(Loki and Svadilfari by Dorothy Hardy)

 

 

I.

*

Who raps upon the door? From games and sports

The gods desist – in midair hangs a piece

Freyja would play at chess upon the board,

Dangling in hand while peers she portal towards;

And all heads turn, wond’ring whom Heimdall let

O’er rain-washed bridge to reach Valhalla’s stoop

And knock his knuckles, daring to disturb

Their heavenly diversions.

 

                                                      Porters pull

Open the double doors, letting rich light

Rush in like gentle magic, and all eyes

Blink as two silhouettes they hard descry:

A man and horse.

 

                                   “Who mightst thou be?” shouts Thor,

Much vexed to have his game of quoits delayed.

“What wish’st?” saith Idunn; “thou’rt a friend?” asks Tyr,

While Mimir’s head complains his view’s obscured.

And Odin from his throne, puffing a pipe,

Bids stranger: “Walk within, that we may see

What ettin or divinity dare strike

Majestic gate of Valhall! Come and speak,

And we’ll appraise what doom is fit for thee,

Trespasser!”

 

                          Slowly, meekly, figure steps

Within the threshold, leading horse by reins,

And shows himself: not jotun, nor a god,

But merest wight of Midgard – smaller much

Than weest of the deities’ hirelings.

“Hail Asgard’s host! Hail Aesir and the Wanes!

Hail Ygg, dread lord!” he shouts – a croaking thing

His feeble voice; and horse whinnies to greet

Those gods agog.

 

                                    “Be it a mortal walks

Straight ’mongst us in our house celestial –

Wrinkled and ragged, common as the mud,

With flea-bit nag beside him?” wonders king

Of all creation. “How didst find thy way

From lowly landscapes to this towering manse

Perched up in stratosphere? Tell, fellow, tell!”

 

And plucking hat from head, the timid soul

Explains: “All-Father, stern and awful lord –

By hazard have I happened on thy hearth

Set here amongst the vapors! O’er the earth

Roam I to seek my work – for barons, jarls,

Do hire me to build their citadels,

Their spires and strongholds, halls and fortresses,

Bulwarks, bastions, towers, kingly keeps

Dotted far ’cross the lands: my labor’s famed

’Mongst sovereigns all, admired and esteemed,

And finished fast: for swift my workhorse drags

Rock slabs from quarry to the building site

Straight through the days and nights! 

 

                                                                    “Whilst wandering

Sometime this morn, seeking another prince 

Might lack a castle, journeying o’er heaths

And through dim forests shadowed dark as seas,

Damp with the crystal dew, soundless as death,

Black lands and green lands, orange and rainy-gray,

My horse beside me, head drooping and low,

The rainbow’s root did suddenly I find

My feet treading upon! – and, grise by grise,

Those feet did gradually bear me ’bove the glebe

So wet and sparkling – ’til a strictest wind,

Freezing my marrow, cold and pure as frost,

Flowed o’er my form; and close my cloak I wrapped

Around my shoulders.

 

                                             “Svadilfari’s hooves

Did seem to ring upon that glassy bridge

Tinkling and clinking; and for half the day

Climbed we the arching causeway, breathing in

The rare dark ether, holy, chill, and void,

Severe, serene, beneath sky’s dome which reached

Remotest black… To either side I peered

At earth below: low foothills and the glens,

Dark rocks and mountains, fields like carpets green –

All hints of colors, warm and coolest hues,

Quick rivers running like a giant’s veins,

And towns of men, loose flocks and herds of beasts,

Fountains and pools where wild birds warbled, drank –

And at each edge of vision, foaming shores

Where Aegir’s daughters dash themselves against

Rough desp’rate lands… Soon gazed I high above

Along th’ascending arc, and spied that god

With golden teeth, and horn, and rooster perched

Upon his helm, list’ning, and viewing close

All things upon the lands so far beneath;

But somehow seemed he glimpsed not mine approach,

E’en while I passed by’s feet – as when a mouse

Doth steal between the huswife’s feet to filch

Some morsel from her pantry.

 

                                                              “Rills and fonts

Plashed in the meadows; winged things thick in space

Swarmed every which-way in that place I found

Myself arrived at – while confusion’s notes

Of sweet but mangled music swirled within

My swimming head, and perfumed odors stuffed

My nostrils overwhelmed: Beauty o’ermuch

This higher plane possessed for one so dull

As I, a man of mortar and of bricks,

Of clay and clods, a lab’ring animal

By chance saunt’ring through heaven – yet ’bove all

That dulcet muddledness, one sight did seize

All mine attention: golden hall of souls

Immortal, and of spirits reaped from fields

Where played was iron game, that fatal sport

And glory-bringer! Like the sun it glared,

Beaming and brilliant, polished and divine –

A masterwork to shame my every pile 

So drab upon low earth! My horse as well

Fixed on that vision, and by anxious steps,

As though desire-prodded, both we hied,

Unconscious of all else, that fortress towards,

Enthralled and humbled, touched by fairy-wand

Potent with sacred dream-spell.

 

                                                                  “All my thought

While rapped I on thy door just now, was on

If ones within would let me try my hand

At equalling this majesty of manse

With majesty of wall… for must be said,

This keep doth lack some true security

’Gainst brutal sort what roam along the bounds

’Twixt Asgard and the troll-lands – nothing halts

Some gang of fiends from batt’ring down these doors

In slumber of the night!”

 

                                                   “ ’Tis true, I’ve seen,”

Speaks Thunderer, “prowling of jotun-folks

Along those murky vales at kingdom’s bourne

Where shining fields slope down to grimmer folds

Beyond that river swift as running horse,

Where little birds know not whether to sing

In mid-way place, between the dark and light.

Sometimes at night, or drowsing of the sun,

In greater numbers lately have they pawed

Like lions ’gainst a fence that hems them in,

Splashing in marge of Ifing, keen to cross,

Methinks – though iceless stream doth bar their way…

And ettins have I glimpsed on farther hills

In horrid clust’rings, shuffling, chafing with

Strong gusto to do mischief.”

 

                                                            Murmurs swirl

About the hall like ghostly flitting thoughts

As lords and servants speculate upon

Such ominous words. All-Father only frowns

At Thor’s report, and also on that man

Standing so meekly with his hat in hand –

Who seems to leer from corner of his eye

At beauty-goddess at her game of chess:

Full-lipped, broad-eyed, slim-figured, white as dove,

That innocent damsel, ignorant of guile,

Though not of courage, glory, or of love.

And every god, at benches and the hearth,

Each marv’lous hero-soul, ’gins chant and cheer

For ramparts to be raised, protection placed

Round verge of holy Asgard and Valhall,

For much they ken of jötnar’s viciousness

And lust t’avenge themselves for Ymir’s death.

 

“What shouldst thou ask, oh builder,” Odin saith,

“As payment for partition, palisade,

Panel and parapet? How long ’twould be

’Til fortress-wall is finished?”

 

                                                           “Seasons three:

The winter, spring, and summer,” wight replies,

“Are all I need t’assemble walls so high 

And thick, no giant might climb o’er, or bash

Those bricks to rubble. First day of the fall,

Not one slab more shall need be cut or set,

No barbican unfinished shall remain,

No portcullis nor corbel want my work;

And if one lick of labor lacks my wall

Beyond that equinox, all wage I’ll waive,

And leave my work for free… But if I win

This race against the seasons, thou shalt pay

These jewels three thou ownest: first, the sun –

Sol’s beauty, golden taper of the day –

Ta’en down from welkin, rendered unto me

As prize for aye, bright candle that shall stay

Where’er I place it… second, silver moon,

That cool orb, much the lesser light of sky,

Lantern of darker half-day… and the third,

Freyja herself! For swear I by my horse,

She is true type of beauty, now I’ve glimpsed

Her person in the flesh: more toothsome wife

Might find I never, treading humbler worlds,

Though search I should ’til seven times I’d aged

Beyond my hour of death… Shall I unpack

Hammer and chisel? For the moment that

Thou say’st we’ve come to terms, I shall begin

With draft horse at this business, lord of worlds!”

 

Half-doubtful, yet full knowing of desire

Among his folk t’accept, All-Father draws

His principals in conference – huddled talk

Within a secret alcove; and for long

These whisper in dispute of what response

Mason shall have…

 

                                          At last, some compromise

To builder they’ll present. Stern Odin saith:

“Oh boastful mortal, offer we accept

With eager hearts – if one condition’s changed.

Not winter, prime, and hot months all shalt get

As term for building, but only that cold

Low quarter of the year: Once day and night 

Brief balance reach, thy task must be complete,

Or all thine effort we collect, sans fare!

What say’st thou? If thou art half swift as claimed,

This shorter span still offers sporting chance;

And payments as thou seekest – precious, sweet;

Shining and glorious; tranquil and cool –

Ought motivate thy bones. Thine answer, man!”

 

The builder dallies not: with “yes!” and “wee!”

He’s out the door, his horse trotting behind.

All smiles are the gods – Freyja and Frey,

Idunn and Frigga, Tyr, Bragi, and Thor,

And specially the father of the host,

Laughing to self, full confident no man

Could meet such terms: in three months raising up

Enclosure circling all those sky-vast fields

Of Asgard-country, spacious plain divine.

 

 

II.

 

The days descend down deep December’s dream

Of snowy dusting of each leaf and tuft

While most folks sink to slumber of the year,

Dozing away long darkness, so-brief light,

The men and gods alike – but mason not,

Oh no! See how he breaks and loads his rocks

On cart at stone-trench with alacrity,

A blur of action, resting not a wink:

Chis’ling and stacking, driving now his horse

With speed uncanny, pace unnatural

To building site, as fast as falcon hawk

Zips through the airy layer – mortaring

Slabs firm and tight – now back to quarry-site

Driving again! Soon wall gigantic ’gins

To inch around the outskirts of demesne

Odin doth own – no coarse job, either, is’t,

But neat as one might like, perfectly placed

Each stone and slag-bit. Towers two, then three,

Then four and more are finished ere the month

Doth yield to January, while snore on 

Complacent heaven-souls in Valhall’s suites,

Each dreaming of what labor they shall gain

At spring’s dawn for no price – substantial start

At proofing Asgard ’gainst invaders’ ire!

 

* * *

 

Now three days lacks prime’s morning, and with warmth

Just burgeoning, and birdsong tentative

Flitting through air, the rested Aesir rouse,

Yawning, refreshed – and suddenly recalls

All-Father wager made at autumn’s end.

So rushes he to Hlidskjalf, where to view

By how much mason’s failed to complete

His circuit of construction – whistles, smirks,

The smug god does, and now with glee he takes

His seat to see…

 

                                    Why dost thou look so pale,

Master of magic, battle, and the runes,

Whom none might hope to swindle or out-do?

One gatehouse only lacks that ring of walls,

And then the bet is lost!

 

                                                  Panic, despair,

Wanhope so desp’rate, shenship and disgrace

Assail the newly-woken family

Now doomed daughter to lose – most likely seems –

As well the luminous glories of those wains

By wolves so closely chased! Oh hopeless sighs,

So piteous, ascending palace from! –

From Freyja’s throat especially, poor maid

Who of her loved ones’ company no more

For aye shall know! Not with a dusty dolt

To dwell ought be her destiny: what shame

And cruel misfortune! Oh, the double mirk:

Darkness of loneliness, plus ceaseless night

Encompassing all creatures, once bright carts

From sky are snatched!

 

                                                 To Odin rush the gods,

Rending their garments, tearing out their hair,

Accusing, blaming, threat’ning, throwing fits,

Fainting and grieving, damning selves in turn,

Proposing and negating, losing heart

Since all schemes – looming misery t’avert

By violence or by magic – would heap curse

Of broken faith upon Valhalla’s roof!

All-Father slumps crestfallen, head in hands,

Bemoaning how a mortal’s bested him –

Such humble son of Ask and Embla’s race,

But proud in industry, mighty in work,

Supreme in steadfastness. 

 

                                                        And through two days

So dismal, queasy, gods watch tireless man

Far off, with briskness, near his project’s end:

Heaving and hefting, stacking, slathering,

Raising grim spires four around that gate

Hight Valgrind, through which honored dead shall pass

On way to life eternal – but all’s tears,

Weeping, laments, imploring of the Norns,

And sobs to rend the heart, in Valhall’s rooms!

 

* * *

 

How gloomily drift rains that final day,

Slow-dribbling out from clouds, dark wispy tides

Low-floating from the dark of ettins’ fields;

And mournful wake the gods, resigned to bid

Farewell to gorgeous Freyja. Gifts are giv’n,

Embraces held so long, and puddles dripped

Of teardrops on the floor.

 

                                                     All-Father views

How few hours linger of the winter’s stretch,

And sees he too how worker shapes his stones

With skillful chisel, stacks them in his cart

With speedy vigor, e’en though three months’ sweat

Of bulky chore he’s bled. The topmost stones

Of merlons only has the man to place;

And rueful pity wells in Odin’s heart,

To think of dear maid’s loss. 

 

                                                           Yet, something new

Distracts glum watcher: figure from the east

Moving e’er closer, gradually taking shape

From out the lurking shadows – stepping quick, 

So far-off still, yet clearer pace by pace

As hikes he past the bourne of giants’ land,

Wading ’cross Ifing, river-boundary:

A traveler self-assured, smaller than most

Colossal troll-folk, walking from the cold 

Tenebrous wilderness onto the moors

Scarce cheerier of outer Asgard-tracts:

Rough heath’ry glens, wet with Hrimfaxi’s foam,

All under louring sky, a night-deep blue

Dark with wild cloud-wet. 

 

                                                     Now the basalt slopes

Of fire-mountains treks he up and up,

Where heat breathes from vast gaps, and gargling grunts

Of molten movements can be heard below

In places distant, down those caverns deep.

Minute by minute climbs this mystery,

Shunning th’optical drawbridge, scaling cliffs

Toward Valgrind gate unfinished – now within

He passes, straight toward Valhall strolling quick,

Through Idavoll making his steadfast way.

To entrance hurries Odin, wondering

What means this stranger’s boldness.

 

                                                                             Ere god might

Touch latch, the doors swing wide, and in doth stride

A character so curious, none thinks

Among the Aesir of defense or fight,

For weapons, armor, hath this giant not –

Only a grin, and sparkle in his eye

Like jester’s glint of wit. Lithe, lanky he’s,

Sharp-chinned and curly-haired, as blonde as wheat,

Not low-key in the least, but active much.

Somewhat of bird or fish lives in his nerves:

Quick twitchy motions, darting, tricky-like –

As slipp’ry-seeming as the slickest trout’s

Squirming through necks and narrows of the stream!

Through vestibule he struts and deftly glides,

As though for lofty crowd he little cares,

And straight to Odin’s shape he ambles, proud,

’Midst deities dumbfounded. 

 

                                                             “Loki is

The chap thou speakest with,” saith smarmy one,

Brushing his nails on tunic. God-king glowers

As wight turns to the rest: “Or call me Lopt,

The airy one, rambunctious as the wind –

Like shifting cloud’s breath, sprite upon the gales,

Now calm, now raging mad… Oh, why so glum,

All ye of Odin’s home? Nay, tell me not:

’Tis known all over Jotunheim the woe

You’ve heaped, poor fools, upon your cocky heads!

Much fun we’ve had, misfortunes witnessing

Which are not ours, but happ’ly those of foes,

And much remarking how one measly man

Hath brought gods to dishonor!”

 

                                                                   “Dost thou dare,”

All-Father growls, “in sourest hour of grief

Our agony to mock? Be gone, and hie,

If valuest thou thy life! Bergelmir’s race

In mansion ours shall never welcome find;

And knave so impudent, thou scallywag,

Art lucky to escape!”

 

                                          “Oh, wait the word

Of comity, good fellow!” giant speaks,

Bemused, so very pained. “I come not just

To see ye suffer, and to gloat a bit,

But also offer help – for torches twain

By turn illuming land, will be as much

Missed ’mongst the titans’ tribe as missed by you:

Though much we love the shadows, yet a dark

Well nigh entire’s too somber… So ye meet

A bit of aid unlooked for! No troll knows

I offer succor to immortal race,

And shall pull out the dagger in your hearts,

Performing feat, deceit, would spell the end

Of all your honored race, bring curse of Norns,

Were ye to work the deed. To put it plain:

The mason’s good as swindled. By your leave,

I’ll play my trick, keep gatehouse incomplete

’Til day is done, frustrating at last hour

The winning of dear Freyja, lanterns’ lights –

Those matchless treasures three! No curse shall loom

Above your house, for jotun doth the deed:

Are we agreed?”

 

                                “Some wage thou’lt sure expect,”

All-Father saith. “So jotun, out with it!

Thou best not wish fair damsel for thy bride,

Or we’ll refuse: Better a mason rude

As Freyja’s husband, than such rascal-imp,

Rapscallion, as thou lookest… Well, what is’t,

The recompense thou seek’st?”

 

                                                                “My wage is this,”

Saith Lok, “that I might join with thy dread blood,

Oh father great of hosts, battle, and mead,

The runes, skalds’ words, the gallows, sorcery!

I’ll cut my thumb – and thou shalt cut thine own –

And we’ll our sanguine natures interblend,

Becoming brothers: then myself I’ll call

One of the Aesir, branch of noble root,

Jotun no more – and live within these walls,

Accepted, loved, embraced! Children to come,

Born of whatever creature that’s my mate,

Shall cousins be to gods, kinsfolk to all

Assembled here – ne’er to be shunned nor barred

From proper places ’long the supper bench,

But welcomed just as might thine offspring, lord.

Such terms I’ll alter not! Say yea or nay –

Lose Freyja, or take Lok among thy clan:

That is thy choice.”

 

                                        And Odin stands aghast

And much chagrined, and looks on each in turn

Of desp’rate family – but each face, he sees,

Seems to conclude, with much distress and ache,

That giant must have wish. Ygg, solemn, nods,

His face grim with vexation; and sweet tears

Of Freyja ’gin to flow (the rest weep too)

For gratefulness she shall not taken be;

And happy Lopt nods to reluctant lord,

And saith: “Like wind I fly the mason towards,

To ply my wiles, and lose him all his wage!”

Lok turns on heels, and skips straight out the door.

 

* * *

 

Through slushy rime and thaw melt of a spring

But half a day unborn – fresh trickles, streams,

Run-off so sparkling – Svadilfari trots,

Splashing through new-made puddles, climbing hills 

From quarry to the gate, bearing in wain

The blocks mason hath chiseled neat and smooth –

Those stones to topmost crown the Valgrind arch,

Last load ere wager’s won. With cheer he hies,

That builder sitting in his wagon’s seat,

Flicking his switch to speed the stout horse on,

Singing, and praising fortune. Now not long 

His way remains, and afternoon’s yet young:

Then might he have his rest, his wife as well,

And draft horse long retirement in some glades

Of weary ease.

 

                              Alas! Unlucky proves

That animal to own – for was he named

Unlucky Traveler, hereafter famed

As cursed betrayer of his owner’s love,

Disaster-bringer! 

 

                                    What’s this whinnying

In forest they traverse? What kicks and leaps

Far off on cart-road? Handsome mare of white,

Dappled with sunbeams, eyes like flashing gems, 

Coquettish, bobbing head, whipping her mane,

Neighing her invitation to the horse

He join her ’midst the trees. Now off the road

Trots mare, and disappears – and after her

The lovestruck draft horse bolts! The mason falls

From seat, stands up, and through the forest yells

And chases wagon, but he’s soon outpaced

As stones slip off the cart bed ’midst the woods.

The wheels come off, the reins the workhorse slips,

And bloke screams to the heavens! All’s undone,

All plan and progress! 

 

                                             Now the night hath come,

And hope’s all lost – Freyja, the sun and moon

Fall through his fingers! Horse, cart, stones are gone,

And mason’s wrath turns ruthless. All pretense

He sloughs off like a skin, adopting form

That’s true to self – a troll! – his essence from

His hour of birth. All that he’s built he means

In rage to raze, to spoil gods’ victory:

The tallest pine tree plucks he from a grove

And swings as club, crashing through glade and glen,

Nearing the wall on which he’s lavished long

Assiduous attention – now foes’ prize

He’ll strike and smite, spiting those enemies.

 

* * *

 

The gods upon the ramparts celebrate,

Cap’ring, playing their pipes and banging drums,

Carousing on that gatehouse incomplete,

Dancing their jigs, imbibing wine and mead!

From high-set throne did Odin spy the trick –

Bowl’d o’er by joy, he swift proclaimed to all 

Such somersault of fortune fav’rable!

And Freyja’s rescue’s now so loudly praised,

And toast is drunk to wily trickster Lok,

Shape-shifting schemer, foiler of hard fate!

 

Abruptly, ettin leaps to top of wall

Amongst the Aesir, snarling: “Ye shall gain

Reward not for your fradulence, oh gods!

Some magic you’ve employed certes hath lured

My Svadilfari to a lustful bow’r,

Of love-goddess depriving me, who’s served

So slavishly! Now see defense unmade –

And all you lot collapse in rubbly heap,

Bones crushed amongst the stones!” And makes to swing 

That troll his bludgeon, and the wall beneath

Their feet to smash apart…

 

                                                          But Thunderer

Quick as a bolt is hurling toward troll’s skull,

And strikes with club, beating his hair-hill in,

Exploding head-bone, scrunching in the brains

With scarce a cry from victim – who now tips

Backward, and drops, and falls through blackest pits,

Down darkest voids, and those e’en darker still,

Knocking and thudding ’mongst the rocky steeps

And cliffsides – hours and hours – ’til by the dawn

Those sounds have gone, and no more thought is spared

On mason who was jotun in disguise.

 

 

III.

 

In fresh rains glints that ring of walls and spires,

Cream-pink as ear of maiden, or a shell,

Blushing and flushing ’neath effulgence borne

By Alsvid and Arvak, those stallions hitched

In place of Glowing-Mane but now and then

To pull the golden ball, by Loki saved,

’Cross realms’ fair roof; and ’midst the sunbeams shed,

Amongst the snow-tufts, stamping in thick mud

Double the hoofprints as the usual beast,

Sleipnir emerges from the melting dales:

A young white horse, eight legs allowing pace

Twice-swift as ordinary.

 

                                                  Loki leads

That beast through Valgrind, and in Odin’s court

Presents the gift: “Oh god who hanged from tree,

For nine days gaining wisdom – take from me

This steed, this wondrous saddle-beast of speed

Fit for the Aesir, which late from my womb

Within secluded springtime copse emerged,

First of my children. On thy travels wide

O’er looping paths of earth, working whate’er

Thou hast a mind to work, let Sleipnir steer

By fastest route, with fleetest galloping

To coast remote, margin of dragon’s land

And mereswine’s field – or mountains – or the heaths

Gray-green and eerie – glaciers, steppes, or moors –

Wild flower-meadows: every distant place

Where errand odd might take ye. Easily

Shall offspring mine outpace all horses deemed

Worthy of deities: Joyous and Swift,

Light Feet and Hollow-Hoofed, and Sinewy,

Gleaming and Golden: steeds sure unsurpassed

Ere marv’lous creature’s birth!

 

                                                              “Now, Odin, nip

With teeth thy fingertip – or slice with knife –

And I shall do the same, oh brother mine!

From this day forth I’ll be one of thy kin,

And take my place in Valhall, make my bed,

And rear my children. Never shall I break

My faith with Aesir – and may never they

Renege on pledge their patriarch hath giv’n.”

 

So Odin swears fraternal loyalty

With giant, and their wounded digits they

Press close, so lifeblood of each one doth mix

With other, flowing evermore in veins.

And horns and cups are lifted all around

To hail the newest brother of the folk,

And ale and wine and foaming mead are poured 

Down stomachs, making every asa glad

And genial – e’en though something of a doubt

Toward Loki fidgets in each reveler’s heart,

Though speak it none would dare – at least, not yet.

And Sleipnir’s led to Valhall’s stables, where

All other horses, magic though they be,

Such wonderment never before have seen:

A fellow equine with a spider’s count

Of legs!

 

                Yet, greater marvels are to come

Of trickster’s body – dreadful ones, at that.

 

* * *

 

Foreboding is her name: hag of that Wood

Of Iron to the east, mother of wolves

In giants’ realm – fanged steeds for giantess

Now riding one o’er bridge and road of stone,

Crossing culverts, up rough steps climbing swift

Through high dominions to that hazy home 

Of Aesir; and at portal Loki greets

With gladness gruesome dame espoused to be

His wife within those walls.

 

                                                        Pea green’s her skin,

And hair’s the dark red of a scabby wound;

Her teeth, as gray as ash, brittle ’twixt lips;

Torn, filthy rags hang from abhorrent form –

And all the gods turn wan of cheek to view

Her snapping wolf scare servants while she slips

Off mount to clasp her beau.

 

                                                            At table, they

Do gobble more than Thor might in a month,

Chomping the cheese in mouths as wide as caves,

Tossing the loaves and fruits into those throats

That gulp and belch; and much of heady brews

Do they consume, swallowing what’s in jugs,

Drinking with gluttony, leaving but drips

For gods to sip.

 

                                Where’er the giantess

Makes bed, reclines, the spiders creep and move,

The centipedes emerge from quilt and sheet,

And taint of darkness broods upon the air

As deathly odors spread.

 

* * *

 

                                                   From out her womb,

In dim and gruesome hour, when every god

Doth hide behind some bed or chair, emerge

Three prodigies most foul: the first, a wolf,

Malicious gleam a-stirring in his eyes,

With tooth-crammed jaws which like some nightmare-trap

Snap shut and champ, for meat slabs ravenous;

And e’en Geri and Freki can’t be found

Whilst Fenrir prowls about the halls at night.

 

The second child, a lindworm, wriggles from

Foreboding’s womb, like serpent slith’ring out

Its muddy den in hillside after rain;

And round the bedposts, round the table legs

Th’ophidian wraps and clings, rustling its frill,

Tasting that putrid stench its mother spreads

With lapping, flicking tongue of ticklish pink.

So often through the pantry slinks this snake,

On gammon battening, stealing the veal,

And much else swallowing. The cooks take fright,

And like their masters, hide. Soon grows that wyrm

’Til every palace chamber doth he reach –

Like caterpillar nestled in a pear,

Chomping the live-long day.

 

                                                           Last to emerge –

A maid, all fresh and fair from stomach up,

But fest’ring, rotten, maggoty below –

Uncanny apparition! Vile, but sweet;

Horrid and ravishing! A shroud she dons,

And in the shadowed places makes her home,

Shunning all souls, e’en father, mother, kin,

And lisping lonesomely… Limp, little, low,

Speaks she her sortileges in the shade,

And hobbles place to place by blackest routes –

By attic, cellar, and forgotten stairs,

Dwelling where’er the light might be the least,

Concealing shame of half-corrupted flesh,

Not fit for grave nor living glow of day;

And hidden thus, she haunts the house of gods,

A specter biding at the edge of mind,

Imparting fear to each that he might find

Dread Hel enclosed in cupboard, closet, case.

 

* * *

 

Dismayed, the Aesir hastily convene

In perfumed bow’r, in nook of Idavoll,

Far from the anxious, nervous, murky rooms

Where pall is cast by Loki’s family –

Such shuddersome and noyous atmosphere!

And round the gods quick gather conies, fawns,

Mooses and reindeer, shrews, lemmings, and voles,

Squirrels and mice, to hear what is the talk,

And bask in golden radiance divine –

Life-giving, warm, luxuriance of light

That pours from each god’s form – while swallows and

House martins, warblers, on each twig and branch

Assemble, with all cousins of the wing,

To listen to th’assembly. 

 

                                                   Thund’rer is

The first to speak: “I say he broke his oath,

That wily, weird contriver! What love is’t,

What fealty, to bring atrocious things

Amongst our household, shocking every soul,

Scaring the servants, daunting every drudge,

Our suppers e’er consuming? Wolf and snake

Have every scrap and morsel gormandized,

While hag half-horrid frights us out our wits,

For never know we where that girl might sit –

Angle or corner, where the light is weak!

What brotherhood? A false fraternity

Have we from Freyja’s savior! Oft methinks

No savior was he, but confederate

Of mason (thurses both!) who planned to gain

Foothold in household ours for giant-kind!

And now their scheme hath turned us out of home,

Valhalla winning for that vile breed,

That clan so crude, a terrifying tribe

Of monsters mean, maleficent, and wild!

Let’s club them all, children and parents both,

Then let the little fishies in our moat

Nip on their corpses for an evening meal!”

 

Among the gods there’s hubbub, and the talk

To harsh dispute soon steers, as what’s proposed

By Thor gains advocates, detractors both;

And all the animals glance each to each,

Astonished much to see their kingdom’s lords

By such contention swerved from wonted calm.

But Ygg soon wearies of the bickering din,

And turning stern, he orders meekest voice,

Fair Idunn’s (hoping something of her soft

And tranquil nature calms the crowd), to speak.

 

“Why welcome should we not our newest kin?”

Saith goddess of gold apples, of sweet youth

Eternally reborn with apple-bite

By which each asa’s blessed. “Why merit they

Such scorn and malice, anger from those sworn

To share their bread, their hearth-fire and good cheer?

Sure might we find comestibles enough

To feed two trolls, one serpent, and one wolf

From teeming fields of Idavoll, where wheat 

In minutes might be grown, in seconds reaped,

And where our orchards’ yield of fleshy things

For Lopt might lopped be, and for family his,

With little effort – for to gather food

Or bake much bread, us tires not at all,

So easily ’tis done. By oath we’ve bound

Ourselves with iron bands of loyal faith

This family to accommodate – lest fall

That curse on those who discard sacred vows

Upon us!”

 

                    Now the gods contend again,

More clamorous, more quarrelsome than before,

’Til Odin at the last bids mouths be closed,

And speaks: “All ye I’ve called in parliament,

Give ear: not killing, nor sweet charity

Shall be our action – but a way between

That keeps our honor, yet keeps household pure

Of loathsome creatures: See what this shall mean

As it is done, by my own management,

As children by their own volition leave

Valhalla, which we cherish and would see

Pure in its holy splendor once again.”

 

 

IV.

 

So to his project straight All-Father sets:

Program of wiles, not violence, so’s t’evade

The doom of breakers of most holy oaths –

Three schemes to lure three offspring from his hall

And keep them much remote, where they’ll disturb

No soul (or only those of small account,

Minor and meager, worthless wights who hide

In world’s forgotten hollows, nooks, and holes).

On girl half-gnawed by worms he’ll practice first

His trickery: Now through each alcove of

Mansion of Asgard searches he, each chest,

Bolthole, broom closet, armoire – ’til he finds

The timid creature stashed beneath the stairs,

And ’gins to ply her with enticing words:

 

“Lover of shadows, watcher that’s unwatched,

Foreboding’s daughter: Why dost thou not seek

Some far-off place where thou mightst be at ease:

Some soundless, lightless underside of things,

Where living wights are few, or none, and dark

Clings ever ’pon the land, and won’t let go?

Such place there is, behind the farthest stone

And cusp of nowhere, lonesome edge of all –

Then nine days down, straight down through bone-cold land,

Into bleak bosom of a loveless world

Where living fogs creep ’neath the rocky vaults,

And souls do shamble – those of men who’re dead.

And sluggish streams, so frosty, clotted, chill,

Wend agonizing, down through Niflheim,

Where evil beasts in dens for aye reside:

The dragons of five heads, and spirits’ pets

Kept ’midst the dark: fit subjects thou mightst rule,

Those and their undead masters, phantom-men –

For of the monstrous, thou mightst be a queen,

And with thine awful terrors couldst thou reign

O’er chambers of the dead! Up! Lose no time,

For Night’s horse now hath oped his shining eye,

And o’er green flank of Jord thou shouldest hie

Ere flares Skinfaxi, charging up from east!

By night take cover from all glaring rays,

Oh Hela, so unhappy in this house,

And rush thy way swift down – down, down below!”

 

With banshee screech the specter flits and frets,

On different walls appearing – ceiling, floor –

Then at the last, wriggles a window through,

And ’midst the damp air flies like baleful dream,

’Cross mists trespassing with a tragic mind,

Dissolving, reassembling… Puffs and breaths,

Great tempest-swellings, gusts and vortices,

Ruptures and bursts of clouds swarm in this void,

A hideous moonlight glimm’ring. 

 

                                                                    Now she views

That way through gulches and ravines where Death

Hath his abode, the plain beneath all plains,

Grim, sable, fearful, frozen as the north,

Forgotten like most all one’s slumber-sights.

And in this lair doth Hela now command

All ghostly creatures without will or heart

To raise for her a mansion ’midst the black:

Reluctant shades without volition move,

Groaning and toiling, subjects to her will;

And in that place sans life and cheer doth rise

Snow-Sprayed, ill house, cold with the sleet that falls,

Where Famine is the knife that Hel doth use

To slice the absent meat on Hunger-Dish,

That plate which Lazy Walker never sets

Upon the table – servant slow and sour,

Forever on his way, but never there.

Hel’s door is Stumbling Block, her cot Sick Bed,

Her drapes enclosing slumber, Glimmering 

Misfortune: curtains where one’s nightmares show

To waking eye – harming the heart that knows

No rest even in death. 

 

                                             So through blank age

Of forlorn nothing, Hela reigns from hall

That none should wish to visit. Infinite noise

Of wind doth howl above, speaking that sound

Of loneliness to which our lives must lead.

 

* * *

 

To trick the dragon needs not words, but meat:

All-Father, ’fore its nose, strings morsel-trail

Which leads the snake out kitchen, down the stairs

And through grand vestibule. Wyrm’s tangled length

Spills out like loosened knot, slipping through halls

And up and down the floors – at intervals

Of yard or so before the snapping jaws

The cunning god drops gobbet on the floor

Which serpent snatches; and soon out the door

That greedy lindworm’s lured – down rainbow-bridge

And toward the coast of Midgard is he drawn,

Where god stops not, but sets inducements yet 

Upon the sloping seafloor, down and down

Toward dimmer, dismal regions – black ’neath black,

The low dark ocean, fright’ning world sublime,

Cruel origin of whirlpools, massive waves,

Lair where eggs do hatch the horrid things,

Crawly, mysterious, slimy – ’til the snake,

Settling on lowest level, canyon’s depth,

In sunken groove doth feed, nestled in trench

That circles ’round the world, enclosing all

Man’s habitations, cities and his towns,

Mountains and valleys, isles, glaciers and plains,

And all the vast wilds circled by the sea.

So long he’s grown, his tail rubs his snout,

Tickling his whiskers, teasing nostril-tips,

So that he bites it, knowing food’s no more.

Here Jormungand, huge monster, falls asleep,

Lulled into dreamland by those meat-crumbs steeped

In potent sleeping potion – there to rest

Until his father wakes him from his sleep

In far-off time – no soul can say just when.

 

 

V.

 

Foreboding roams the world – two children lost,

She searches weeping, wond’ring who hath seen

A specter or a snake proceeding from

Hall’s portals, or proceeding ’cross the land,

Abducted, or alone – each person’s asked,

Both none hath seen such; and now Loki broods,

Scratching his jaw and furrowing his brow

Within his chamber, wishing solitude,

Wond’ring if someone’s wiles work apace,

Tricking the trickster’s naive progeny.

 

Still stalks huge vulpine terror through the rooms,

A huffing, panting creature, growling, cursed,

A thing of fangs and hair and ember-eyes,

Each hour growing, waxing great as bear

And greater still, as vittles he devours,

Haunting long corridors, occluding light

So that the Aesir hide like Hela did,

While every candle’s halo suffocates

In black miasma that the monster casts.

By night the Norns speak to the frightened gods,

Whisp’ring in ear, soft as the gentle sea:

“In far-off stour, he brings All-Father’s doom.”

 

* * *

 

Now Odin to the horrid form draws near,

Doffing his hat:

 

                              “Oh giant-child of might,

Unquestioned sovereign of poor lesser dogs,

Lord of these hallways – Fenrir, dreadful name! –

Much is it talked amongst my tribe if ye

Know none restriction on your sinew-strength:

Whether no knot, no lock, nor fetter-links

Might keep thee prisoned. Some of us contend

That skill of smithing dwarfs could certain forge

A chain to hold ye firm: Say I not so,

But much my house would differ; and to prove

How right I am, I come to ask thee go

With us to Lyngvi – isle in pitch-black lake,

Where entrance to the dark elves’ home doth hide

Amidst the gentle heather overgrown:

A hole toward lowest levels, cavities

Where strongest shackles shall we plead those men

So stunted but so skilled, for us prepare

To test thy pow’r.”

 

                                   “Those ones who do distrust

My brawn and force from giant-brood derived,

Shall gape in dread and shock,” snarls wolf, “whilst I

Do burst to frenzied bits all manacles

And chains upon me! Call all to a barge

For island destined; and then bid those dwarfs

Set on their art – no links they might contrive

By spell’s craft, or by simple hammer-art,

My shatt’ring strength might stifle or oppress!”

 

* * *

 

O’er tar-dark waves the boat is rowed with haste,

Bearing the Aesir, huddled at one end

Away from toothy foe; and on far shore

They spill, shaking the spray from off their coats,

Then find the cave mouth tucked ’neath underbrush,

Through which the servant Skirnir shuffles down,

Bearing a brand to light those tunnel-ways

Where bell-like strikes, discordant ringings rise

E’er louder, while the air thickens with heat

And flames’ light ’gins to play upon the walls

Ere scene of toiling sooty gnomes doth spread

In sweaty glory ’fore the servant’s eyes.

And visitor petitions now those men,

So twee and bearded, for a chain of strength

To wrap a dreadful wolf-god fast and sure,

Delaying all worlds’ doom for centuries,

If not for aye (oh, were the Norns not cruel!) –

Inducement ’nough for any wight who’s good!

The little fellows mumble, each with next,

Then wave agreement, nodding, shaking hands,

And then to craft straight start, this song on lips:

 

         Now do we

         Our industry

         Ply and practice,

         Work and wield.

 

         Leyding-chain

         Build we amain,

         Hardy necklace,

         Bracelet’s steel.

 

         Round and round

         It shall be wound

         Dread wolf’s thickness,

         Head and heel!

 

         Take these up,

         Fetters so tough:

         Beast shall fail test –

         Let him squeal!

 

With thanks the servant takes the chain in hands –

A heavy heap, with links like giant’s rings,

And speeds to surface. Bundled is the wolf

Round every part with length of winding steel

’Til ends are tied; and sure the Aesir feel

No creature hath the might to burst such bond,

Robust as anchor’s cord – nay, more than that!

But Fenrir braces legs, stiffens his spine,

Displays his fangs; and all the gods retreat

As muscles clench, and now they shield their eyes

As chain-bits rip and fling, freeing the wolf,

That vig’rous monster, who now shackles shirks,

Shaking them off; and great gods gape and stare

As mammal taunts: “ ’Twas easy! Shall I try

What more those gnomes beneath us might produce,

Thinking to trammel one with force beyond

The binding power of matter? Go below –

I shall enjoy to see what they devise,

Presuming metalsmiths, convinced they’ll tie

Son of Foreboding with their output next!”

 

So Skirnir scurries once more down through earth

To this defeat report, and plead those folks

Much more apply their skill, and tougher thing

From molten workings make – now dwarfen vim,

Fierce-heated by this challenge, sets to work:

 

         Twice as thick –

         Oh, that’s the trick!

         Dromi shall be 

         Creature’s match!

 

         Link through link,

         Clink and clink;

         Tap with glee,

         Oh, forge and laugh!

 

         Hammer, pound

         And much resound –

         Fire, fiercely

         Dance and snap!

 

         Now it’s formed,

         And cooled from warmth:

         Product sturdy,

         Strong beast’s trap!

 

With difficulty servant lugs above

Wolf’s second challenge, one that’s double-tough;

And doubting much of outcome, gods again

Secure smug, evil being: Dromi’s links,

So heavy, and as tight as torture’s grip,

Dig deeply into wolf’s flesh. Shelter’s ta’en

By each of Odin’s household while the fiend,

No fear betraying, paws securely set,

His ire returning, struggles much and strains,

Almost some hope granting the deities

In so long squirming, that his force might fail –

But oh! The gods hear rupturing of links,

And once more all the isle with iron’s sprent,

Wide scattering of shards – Dromi is rent!

And sickly looks each deity, and sad.

 

* * *

 

“It is not heft nor thickness, but spellcraft

Shall snare this son of Lok!” Skirnir insists,

The second failure having told the dwarfs;

And with much murm’ring Hreidmarr’s folk amongst,

A new idea’s planned – then sing those gnomes 

These verses their new fetter to explain:

 

         Nothing binds:

         Links that grind

         Each on each

         Are nothing worth.

 

         But by naught

         Shall wolf be caught –

         Nothing’s leash

         Gird all his girth!

 

         Six things fetch 

         For our guest:

         Six things reach,

         Bring back in purse.

 

         Now to gods

         A ribbon odd

         Do impart we –

         It shall work!

 

* * *

 

So velvet-soft it sits within his hand,

That band so supple, smooth as silken length,

Glossy and glinting in the servant’s grip.

The baffled deities squint on that strip,

Assuming some mistake, but Skirnir speaks

What maggot-men have told him: “Gleipnir is’t,

The Open One, constructed of those things

That don’t exist, nor have, nor ever will,

For stashed away they’ve been by dwarfen folk,

Those shameless hoarders, in their vaults dug close

To flame-seas limitless beneath their lairs –

And never part they with e’en one of them, 

Except when need is dire: Now have they forged

Of nothings six this string – do let me tell

What those things are; it is so interesting!

 

“The first is sound a cat makes when it walks

(For feline footfall’s soundless, don’t you see);

The second, beard upon a woman’s chin;

Next, mountain’s root; and cowardice of bear;

And fish’s breath; and spittle of a bird!

Some meddling magic that I did not glimpse

Did fuse these freaks, and bind them as a band

Which first I thought not fit for wrapping gifts, 

So insubstantial seeming – but I learned

From craftsmen small how sturdy is this strip,

Though thin it be – much more than chains before.

Strange irony doth mock us at the last…

And shall mock wolf e’en more – let’s try, and see!”

 

Distrustfully is ribbon eyed by beast,

Who snuffs his snout around that proffered cloth

And gnarrs: “Oh, smell of spellcraft likes me not:

A sweetness foul to me, this dulcet stench

Reminding of the fair things of the world,

Good pow’rs that I despise – I shall not trust

Suspicious band be wrapped around my frame

Without assurance I’ll be freed again

Should magic foil my force: Let one of ye

Place hand within my jaws: a guarantee

Of stump emerging if I am betrayed!”

 

Each asa silent stands, and all that’s heard 

Is thrush-song in the brush, as every face

Into his neighbor’s peers, uncertain, grim,

Inquiring doubtfully with language of

Bewildered eyes – until at last speaks up

The valiant Tyr, god of fell weapon-game,

Who saith: “My hand shall be the surety –

And tear it, Fenrir, if the band prove firm

And we do free thee not! I’m calm, and sure,

And fear no fangs to clamp my veiny wrist!”

 

So drooling teeth clench left hand at the joint,

And wolf’s hot breath, a fearsome wheezing steam

Tyr feels upon his arm – Gleipnir is wrapped,

Securing beast round paws and round the neck,

Trussed up with handsome bow. The gods stand back

As Lok’s son ’gins to struggle: much he’s vexed,

Such pretty ribbon frustrating his strength –

And Aesir, taking courage, now surround

That creature fettered.

 

                                             “Odin’s clan!” he pleads,

Mumbling around the hairy wrist in mouth,

“You’ve shown your gnomes have skill enough to truss

My strength, ’til now unhindered! Let me loose,

And I through Valhall shall no longer prowl

Like king and master. Yours is greater pow’r,

And I shall stay confined to yard or field,

Walking within to share your fare or fire

Only when suits ye… Oh, this ribbon bites

With horrid strength – release, release its knot!”

But not an asa moves, and now keen fear

In wolf’s eyes ’gins to race! Tyr braces firm,

Biting his lip – shuts eyes, then makes to free

His hand from Fenrir’s jaws; and wolf, undone,

Seeing the treason, chaws the wrist full through!

Blood spurts in Fenrir’s face, and beast with howls

Lets fall the twitching hand from reddened teeth,

Cursing that breed despicable of Bor,

The traitorous Aesir, now despised for sure

By trickster’s children, enemies of good

And all things fair and pure.

 

                                                        “I’ll gobble ye!”

Saith nightmare-dog; and clouds gain gruesome mood,

Glowing like blood, or turning raven-black.

“Look forward to your end, never to change – 

A monstrous moment, eating-hour of Fate:

My dread return!”

 

                                     No longer listens Tyr –

Against ferocious roaring, sword he draws,

And braves again that mouth, pinning it ope 

With boot and sword point, forcing jaws apart

As throat so madly groans, great agony

Increasing hatred, evil, vengeance-lust!

The sword is set: by pommel and the tip

Is maw of wolf exposed – Tyr steps away;

And Fenrir swings his head, twists neck in pain.

 

“No oath we’ve dashed – Tyr hath his hand no more,”

Pronounces Odin. “Therefore dwell in pain,

Thou creature, and forever linger here –

Never to menace folk I hold so dear!”

And Aesir Gleipnir’s end tie round a rock,

The boulder Gjoll, then leave wolf to his fate:

To suff’ring lie forever on cold isle,

Twitching his nerves, by ribbon stymied e’er,

His slaver flowing, pouring down through vales

As gushing river which men call the Von,

That stream of expectation, which doth mix

With sable wave crests of the pitch-dark lake.

Wolf’s eyes flit, mad and keen, but groans soon end:

Helpless he rests – by night he falls asleep,

Still oozing evil waters from his maw,

Dreaming the dreams of wicked things suppressed.

 

* * *

 

In Valhall, brain of Lok broods on his wounds:

His sore and sour mind, his injured being

Dwells on those schemes which drew his children from

Hall sworn by holy ones as hearth and home

For all his clan, all folk of Sly One’s loins –

Those crafty plans of god who led them on

To rest, subdued or prisoned, far away

In places secret from nigh every soul:

Those yonder corners, nooks of cloudy lore,

Concealed from light, forgotten by the day,

Remote as unremembered dreams that flee

Into the places far from woe or mirth;

And frightful breed, Lok’s dreaded progeny –

The queen of death, the sea-wyrm, and the wolf –

Deplored and shunned, are living still in sleep,

Wrapped utterly in night-thoughts dim and strange,

And brooding o’er – again, again, again –

What fires shall burn once time turns toward its end.

And Lok himself, hard anger’s cruel delights

Much relishing, grins in the Aesir’s home,

Knowing his children dream so – dwelling e’er

On vengeance, in a distant age of blood.

 *

             *                       

(Loki’s Brood by Emil Doepler)