(The Third Gift – an Enormous Hammer by Elmer Boyd Smith)

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With mirth I’ll sing of the prank that Loki plays

Upon the head of Sif, Thor’s golden maid!

Such aureate curls do grow out from that crown

Of dame who coaxes wheat-stalks from the ground

 

In rain-washed spring, after the storms have fled

Fast towards the mountain-realms – such shining head

Does tempt the god-imp’s greed-lust that he shears

Fair flaxen locks, as cleanly as the beard’s

 

Shaved by the barber: Deed is hid from sight

By sleep’s null watchman, by the drape of night

That Sol rolls up, as stars flee to that manse

Of Gimle which in farthest heavens stands.

 

Oh sorrow of the rays of flaring dawn

That find no glorious braids to gleam upon

In bedroom of the storm-god! Oh, the rage

Of husband rubicund, once sees he pate

 

Of wife’s despoiled! Right quick kens he the thief

Must be that jarl of japes and pranks, deceits,

Bad turns, betrayals – in a trice Thor grips

The bony throat of trickster in his fists,

 

And shakes the knave! “Make good this loss to Sif,

Thou sneaky shaver! Think where’bouts you’ll get

New golden hair – new haloed tresses, bangs –

Fair as those strands, or fairer, what you’ve ta’en!”

 

“Oh let me go, I’ll know who’ll make a wig,”

Croaks mastermind of antics. “Where dwarfs dig,

Those dirt-caked gnomes, for jewels and for gems,

Some master-smiths must toil who’ve fashionèd

 

“Most beauteous golden items of the earth…

I’ll play upon their pride to have them work

A fine auric peruke for thy beloved –

Sure passing what of late did top her skull!”

 

So Loki’s loosed – to mortals’ earth he hies

To seek those caverns where the dwarf-race hides:

Through hushèd glens he strolls in morning hours,

Past naked fays who sleep in cowslip flowers

 

And bathe in bluebells – into mirk of woods,

To thickest heart of forests that seclude

A tunnel-mouth set ’midst wet, mossy stones,

From which a smithing-music clangs in tones

 

Of stricken, quiv’ring metals, while fire-light

Glows on the cavern walls… Now down Lok slides

Through ringing, singing shafts – far down through rock –

Down stairs steps he, down steeps he nimbly stalks –

 

Down, down, far down – and e’er those pealing booms

Of hammer-strokes much louder, closer loom.

And ever grows that forge-light, beating, red,

That casts dwarf-shadows on each granite ledge:

 

Those black shapes that with smooth stroke overhand

Beat straight the sword, that with heaving bellows fan

The melting fires – and with pick and spade troop down

To dimmest caves where fairest stones are found.

 

Now Loki hears the chanting of the gnomes:

Work-songs that warble, echo, deep and low,

Forever cycling round, as march in time

Those half-sized, delving wights to darkest mine:

 

          Little miners, little men,

          Digging for the choicest gems:

          Chipping, picking, shoveling down

          Where the earth’s deep jewels are found!

 

          Little workmen, little blokes,

          Searching with each sturdy stroke

          For the clearest diamonds’ glint,

          Golden nuggets, sparkling hint!

 

          Little fellows, squat and round,

          Breaking, flaking stony ground –

          Maggots once our dwarf-kind was;

          Now look we like men above!

 

          Little toilers, little chaps,

          Ever straining our strong backs,

          Still beneath the earth we dig,

          Looking for what time hath hid!

 

Thinks Lok, as he lists to that singing strange:

“Much more than hair I’ll need if I’m again

T’enjoy good graces of the Asgard gods –

Three boons in total: sly flattery’s rewards!”

 

Now Loki hikes unto a lonely cave

Where throbbing light and skimming shadows play,

And sees the skillful dwarfs upon their craft:

The pendant, bangle, torque, and gleaming haft

 

Pile they on tables – none in realms so deep

E’er such fine things forged, and in such high heaps!

“Good masters of the tongs and hammer’s heft,”

Lok greets that crew, “I’ve made a little bet

 

“With high gods, that ye are the smiths most skilled

In crafting marv’lous things with magic filled.

Oh prove your cunning at the dwarfish arts,

And make three things! I’ll tell ye where to start:

 

“A wig of hair, more golden than the sun,

A maid might wear, and grow it as her own…

Then spear of magic that shall ne’er miss mark…

And last, a ship that flies, and can shrink – charmed barque

 

“To carry in one’s pouch: Surely things so grand

Are but trifles to build for your skillful clan!

What say ye? Win a fame that shall ne’er decline,

Known as craftsmen best of the dwarven mines!”

 

The gnomes list to Lok, and stare at each other,

Then pull their beards, and mumble, brother to brother,

’Til at last they speak: “Marvels three you ask 

You shall have – little work for a fame that lasts!”

 

So dwarfs set to work, and sing as they toil

A little bubbling song, like a kettle that boils;

And Lok claps hands, and does jigs to the tune,

For the praise of the Aesir is his, sure and soon.

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Like halo of light, the hair bedecks the maid,

A cascade of curls that well becomes a dame!

Those strands gleaming bright have ta’en root on her pate –

Thor’s ire hath calmed, like a storm that abates.

 

Now Odin throws spear the skilled gnomes have made…

And, sure enough, no target it evades.

“Gungnir, the swaying one, this lance I name,”

All-Father saith. “When the dire battles rage

 

“O’erthwart the earth, or high in cloudy worlds,

This shiv’ring spear with cocksure aim I’ll hurl!

Sly One, thy gifts thy reputation mend –

Now unto Frey thy boon remaining lend.”

 

To lord of spring warmth, Lok hands from’s pouch

A toy viking-ship that’s as wee as a mouse.

“In pocket,” says he, “might you keep this small prize –

But Skidbladnir’s a craft what can stretch to the size

 

“Of proud dragon-boat that men heave with oars

’Cross the foam – ah, thy ship’s one can sail towards stars,

Or surf on the nimbus of dawn like the sea!

Now good Sif, Odin, Frey: Take these wond’rous things three!”

 

And Loki is praised, he gains cheers and applause,

And is hoisted, and blushes, hears hearty hurrahs!

“I’m a fine fellow, I, that’s right sure what I am,”

Prankster thinks as he treks to the mid-world again.

 

The evening blows cold… the blue shadows lie thick…

And in depth of the night, the bright fairies do flit

Like glowworms – red, gold, green – and touch with their wands

All the creatures, to slumber, of thicket and pond.

 

“Yes sir, none but dwarfs that I hire craft

 Such marv’lous things!” speaks Lok loud, with a laugh.

Oh, watch thy tongue, Lok! Thou’st been overheard

By jealous gnome dawdling nearby: “Silly words,

 

“Oh boaster!” And dwarf waddles up to the god:

“I’ll bet my head ’gainst yours the twin of Brokk –

My brother, mean I – gains more awe from his

Fantastic forgings than your smiths did win!”

 

“Thy head I’m sure to gain!” Loki enthuses.

“Ah, gleeful day, when I reckon with the loser!”

The dwarf and Lok shake; Brokk speaks naught at all,

But hies at once to his brother’s smithing-hall:

 

“Oh Sindri,” speaks he, “my head I’ve put to wager!

Thy workmanship must win the Aesir’s favor

More than some other wonders worked by gnomes!”

“Thy head thou’lt keep right sure,” Sindri intones,

 

“As long as thou heavest sans rest this fan,

To keep my fires hot, well-fed with blasts,

While smithing I’m about… Three magic things

I’ll make to prove my skill: One charmèd ring,

 

“A golden boar to ride, and hammer strong 

That travels back to hand once it’s been tossed!

Now pump the bellows, Brokk!” And clangs at his job,

Doth Sindri, while brother blows flames up hot!

 

Soon something buzzing ’round vexes bellows-bloke:

’Tis a fly at his ear – none other than Lok!

But Brokk does not flag, and the first piece is made

Without flaw. “Fine work fanning!” his brother-smith saith.

 

“Next, sparkling-bristled boar shall come from fire –

Take care, my brother, that you do not tire!”

Oh, the blaze roars high! Now that pesky fly’s back

While a lump of gold melts, and it tries to distract

 

Brokk with bite on the neck – but nowise succeeds.

Lok gnashes and gnashes, but still bellows wheeze

’Til the second work’s finished… and out from the forge

Runs the grunting and trotting and glittering boar!

 

Now Loki’s quite scared he’ll lose the mortal game

If effort’s not marred by a faltering flame!

The fly-god lands right between Brokk’s bushy brows,

And bites so hard he makes that poor dwarf howl

 

And chase him away with a furious swipe!

The fly buzzes off – blood from forehead Brokk wipes –

But the fire’s abated! “Oh what hast thou done?”

Sindri asks. “Now this maul shy of perfect shall come

 

“Out of forge! Thy head’s sure in a parlous place!”

“Not so!” claims Brokk, as he the mallet takes

In thick-gloved hands. “Why, sure is short the haft, 

But still a fearsome beetle thou didst craft:

 

“A hammer of thunder! that amongst the storms

Way up in brave blue winds, shall grumble and roar

As nerves of the lightning throb white in the sky,

And four tempest-cupids on swift rainclouds ride!

 

“Hie I to Asgard! Surely not my head

Shall be chopped off from frame – such should Loki dread!”

And with gifts in’s hands, journeys Brokk to th’Aesir

To learn if his life’s saved by godly favor.

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Now on his finger Odin slips the gold ring –

When in gods’ sight, befalls a marvelous thing:

Eight new rings have fallen – eight offspring that gleam!

“Each ninth night,” speaks Brokk, “you’ll behold such prodigy:

 

“Enchanted circlet dripping circlet-daughters!”

Loki is there, and’s confidence doth falter

As gods try rings on, handsome hands bedecking.

“My next gift’s a feisty piece of work, I reckon,”

 

Speaks dwarf. “This beastie Gullinbursti’s named…

Only the Asgard-gods could hope to tame

Rambunctious one like this!” Suddenly the door’s

Kicked open, and a creature hooves across the floor,

 

Upsetting tables, giving goddesses a fright!

“Give Golden Mane to spring-god of the rich sunlight,”

Shouts Odin. “Frey, that is, who knows how beasts to calm –

To make them docile with a touch of’s palm.”

 

“What else hast thou, oh Brokk?” All-Father inquires.

Now Lok gulps hard, and he nervously perspires.

“A sledge of strength!” chirps dwarf. “A gift for Thor!

Behold: Mjolnir! Hammer for the Aesir’s war

 

“ ’Gainst giants! Try its power, oh great Thunder God!”

Outside, hammer’s hurled: All the crowd’s o’erawed

As bolts of zagging peril flash high above,

And maul zips abruptly back in Thor’s glove.

 

Within, the gods confer o’er the presents six,

’Til All-Father speaks: “Not one dissents from this:

To brother of Sindri Lok’s head I award.”

“It’s the hammer what makes Brokk the winner,” adds Thor.

 

Now Lok sweats thickly, and rages in dismay:

“The jury’s rigged! The fix is in! It’s plain as plainest day!”

And now out the window that slipp’ry trickster dives –

But Thor is hot on’s trail, and he drags ’im back inside.

 

Now Brokk an axe sharpens and whistles a tune

As Loki is frantic to ’scape horrid doom –

And just as dwarf turns to ’im, Lok has a thought:

“Yea, my head thou hast won – but my neck, thou hast not!”

 

Brokk scratches his head, and he rants, sore upset!

But the gods all agree: ’Twas not in the bet,

The neck… So Lok’s head remains where it is!

But Brokk too is clever: With needle and string

 

He sews shut those fat lips that boasted so proud!

Lok mumbles and moans as he stumbles around

While all Asgard laughs! Oh, what good, wholesome fun!

At last Loki tears, with a dribble of blood,

 

His mouth ope – oh, sore stay for long weeks his lips

While Aesir delight o’er their marvelous gifts.

So trickster was bested, but ’scaped from cruel end –

And that’s, my friends, how Loki near lost his head!

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