingman
New to his station, bringing mugs and plates
To table, pouring wine, ofttimes doth spill
Some portion of his charge, or even breaks
A dish upon the floor – so Yngvi drops
So many times his plotting, or brings plans
Forth to consider, plans which nowhere lead,
Like thrall who serves some fare or drink none asked
And lips disdain.
But slowly gropes he toward
Some working scheme, once inspiration leads
His hopes near confidence. He whistles for
His golden mount – and now through woods they move
Apace, eastbound, the rider doing best
To practice mien of high and noble scorn.
* * *
A twang of bow Frey heareth, stomp of feet,
The race of deer through brush. A clearing opes
Before the god and boar: from most the boughs
Of alders ’round the edge hang carcasses
Of deer and bear and elk. Frey steps to ground,
Pats Golden Mane – who, were he not of gold,
But rather flesh, might there and then dash back
The way he’d come. To giant’s noise they list,
His thrash through forest growth…
Nearby doth sound
The thwack of something blunt. “It is his club,”
Frey whispers to his boar. “I think a deer
Which arrowed he, he’s brained – one trophy more
To deck this meadow’s verge. Nigh hundred beasts
Already hath he slain – and day’s not o’er,
Not hardly, no… I’ll bet he drools for meat
Of tender’er creatures than in giant-land
His troll-breed catches, cooks! But if he’s shot
Already so much game, how long ’til stag
I cherish dangles, dead? I’ll work my wiles
Upon this brute who’s hunting… lo, he comes!”
*
And though he quails in heart, the god draws up
His figure – pompous, regal – tilts back head,
Squares shoulders. Now from out the gloom of woods
The giant trods, a deer slung o’er his back,
Also his bow; and sways he club in hand,
Not noticing the Wane, who’s small, and far
Across the glade. The grunting giant binds
Slain deer’s four limbs together, strings him up
High from a branch – when Frey, his throat he clears
Quite loudly; and the giant wheels about
To see who’s made the sound.
“You fellow there!”
Saith Frey, wagging his finger. “What dost thou?
Know’st not thou hunt’st in forest of the king,
Superbest Thengill, whom thou right now seest
Standing before thee? Thou’rt a poacher, man!
Our regal person hast thou slapped across
The tender cheek, I say! ’Tis crime, and worse!
So many royal deer slaughtered and trussed…
Thou’lt pay for it – and how!” And, fists clenched firm,
Shaking one hand, Frey nears dumbfounded troll,
Telling no fear in havior. “Drop thy club,
Thy bow, thine arrows – then say who thou art!
Come, face me! I arrest thee in my name,
And bid thee straight submit! Thou’lt have a trial
Back at my court – though chances thine look bleak,
For serve I as the judge… and jury eke.
Disarm thyself, I tell thee!”
But the thurse
So massive, sudden heaves with laughter-peals,
Holds belly, doubles over, splashes glade
With teardrops great as contents of huge tuns,
Drowning the herb; and only slowly die
That big one’s merry howls – he wipes his eyes
Whilst haughty Thengill glares at him and fumes.
The giant’s words come ’midst his ling’ring laughs:
“Oh so, great king? I must throw down my club,
Toss bow and arrows – make myself thy slave
And follow thee to court? Oh, that I’ll do!
This villain feels ashamed, now thou hast shown
Against what lord he’s trespassed: mighty being,
Proud Midgard-monarch! Beli shall obey
Thine hest straightway – only, I plead thee first:
Hold still! that I might crush thee ’neath my boot!”
*
And Beli – so he’s named – now jumps, and stomps
Where Thengill is… or was, for king hath moved
With instant nimbleness much far away;
And Beli, glancing round to find the squirt,
Grits teeth and growls, and leaps at Frey again –
But squashes only grass. “Vermin, keep still!”
His vast lungs roar; but comic scene again
Is played a dozen times, and winded grows
That furious jotun.
“What art thou?” he gnarrs,
Leaning on club. “Some magic’s helped thee out!
’Tis sure – unless thou beest some ghost or shade.
But though I cannot crush thee, yet canst not
Compel great Beli, who’ll again roam round
Thy forest, slaught’ring deer: these woods I’ll loot,
Oh weakling Thengill!”
But the god his scheme
Moves forward, nothing fearing: “Oh proud thurse,
Oh Beli – ’tis a true thing which thou sayst:
I cannot check thee… Yet, if thou hast heart
And courage for to let a contest choose
How falls out our dispute, I challenge thee
To shooting match, comparison of strength
In drawing bow (the one thou hast with thee):
A game to prove how far thou canst send dart,
And how far I. The loser shall submit
To will of other, let him work his will
Upon defeated. If sounds well to thee,
A proper sport, then swear that thou’lt abide
By what our play decides – swear by the Leipt,
Bright-watered river running through the gloom
Of netherworld: whate’er the outcome be,
Thy honor shall uphold it. Dost thou swear?”
*
And Beli, much amazed, as though his ears
Heard something they might wish for, but’s not true
(For how far back might minim’s arms draw bow?)
Saith eagerly: “Indeed, by Leipt I’ll swear,
Oh rash, wee man! And do so ye, as well.
If I prove loser, I’ll with thee to court,
Where thou shalt judge me, and pronounce what pain
I’ll suffer for my poaching – but should I
Launch arrow farther, then shalt thou stand still
And not escape my shoe!”
So both give vows,
The giant and the small one, solemnly;
And Beli asketh: “Where shall game be played?
This place serves not – if aim we through the woods,
Some tree or other sure shall check the flight
Of arrow – and besides, e’en if a dart
Hit nothing, shall not be an easy find
’Midst such thick mirk and tangle.”
“Follow me,”
Saith Thengill. “There’s a high point not far off –
This forest’s minor mountain. From that peak
Doth show full plain how far an arrow goes,
And naught might interrupt it. Climb, and haste
Up eminence, from which below spread wide
World’s fields and marshes, plains and rolling woods.
That’s where I’ll certes win, and thou shalt lose.”
IV.
They stand upon high summit, and the thurse
With grin contemptuous hands bow and bag
Of arrows to opponent: “Pull with all
The strength thou summon canst… There is no rush,
I’ll wait with perfect patience.” Folds his arms
And leans against a tree, that brute amused,
While Thengill fumbles with th’enormous bow,
Scarce bearing up its weight. The giant scoffs
To watch his feeble effort – Frey bites tongue
And swears and squints, then awkwardly grips dart
Nigh long as he is, notches it on string,
And draws bow, grunting. Beli smiles and mocks,
Spitting his dire prediction. Tough and tense
Is twisted rawhide… Thengill’s muscles shake…
He closes eyes – and when bow’s strain’s at height,
He lets go!
Whistling dart describes an arc –
A decent distance for such little bloke,
But dropping short of wood’s end.
Thurse, with smirk
And scornful laugh, takes bow and taunts the king:
“Now shall this next shaft disappear from sight
Ere blink ye once the bow’s twanged – watch thy life
In twinkle vanish!” Easily he draws
His arrow-caster…
Now fingers release:
Dart’s speed makes forests ring! Vibrations pierce
The ears of startled Thengill, whilst a flash
O’er farthest plain’s departed!
’Round the globe
That arrow’s on its way: globe like a ball,
An ornament which hangs from merest bough
Of Yggdrasil. The shaft’s speed grants no time
For weight to pull it down – full swift it zips
To close its circuit…
Square in Beli’s back
The sharp tip lodges, punches through his breast,
Astounding the proud victor! Wicked grin
Changes to startlement – he gasps and gapes
While Frey looks on, unmoving. Giant groans,
Wrathful like one betrayed:
“A trick! Oh, tricked
By crafty vermin! Beli’s found his fate:
Brought low by his own arrow… Though I win,
My victory’s short-lived – for so am I!”
Thus Beli waileth. Stagg’ring, with a moan
He tumbles – flops and rolls down mountainside
’Til by a stump he’s caught. Frey sees him go,
Sighs heartily, relieved – the contest went
Precisely as he’d schemed.
Wasting no time,
He skips down hillside, passes through the glade
Where hundred corpses hang. Good boar he finds,
Who hath not moved at all – and forthwith rides
To reach the stag he sent to forest’s edge.
* * *
The day ’gins mizzle, and oaks’ hand-like leaves
Wave in a somber wind. Frey searches ’long
The bosky fringe, calling the sweet child’s name,
Casting his eyes all round. His head he tucks
Beneath his cowl, he wraps his cloak against
The wet that drives from east-lands. Evening comes
With no bright colors, for the sky’s been shut
And locked by leaden door. Frey’s winding way
Moves in and out of woods; he roams with speed
A brumous country where the tree limbs twist
And fogs like islands drift – isles free on waves,
If withered or dissolved their secret roots
Which anchor them to seabed.
Voices low
And gruff the god hears – murmurings of men,
Which for one second cause the gold boar halt
And Frey bate breath… but now he spurs beast’s flank,
Which softly rings, and steed trots toward those sounds
Concealed by vapors.
Dark shapes crouching down
The fogs disclose: a goodly gang of men,
All kneeling, cutting something huge amidst
The five or six of them. One stands and lifts
Some hefty load in arms – Frey sees what ’tis:
Two antlers, twice as big as other stags’!
The Wane feels cold; his steed hath stopped again.
The man with antlers drops his heavy prize,
And all his partners turn… they stare at Frey,
A being strange who sits on metal boar
Which glows uncannily.
Wane shrieks amidst
The gentle rain – he spurs, charges at men,
Who scatter, dropping knives and saws and skins,
Swift disappearing ’midst the misty woods.
Frey drops beside the half-skinned corpse of stag,
All numb – he touches antlers cut from head,
The massive prongs, the weapons Saklauss bore
While lorded he the wilds. Fur’s smeared with blood;
Gore soaks the grass and ground – and some still seeps
Where arrows entered body. By boar’s light,
Frey looks into the black eyes, lifeless now,
And knows already Saklauss hath passed o’er
That bridge the child nigh crossed some years ago.
* * *
In middle morn Frey reaches home again,
Wide plain where tower looms. No soul he views,
And Gold Mane trots in silence. In Frey’s lap
The antlers bears he. All last night he dug
A grave for Saklauss – laid him in its depth,
Put back the earth, laid rocks upon that mound,
Then slept one hour, ’til daylight rose again,
By clouds unsmothered now.
He hopes to gain
His watchtower unespied by dreadful Ygg,
And prays this absence went unseen by all –
His second dereliction. Land is quiet,
And ’neath the spire he slips from sparkling steed
And saith: “I thank thee, Gold Mane; now run off
Where lives thy pleasure – long, I ween, ’twill be
Ere thou my whistle hearest call again.”
And Gullinbursti grunts, and leaves his Frey,
Trotting across cool greenswards ’neath a sky
So saffron-mellow, shining. Frey goes in
The portal of great watchtower, and ascends
With tip-toe steps.
But at the looming top
His heart stops – for stern Gerd is standing there,
Irate of face, with scowl might fright a bear
Or silence primal elements, reproached.
“Lucky for thee I saw thy vacant post!”
Hisses the wife. “Had Odin come across
An empty seat, thou’dst soon be cast o’er walls,
Never to pass back in! I lied when he
Came by this way, beneath: I said thou’dst put
Thy faithful wife here while thou didst attend
Some secret far-flung matter… Hast thou brains,
Or only stones and stuffing? What, oh what
Could pull thee from thy perch, with exile flirt,
When thou hast task so easy? Hopeless fool,
Where wouldst thou be sans Gerd?”
Harangue goes on
While Frey drops antlers, takes his seat, red-faced,
Not daring to reply. In time she leaves,
And Frey stares on across the rolling realms,
Twirling his hair, wide-eyed, letting the winds
Blow off his heat of shame. The lifting sun
Looks all that prospect o’er, but with no ache,
No crammed-back tears. Blue mists breathe off the seas;
Wild beasts arise, the flowers ope and yawn.
* * *
Strong ceaseless centuries go passing swift –
The rivers freeze and swell, tides fluctuate,
Kingdoms of men fall, crumbling. Frey, stone-numb,
Looks on like god he is.
Few sight the elves,
The ancient enemy; and long years pass
While no one speaks to Yngvi on his spire,
Leaving the Wane to ponder. Mountains rise,
Some dwindle, rivers flood or shrink to naught…
An age and more hath flown.
One day he sleeps –
One day, and through the night. When he awakes
Frey rubs his eyes. Creation’s still and calm,
Peaceful through endless eons. Thinking long,
Letting those minutes pass, he breathes and raps
His fingers on his armrest.
By the time
Proud Sol hath cleared horizon, Frey hath rose,
Picked up the antlers, stowed them in a sack,
Then stepped down spiral staircase toward the earth,
Passed through the portal. Gullinbursti sees
His master disappear behind a hill:
One simple figure drift beyond the blooms,
His burden carrying, a heavy bag,
Ne’er to return.
The world doth seem to know
No more might it expect. Frey journeys towards
Some distant spot, he knows not where, to bide
Far from his wife, his seat, far from the gods –
Dwelling and biding, deep beneath the sun.
*