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(illustration by Louis Huard)

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Freyja:

Some nights a door of earth doth ope for me:

A mouth of Jord, set in the lichened stone,

A darksome portal found in mountain’s lee,

 

Some crack that splits through Ymir’s brittle bone;

And down through chasms darker much than night, 

From which each gentle thing hath long since flown,

 

I view where gruesome wyrm hath wrapped full tight

Around a root, draining its precious milk,

And chews the gamy flesh of sinful wights,

 

While underneath his scales, the dwarf-folk smelt

Those rocks that metals drip, and from their yields

Do fashion treasures: bracelets, golden belts,

 

The silver swords, prince-worthy casques and shields,

Medallions, earrings, vivid amulets,

Those sparkling scepters that a lord might wield –

 

And, where’s drawn my sight amid such glitz,

That fairest jewel of earth, a sunny torque:

A necklace stabbing eyes with bright’ning blitz,

 

A collar gath’ring forge’s beams, and more

From phantom candles – throwing back it all

To gilt deep underlands in glow galore

 

And loathsome wights with strongest shine appall.

I reach my hand – but e’er such sweven fades:

Keen fulgor and drab shade alike do fall;

 

And I am left bemused in morning’s rays,

Pond’ring if necklace truly might reside

Somewhere amid the dwarf-land’s lowest ways –

 

Or whether demon of the night should lie.

I braid my hair; I trace along my neck

Where might that collar cling – and wish, and sigh.

 

Loki:

I see her disappear, a wand’ring speck

That leaves Sessrumnir towards the dismal bogs,

A dimming goddess, far-off golden fleck

 

Whose gleam at last gets gathered in the fogs.

I follow her ’cross moors and frosty brakes,

Beneath the hanging branch, o’er rotted log,

 

So curious why day-gleam she forsakes,

Some rendezvous to seek in storm-swept land;

And soon a steep’ning zig-zag path she takes

 

Descending to a door in stone; her hand

So gently touches it – yet it yawns wide

As though ’twere shoved by strapping burly man;

 

And shadows then enfold that dame inside

Like hands that welcome visitor to rest

After long journey; so down cave I stride

 

Where water’s running, hot air puffs like breaths,

Strange colors glint and sparkle from no source

And dapple o’er that girl on baffling quest –

 

I follow her down countless rocky floors

Well nigh to Helheim, and grim Nidhogg’s pant

Doth seem upon my face to pour and pour

 

Where air’s so close and hot, and cataracts

Half blow to steam long ere they touch the ground.

Some dreamish longing Freyja sure enchants…

 

At lowest spot, where there is no more down,

Four dwarfs are laboring in a golden glare:

Those maggot-men, those greedy little clowns

 

Who set aside their tongs to gawp and stare

At half-dressed beauty in their sudden midst

Who from their pile of wealth takes necklace fair

 

And saith: “Thought I such wonder might exist

Only in caverns of the nighttime spell;

But by some impulse I might not resist,

 

“Some vagary the sleep-god did impel,

I wandered here, and find such torque is real;

And I must beg ye four that ye should sell

 

“Your sun-gold collar, for I sure should steal

Such fairness from ye should ye not agree!

Ask what ye’d have to make a decent deal.”

 

To think, the dame knows not what she must cede!

It makes me laugh; and sure enough those gnomes,

With lust for once displacing golden greed

 

In flick’ring eyes, request that goddess loan

Her body to each one of them one night,

And sleep by each one on his bed of stone,

 

Ere Freyja might to sun-torque claim her right…

How swift, how eager doth Od’s maid assent!

And takes the first of four repugnant wights

 

Into a deeper chamber, where her debt

The girl ’gins to retire in cold dark,

All virtue in her making sure is spent,

 

Like coin shook loose from purse’s deepest part;

And four nights long, I watch same sick scene sprawl,

Such shamelessness so brazen and so stark!

 

Such horrid, horrid sight – I glimpse it all,

’Til at the last her duty all is done;

And with untroubled heart, such pretty doll

 

Ascends the floors, and spies again the sun,

Wending to Folkvang – while I, Loki, plot

Some little scheme whereby might torque be won.

 

Heimdall:

To mine ears stationed at the rainbow’s top

What hear the wool that grows upon a sheep,

A buzzing cometh now: And it doth stop

 

Within the Lady’s well-locked room of sleep…

Must be a fly, which through her keyhole flew,

And now upon soft damsel’s bed does creep,

 

For hear I tiny footfalls – speaking, too:

The voice of Lok! ’Twas he, the buzzing thing;

And’s changed now to what form for him is true –

 

And so his words: “Rouse, goddess who did bring

Most beauteous torque up from repellant pit –

That dazzling fairness what so closely clings

 

“Around thy gorge – so virtue didst thou quit

With barterers so unworthy of thy bloom:

Indeed, all this spied I from dimly-lit

 

“Cave-nook: I followed you; and scandal soon

Should fall about thy head, thy family’s curse

And execrations from each Valhall-room

 

“Paining thy heart, shouldst thou not in my purse

Slip necklace – for I, too, do covet it;

And would e’en most sweet innocence coerce

 

“Howe’er I might, that glitt’ring thing to get!”

No word I hear from goddess in reply,

But only sounds of rolling drops of wet

 

Slipping down cheeks; and soon Sly One I spy

From out Sessrumnir running with his gain –

His deer-like bounding legs to forests fly,

 

And o’er the downs and dales take Lok away

To farthest margent of the dry world’s spread:

There ’mong the shore-rocks, trickster ’gins to change

 

Into a seal… The torque he slips o’er head,

Then into breakers bravely tosses self –

’Round rocks and seaweeds deftly doth he wend,

 

Flapping his flippers, ’til on rocky shelf

Of skerry leaps he; and he hunkers down

Within a nook, nestling in washed-up kelp,

 

Protecting prize he pinched, hoping might drown

All those who’d strive that necklace to retrieve,

Flailing and flound’ring off secluded sound.

 

Loki:

I spy and spy o’er strands and wavy sea,

Watching for Mardöll, or whom she might send –

Someone who’d come my torque to take from me,

 

This wonder poured and struck by little men:

An envy for the elves and asa-folk,

A jewel that sets me high, apart from them –

 

A lucky wealth-lord, blessèd little bloke,

Who’ll love his treasure ’til the sun’s inhaled…

But who is that approaching ocean’s soak –

 

Who now dives in, and’s swimming straight my way?

Must be Nine Mothers’ Son! – my theft he heard,

And glimpsed my scamp’ring towards the far-off spray:

 

With seal’s coat that asa now is furred,

And hath put on a sleek dark form like mine –

He spots me, sure! I’ll bark, and clap, and stir…

 

But nothing daunts him! Out from bobbing brine

Leaps he, and lands on rock, and slaps me so!

I snort, and bray, and honk, and hiss, and whine –

 

Oh hateful Heimdall! Have the collar, foe!

Unsporting seal, he nips it from my neck;

And down into the shameful slosh I go

 

To hide amongst the corals and the wrecks,

Lest watchman come to punish me some more…

But bully with his win doth seem content,

 

For I am left alone upon this floor,

Amid a salty sadness and a wrath

That necklace should return to goddess-whore,

 

That wanton witch, that harlot-tart who hath

Pure beauty round her neck, but none in heart…

So for awhile I’ll brood in brackish bath,

 

Nursing resentment, dwelling on this smart,

Dreaming of Heimdall’s harm, low under sea –

Waiting that day when’s family’s doom shall start.

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