*

(Thor’s Journey to Geirrodsgard by Lorenz Frølich)

*

*

I.

*

The jester weeps, the clown must have his sobs,

For Loki’s bride is buried – dead, and lost!

Grim dame Foreboding’s fall’n beneath her tomb,

Fine florid tomb of barb’rous eeriness.

The mother of the wolf, the snake, and corpse

Half-living, now to daughter’s realm descends, 

Her sprite dispatched by catarrh and cruel flu,

Assaulting storm of agues, swell of woes

That hound her ghost down cliff and treach’rous scaur

Like elves of darkness whipping her with rods.

And howling o’er cold fields flies giantess –

Her soul, her grieving soul, forlorn, alone –

Down black and green ways swift through clapping mists,

Dim route to Hela. Mercy on thy source,

Oh empress! cast her not to Nidhogg’s maw

Or teeth-holes of mephitic chasm-gloom;

But let her wander midst mild thrushes’ chants

In sweeter vale weak-lighted, where the kin

Of happy dead unite, are reconciled,

And hatreds never linger. 

 

                                                     Iron walls

Admit her phantom: whether to the pit

Of venom-torture, or to blessèd dales

Her gothic angels guide her – lands where thorns

Might thrive, but never sting – no wight might know

Without that kingdom; and the rampart-birds

Who both realms view, deliver not a hint.

And Loki, widower-creature, sore bereaved,

Doth sigh for agony and knowing not

Where tends his sweet one’s spirit! Long he treads

Beside the moat of hell, wide fosse of death,

The raven’s caw a thistle in his ear,

Fretting o’er spouse beyond. The world speaks naught;

The bulwark offers not a crack nor door

Where might he follow loved one… so he sits

Upon a stump; and utter silence lets

His thoughts run like a stream unjabbed by rocks:

*

“No, nothing out these gates the hound doth let –

And so no phrase of where my wife abides,

How fares her spirit… Oh, such lair of pain,

But eke of utmost soothing! Some are wracked

In torturous dens, their shrieks the under-earth’s

Own voice and very being – and some else

Know life from nerves abstracted, soft absolved

Of clayish sentence… When portcullis gapes

For desolate me, I wit not. Norns sure know;

And whether I’ll be hastened towards that breath

Malodorous of dragon, or perfumes

The blooms exhale – it all should torment feel

If not Foreboding dwells among the saved.

Who gives my judgment? Fates, perhaps – but they

Are tongue and lips alone. Yonder I hie…

I must seek comfort ’gainst that fatal day

If horrid it should prove – I must hunt charms

Of womankind again. The foul I’ve touched

And known, and recognized the terror in’t;

But fairness lures me now, kind Lethe-drop

Inside the crystal wellsprings: Now to towers

Where giant-damsels pin their hair and breathe

Their hearth-fire songs of endless gentleness

I point my feet.”

 

* * *

 

                                    The way seems frightful long,

As long as nine worlds’ breadth, as long as life;

And Loki slumps and droops. His steps wind down

Like falt’ring watch-clicks – he’d not thought that Time

Contained so vast a span, but should have died

Long ere this weary nowhere he’d arrived.

“Where am I?” saith he. “Castles I had thought

Should crown yon hills by now – walk I awry,

Gone vagabond, askew straight into gloom

Of hopeless in-between? I daren’t trow

All navigation’s left me: I shall trudge –

Ahead, ahead – until this scene removes

For happier much surroundings.”

 

                                                                      But the same

Bare country, all that setting nondescript 

Proves obstinate, and sun beyond the gray

Moves slow as trudging Loki… Hours pace

And shuffle stupidly; and ’gins to dread

That errant fool he stumbles in a round,

Treading the world he’s wandered twice or thrice:

No star, no landmark, nothing lets him know

His course keeps true. Damn shabby look the woods,

Each leaf and twig the same insipid thing,

Each rock just like its fellow, every hill

No more deserving name than ocean wave.

He looks behind, before, and pines for sight

Of taper in a window or a door,

Some tiny welcome glint ’midst clammy chill…

But rains now gather bluster, and Lok takes

The shelter of a fir tree – soon he sleeps

Beneath exhaustion’s heavy hand; and drops

Of water gather in his high-brimmed hat.

 

* * *

 

In eve he wakes – not ’mongst the moss, but quilts

And pillows of some hovel built of sticks –

A hut that’s hot, and red-gold with a fire.

His socks are dry, his chemise lovely-warm;

And sniffs he barley-stew upon the hearth…

Which giantess, he sees, with vigor stirs

As sprinkles she crushed herbs and spices in’t.

She clacks and clucks, and bids him rest his head…

He sups, and thanks the beldam for her fare,

And for her taking him, for rains blew cold.

How mighty large she looms, how strong those arms

That hauled the little jester! Now he saith

He’s glad as well she did not gulp him down,

For hunger oft must hound a crone so poor.

“I am a troll myself,” tells Laufey’s son,

“But thou dost beetle o’er me as the crag

Above the little stone – thou couldst have gulped,

Like herring-strip, poor Loki down thy throat

To let me swim alive in stomach thine,

Oh monstrous woman – gut like cavern-pool

That’s hot with steaming bubbles – boiling, dark!

And yet – thou hast thy collops and thy rolls…

How comes it thou’rt not skinny as a cane?”

*

To which saith giantess: “Thy tongue’s a mind

Right odd and open… I believe thou art           

That sly thing and that trickster of the gods,

Adopted into Asgard – aye, thou smil’st,

Thou puck, thou child-behavior! and I must

State name, now I know thine! Grid am I called,

And own not much, for not much I desire –

But what I want comes ready to my hands:

For I am wizardess, and shake such wand 

As thou beholdest, whittled of a yew,

To stuff my belly gloaming, morn, and noon:

Enough and more to keep from Helheim-gate

My merry sprite, tucked deep in dress of lard.

But little speech, and fidgeting of rod 

In special wise, and such as thou hast supped

From out of nothing, into cauldron leaps 

Or onto plate – some dish ex nihilo,

But wanting, say, a parsley or some salt,

Those garnishments the fruitful void doth seem

So chary of… And each new thing I wish,

Each boot and cushion, broom and spoon and cup,

As old ones waste, I bid the emptiness

Beyond this world produce – and swift they come,

My every comfort and necessity,

A sorceress’s household: humble, clean,

Replete with simple joys: the bowl and brush,

Two flints to start a flame, water to douse,

And quilts for winter’s depths, when nighttime’s teeth

Doth snap upon its tail, and daylight’s none…

But why doth clever one trudge through the rain,

No clever means of moving? Whither goest,

And what shouldst hope to find? Thou enter’st lands

Not e’en most cousins ours should think to bide,

This empty nowhere.”

 

                                                And his tristful tale

The guest imparts, already eyeing much

That verge what might him aid – and sure enough,

Soon tears so globulous and crystalline

From ducts come splashing, for the giantess

Hath pity in her ’nough to cram her bulk;

And blubbers crone: “Ah tender rascal-soul,

Tell what thou needest – stingy I am not

Towards consecrated hearts, those pledged to cult

Of her thrice-burnt – I mean, command my wand

In saying what shall lift thy loving aim!”

*

And wastes no time the imp: “A pair of shoes

With wings! is what imagination throws

From brain out ‘twixt my teeth – I spit the wish –

I, frantic crackpot! Oh ye elements,

Dance to such tune this giantess conducts:

Assemble as she bids ye, and produce

Such pinioned slippers – steady as they soar,

As firm and sure as pillar borne through space,

And falcon-fast, and tiring not in flaps…

No, never tiring, and by thought-strings pulled –

No vocal goading! Grid, baton thy song:

Ye shall indebt me much.” 

 

                                                       She mumbles terms

Of esoteric practice, brandishes

Her glitt’ring staff of trance o’er primal dust,

Doth wag it once or twice – and here they are 

Right ’fore him! just as Lok had pictured ‘em,

His golden footwear: dove-winged, sparkling bright,

Like some twin bairns of pegasus and boot.

He slips them on, and straight is lifted up,

Knocks head on roof, and warns the gear be still –

’Til at the last he finds his mind commands

Each flutter of those espadrilles. The dame

Swings open door, and bids: “Thou funny man,

Go seek her shall be comrade of thy bed,

And steer thy plumes straight east – thou mayest guide

By stars; the wind hath scuppered every cloud.”

 

* * *

 

He passeth scenes of air with hands on hips,

And up, down goeth he as he might wish,

And makes a loop-the-loop or Immelmann

With hand on hat; the eagles eye askance

Such prodigy, while snow-stark world beneath

By moon’s rays shows like regal ermine cloak

Studded with jewelry, which are thurses’ homes

On backs of glaciers slowly pouring down

From mountain-flanks to valleys. Minor keeps

And castles quaint the mischief-god o’er-soars,

Peering through windows, passages, and doors

To see who lives within. Towards midnight’s depth

He comes across a glowing castle’s charm

At frosty peak, and past the curtains spies

A slew of giant-maids! they sew and sing

And plait each other’s hair – one plays at harp,

One feeds canaries through a silver cage,

Another dotes on kittens… and one else

Delights with wide eyes, seeing man so droll

Flying outside – she points and bids her friends

Rush to the window! Thirteen brunette heads

Crane up to view strange swoops and showy spins

Of gawky pilot – back and forth he zips,

Exciting girlish giggles, laughs and gasps,

Ere high he rises, out of damsels’ ken.

Now rushes gawking crew to parapet

Where spy they Loki shooting like a star,

A brilliant wonderment – he swoops down low

And buzzes every head. Shrill shrieks erupt;

And coos of “He’s so dashing!” “What a chap!”

“I’ll bet he’s friends with Baldur!” jump like sparks

From out that tower-top.

 

                                                     The flying fool

At each steep dive the bevy hath scoped out,

And of the thirteen, on a sweetheart’s fixed –

His Victory-Girlfriend, youngest of them all,

With splendor in her eyes surpassing gems’ –

Such dazzlement naive; and with fresh speed

The trickster tears straight towards ’er! Smiles and gasps

To sudden panic yield – Sigyn is snatched,

And’s soaring off with god! Her sisters wail

With sore dismay as sweet one flails her arms

And rains big tears, which crystallize to flakes

That drift and settle mildly o’er the snows.

 

* * *

 

He frets again – the honeymoon doth pall;

And Loki’s eyes e’er wander back to boots

That stretch and fold their wings. “Come fly with us

Once more!” they seem to beckon. “Leave thy make,

Though she be fair – already doth her womb

Swell with thy issue. Leave thy bed of love:

Gird tight our laces; see wild landscapes slip

Beneath thy soles – a thousand pranks malign

And escapades allure thee!” 

 

                                                          From his sheets

While Sigyn’s yet asleep, as morning pours

Its first of rosy tide, he dons his dress

And buckles on… The winds sweep hair again,

Flap cuffs and lappets. Sol regards his stripe

Of racing light from Asgard-land to glooms

Immense of outer worlds, the trollish haunts

Again his prey-scene. Hijinks and delights

Are order of the day: milk-cow he kicks,

The pail upsets, tweaks brats by nose and ears,

Makes troll-dames curse that brownie. Several heads

All perched upon one frame he sets at odds

By whispers ’hind the back – fists swing galore;

And huswives see their stitching’s been undone

While turned they elsewhere. Sigyn’s straight forgot

Amid the devastation – and some say

For many years to come, they heard hard hoots

And chuckles from deep cloud-heights of that morn;

And others claim, discerned they little song

By piping voice delivered – words so odd,

Some tale of elementals eons-old:

 

          And stepped Bergelmir from his ancient raft

          With wife in hand, as earth drank down that gore

          From Ymir spilt. Lands gorged on foaming draughts –

          So fruitful turned that world, bare stone before.

   

          Fornjot was son, a prince of outer cold;

          His sister soon that giant took as bride –

          And by and by with triplets girl was swoll’n;

          With vast things belly bloated, bulging wide:

                                                  

          The North Gust burst from out her ripping womb,

          And Logi sparked and kindled from those hips

          While Aegir dropped to where the algae bloom,

          And took his castle ’mongst the sunken ships,

   

          Took palace ’midst the whelk-encrusted coves,

          And with a trident swayed his briny keep

          As flame-troll brother dined on brittle groves

          And Kari ’cross the steppes did briskly sweep.

 

          Now seraphs watched those three lords multiply:

          From Ran the nine waves ran across the blue,

          And icicles wind formed with but a sigh,

          While out from Logi’s riot spark-sons flew:

 

          And where huge air and brine and burning flakes

          Did mix, dispute, and war, a chaos writhed,

          Producing every weird and horrid shape,

          Each living form, each color and each size:

 

          The birds shot upwards, and the fish went low,

          And beasts of earth gained footing on the rocks:

          What tumult now in gods’ ears! Splashes, groans,

          Shriekings and screechings, warbles, grunts, and squawks!

 

* * *

 

Now through the rosy-rainy day still floats

That chortler deep o’er thurse-realm; and round noon

No more of farms discovers, but estate

Far grander: vast enclosures, metal gates,

And mansion – half beneath the earth it sits,

The slick mud slipping in through windowsills,

Its chimneys puffing like so many pipes,

One hundred crows lined up along the eaves.

And to a bright-lit portal Lok arrives,

And perches on the rim, to see who’s there

He might annoy: The lord is at his feast,

Gobbling a dozen chickens at a time,

While all around him cram their mouths as well

His household and relations. Twenty hearths

At full roar blaze, five flames set in each wall –

So sweat the sewers and the serving-men

As haul they platters stacked with crudest meats;

And juice and blood drip down each chomping chin,

The dames’ no less than fellows’ – save one lass

Far prettier than others, dainty with

Her knife and napkin, chewing careful bits

Off in her little corner. Lok’s amazed,

And with bemused regard supper surveys,

’Til at the last, above such belching din

Calls he to baron: “Glutton, look above –

A little day-bird lands to mark your meal

With much delight – thou’st cured mine appetite

And loosed me from cruel hunger! Tell me this:

Those gnawing beasts to either side of thee,

Are dogs or daughters? So much grease hath smeared

Their cheeks and whiskers, straight I can’t conclude.”

*

And monarch all aghast bangs fork on board,

Then hurls it at the twerp, who nimbly ducks;

And saith the king: “Rapscallion, what sayst thou?

What art thou? If a bird, come hither, friend,

That we might pluck thee, turn thee o’er a fire,

And give some chance to learn what beasts here dine!

My name is Flesh-of-Marl, and these who feast

At elbows mine are vicious Gjalp and Greip,

Who wrang the necks of chickens that we gulp,

And shall wring thine – trust on’t! My clan are mad

To chew thy gizzard: brothers, cousins, sons –

All pause their banquet, scowl an angry eye,

And look to thrash thee: Log-Chest, Mossy Chin;

Stone-Stomach and Rock-Gullet, bosom friends;

Clay-Ear, Lime-Licker, Lichen-Hide, Stink-Tooth,

Newt-Tongue and Fungus-Nose (all nephews mine).

Pus-Hump is here, Smut-Skin and Oily Arse,

Loam-Brain, Snot-Smearer, Gravel-Guts – my sons –

And Sap-Spit – dost thou list? – and Barky Skin,

And awful Mountain-Pillow! All thou seest

Shall have their jollies ‘pon thy pate, oh churl,

As soon as daughters seize thee! Gjalp and Greip:

Retrieve that songbird singing noyous tune,

And squeeze him hard – but not so hard he chokes:

We must hear prettier songs leap from his throat!”

*

And dash those gals their plates and mugs aside,

And quick are to the window – but Lok’s flown

To eaves, brushing the gruff birds towards the sky; 

And Greip crawls monkey-like up castle wall

As Loki downward mocks: “What words thou speak’st 

Through nether-mouth! Be heedful naught but noise

Thy exercise should yield: ’tis loose down there…

Both passages, I’d say. The traffic’s much,

Inwards and out… Thou know’st ’tis not a lie,

Each spot thou sit’st, thou leavest gory stain!”

*

Then grits that ugly dame her wolfish teeth

As nears she rascal, who trows he’ll escape

Much higher up the roof, onto the ridge

Just as her hairy paws close on his neck,

The more to vex her, and imperil life

O’er slipp’ry shingles… But as makes to spring

That nimble knave, he finds his shoes seem glued

By gummy droppings crows have left! Wings flap –

But straight prove bootless, steeped in that cement!

And Greip, she strangles Lok now like a goose,

And shakes him ’til he seems a flapping blur…

But through the window, Marl-Flesh calls her name,

And troll-girl loosens grip. Saith king: “Oh check,

My worthy daughter, fingers strong as noose,

And keep the rogue alive: We’ve new design

To torment cheeky twit as long we might –

Plus at the end, some even greater gain

Than fun of torture reap! Haul wight below;

Let’s show ’im how this household lodges guests!”

*

So Greip rips Lok away from sticky roof,

And with his neck clenched tight, she clambers down

Through windowsill that pours with slushy muck,

And dangles captive ’midst that grinning host –

All grinning, save the nameless pretty lass

Off in her corner, who with rueful look

On trickster’s terror gazes. Marl-Flesh opes

A chest stowed ’gainst the wall – like cavern-hole

It beckons darkly. “Here’s thy chamber, friend,”

Mocks horrid king. “Thou’lt have a three-week stay, 

And all expenses paid! No food, I mean –

But board, at least! No whimp’ring; in ye go!”

*

And Lok, so panicked, Greip stuffs in that box

As laughter rings around the fierce-lit hall –

Then clap goes lid, and casket-darkness drops

All round the cramped and frightened little bloke.

*

*

II.

*

For three weeks come the knocks and pleas and kicks,

The muffled moaning, while those evil trolls

Make merry of his suff’ring; and Lok hopes

His chest might swift turn coffin. Ceaseless seems

Black sentence, worse than darkest punishment

His daughter might decree for baddest men

Far deep in Helheim’s valleys – but at last

A sudden light swings ope… Lok cannot see,

But feels a hand him seize by scruff of neck

And lift him high in air. He blinks and views

So many frightful faces – and the king

Jabs nose against his own. 

 

                                                        “Thou sallow look’st –

Not feeling well, my guest? Perhaps more rest

Shall stout thee up again?” But Loki yelps

His firm aversion; and malicious lord

Grabs poor one’s collar: “Thou a favor ow’st

For three weeks’ board, my friend – I bid thee bring

Thy Valhall-fellow Thor into these halls

Straight weaponless – devise some cunning lure

Shall cause him traipse unwary towards my trap 

Right in this room! We’ll find a way to snap

His backbone, or blast missile through his brain –

And thus shall jötnar fell tough champion

Of Asgard, and my house bask in acclaim

As trolls’ deliverers! I’ll rise to heights

And rule a thousand Jupiters as thanes

For such a conquest… Now, we’ll let ye slip 

To flap back home – but think not task to dodge,

For if thou shirk’st, we’ll visit agonies

Upon thy son the wolf, that helpless dog

Chained on his island! Ere the silver wain

Rolls shadowed out of sight, thou must return,

Leading by promises incautious god!”

 

* * *

 

So anxiously the Sly One homeward floats,

Wracking his brains, uncertain what to say

To plant some willingness in thunder-prince

To follow him without a sword or club

Deep into ettins’ realm. 

 

                                                  Lok’s lovely wife

A grand conniption hath: “Where hast thou been?

Thy sandals steal thee from me! Oh, o’erfond

By far of flutt’ring!” Sigyn barks and scolds

As Lok tries out excuses; but he calms

His ranting damsel with lip-sealing kiss,

And bids her blame no more – he shall not roam

As much as late he hath: homebody he

From henceforth! – just as soon as one last jaunt’s

Behind him: All the marvels of wife’s home –

Weird ice-girt palaces of bluish cubes

Polished by winds and burnished by the sun,

Rich brazen towns perched ’top the freezing floes,

Strange world-edge spires, black clouds grim like gods –

All these he must conduct young Thor to view

On tour so swift: his friend, and nephew eke 

(Made so by Odin’s covenant of blood),

Who wisheth regions new ’cross which to roll

In splendid wagon carpenters have wrought

Of grandest ash and fir, pulled by twin goats

Of snarling jaws and horns like sacred prongs.

“In cart,” saith Lok, “through moon-bright world I’ll guide

That chap to view how fairly blinks thy home,

Such gorgeous wastes of frost, and then I’ll steer

Our wain straight home – it is a simple trip,

And done in rev’rence towards what lands did rear

Breed ravishing to which thou dost belong!”

And Sigyn yet half-doubtful folds her arms,

Half-turns her head, and proudly tilts her chin,

Pond’ring o’er promise; but Lok makes the dearth

Of words a plain permission – and departs

With hurried thanks, not waiting for her speech,

Slips off his slippers, in his armoire stows –

Then walks all day the fields of Asgard’s breadth,

Fretting and fussing, worried for his child,

Dear wolf on Lyngvi isle, his threatened son,

Wond’ring how nephew he’ll entice to come

To troll-grim east unarmed… 

 

* * *

 

                                                                Beside the slopes

Beneath Bilskirnir, many-roomed and roofed

With shingles lightning-bright, Farbauti’s son

Distracted, sudden haps upon that god

He’d wished to miss until he’d spun a line

By which to lure him – now all unprepared

With Thor he must converse, for god him hails,

Leaving his scruffy goats to nibble grass,

And wraps a meaty arm his shoulders round,

And saith: “How now? Why jaunts the prankster here?

Thou look’st in meditations – doth some jape

Or mischief in the works thy wit confound

With how to hang the humor and the harm?

The rascal’s not in cheer, and makes me sad…

Mayhap thy trip fatigued thee? But, no more

Of enervation’s spell – thou must restore

To usual humor, for thou hast a wife

Wanting a merry husband, I am sure,

Not man who flies, then flies from gladsome thoughts

As soon as home again. Thy Sigyn glows

With luster in her locks, and trunk of hers

’Gins swell with issue – and I find I chafe

To have what thou hast: one of giant-land

Just like thy mate, but golden-haired, not dark,

Whose head blows with those stalks that yield no wheat

But are far finer treasure, and whose loins

Are center of the world, and shall cede forth

Fine future lords of yonder mighty manse:

My brood to fill five hundred empty rooms

And ride with me behind my gnashing goats!

Thou must, I say, conduct me where thou plucked’st

Such giantess so delicate – which place

Of jötnar’s orchards yields such shapely fruit,

And sweet to taste, I ween: strange sugary bliss

Grown up amid thick thistles… ’Tis a land

Out there to east, of hundred-headed fiends,

Stark monsters, foul imaginations stuffed

Back into earth-wombs, as though nature quailed

’Fore what she’d birthed, and packed them deep again

Lest wide skies view her shame… Yet too there live

’Midst those same gelid wilds, some rare-sweet maids,

Some crystal flakes that whirl upon the wind,

So fragile and so gorgeous. Yes, I plead,

Oh Lok: show where thy Sigyn thou didst find!”

*

And trickster, stupefied, remarks what luck

Makes all deceit unneeded for his scheme,

Save one slight tweak; and finding soon his tongue, 

To Thor replies: “Right sure, oh nephew-friend,

Thy reins I’ll take in hand. With shoes I’ve gained

I might make swifter voyage, but I trow

Thou art too large to carry in mine arms –

And therefore shall thy wagon creak through cold

With me conducting… Only, this I bid

Thou heed’st, if thou wouldst not each giantess

Flee swiftly as thou com’st: Bring weapons none,

For none brought I when I did Sigyn win,

And hardly but by gentle look and speech

And slow advance did win her. Thou’rt robust

Much past me – hast behemoth’s strength in thee,

And certes should affright a quiv’ring maid

With club or lance in paw! I’ll drive us clear

Of every lair of hostile ogre, thurse,

And goblin, so we need not perils sweat

While go our sheathes all empty. Friend, I know

Those outlands as the bird doth, from on high,

And understand the safe routes: if we keep 

To open stretches lacking bosky scrub,

And flat ones, where no hillside cave might hide

A pack of those who’d love on wights to dine –

Then might we gain sweet maidens without harm.”

 

* * *

 

From autumn-cool wet tracts to frosted ground

The wheels proceed. The jester has the reins,

Directing goats o’er path he once before

All aimless wandered; now he knows his way –

But ’tis not towards the place he Sigyn stole,

As Thor imagines. Loki ’midst the eve

Keeps eye for Grid’s retreat; and ere the dusk,

Descries her shelter’s smoke o’er distant wood,

And saith to Thor: “A good witch yonder bides

Whose graces and whose gift did lift me past

Such dreary foot-ache of the flightless half

Of my first roaming east – let’s call and find

If guests she might accept: it costs her naught,

Our sustenance, for with her wand she forms

Whate’er she hath a mind to.”

 

                                                             Thor agrees;

And Grid proves glad to lodge them for the night,

But asks what business might those aesir have

In giant-land sans arms. “I guide our cart,”

Tells Lok, “to where sweet giantesses dwell,

For Earth’s son wisheth wife as fair as mine,

White bloom that twisteth out from eastern frost;

But I have told him harmless must he look,

With weapons none on self, and gentle mien

Before shy jotun-maids, else they’ll retract 

From converse with us strangers from strange heights

Of Asgard-cumulus and mountains peaks –

And therefore lacking blade and lance we drive.”

And Grid to this saith nothing, only serves

The hungry aesir soups and beefs and cheese,

Then shows them to their bed, that same in which

The Sly One late did sleep. 

 

* * *

 

                                                       Ere morning, Thor

Feels someone gently nudge him – sorceress

Betimes hath stirred him, and she bids him hush,

Then saith: “Come speak with me in whispered tones –

Come here, a bit apart – I would not thou

Go all unarmed, e’en if thy friend do claim

He knows a path unhazardous. Take these

Three boons for thee, three things my magic’s made,

That thou might not be crushed beneath some hand

Titanic, or below a boot so cruel:

The first, a power-belt, a leather band

Which shall add force to thee as much thou hast

Without it – nothing might such cinch affront

A skittish giant-girl! Here, buckle on…

The second: iron gloves – again, no fright

A maiden ought to take from such as these,

Unless she’s one to faint when strong winds blow

In through the door, or leap when insects hum

From woods outside. These gauntlets thee allow

To handle aught that’s hot – thou mayst repulse

The grip of fire-jotun while they’re on,

And mayst throw coal or flame… Last I present

A staff that ne’er shall break, though it may seem

Frail reedy cane, fit only for the old,

Nowise a weapon, sure to shatter ’gainst

What first it strikes – but rod I give rebuffs

All things it parries, pushes, smacks, and knocks.

So dight with these, this belt and gloves and staff,

I trow thou’lt go secure… And now the day,

The sun like golden pearl on dawn’s pink flesh,

Opens thy path; and Lok shall soon awake –

Be wary, though the Sly One says thou’rt safe.”

*

*

III.

*

The road splits – northeast, southeast – and Lok steers

To righthand path, the way to Marl-Flesh,

But saith to Thor that ere that afternoon

They’ll spy sweet Sigyn’s home-keep. Colder grows

That white-cloud world; the thistles crowd more thick;

The firs and rowans minish, droop, and wane;

The flakes in showers bluster. Round midday,

They come across a river, half-mile wide –

Not deep, but stone-strewn, choppy – Vimur is’t,

A stream that in the high worlds soft begins

From meek spring-murmurings, but gathers dew

By every plant-leaf wept; and rolling round 

Wet elevations, crescent in its surge,

After such spiral course, careens hard down

The troll-trooped mountains, and straight ’cross the plains

Of cold east spreads and scampers. 

 

                                                                          Gods step down

From chariot; the goats unhitched are let

To nibble meager scrub, and Thor begins

To wade that frigid current. “Seize my wrist,”

He Lok commands, and prods for spots to stick

His staff securely ’twixt the moss-slick stones

He cannot see for foam. They hobble ’cross

Quite slowly, slipping now and then, but think

No danger… Now they’re halfway toward yon shore

When sudden warms the water: Strange, a flood

Of redness mingles with that grayish stream,

Reaching to knees, then waist, then belly, chest,

Stopping the travelers’ progress, for not more

They might than keep their footing, hold their place;

And Loki, clinging tight to Thor’s free arm,

Upstream descries the source of what flows down:

“Two giantesses, friend! They sleep beside

This river, and their monthly blood pours out,

Swelling the current, swamping us poor souls –

Oh, horror! What a means to meet our end!

Hold tight, hold tight!” ’Tis Gjalp and Greip that spill

The gore what makes Lok gag, as he discerns,

But tells he not their names. 

 

                                                           “We must not stay,”

Saith Thor, “in midmost river, for the flood

Only increases! Here, grip staff I bear,

Oh Lok, and press firm down… I must scrounge round

With one free hand!” And sinks the thunder-prince

To neck-depth, for he’s reaching down to seize

What finds he on the riverbed… and up

He comes with two fat rocks inside his grip;

Then eyes those snoring giant-dames far off,

And winking, biting tongue, he hurls one stone

Straight up the first girl’s skirt – she yelps and leaps,

Runs off; then second stone soon find its mark,

And more yowls sound… The blood has no more source;

The sisters scurry, and the stream subsides

As gods make headway once again; and cold

And low the river’s running. Thor grasps tight

A rowan’s branch that o’er embankment hangs,

And climbs to shore, then hauls up Loki quick;

And both do rest a space below those leaves

And berry-clusters. 

 

                                        When the sun breaks forth,

Scatt’ring the midday mists, gods rise again,

Picking their way through frosty plains and hills,

Lok sullen, silent, Thor quite glad the witch

Mistrusted his friend’s wisdom… And now thinks

Stern son of Earth, for first time, that some trick

The Sly One might be playing – some foul game 

To bring him harm… But soon suspicions fade,

Soon thought so vague’s forgotten: Thor is keen

Some slender, blushing maid to court and woo;

And leaps his heart when through the snows he spies

A castle strange, half-buried in the earth, 

With twenty smoking chimneys.

 

                                                                  “Is’t the place

Thy Sigyn hails from?” asks the god, and Lok

Saith: “Aye, oh bosom-buddy, that it is:

The place my Sigyn grew to womanhood,

Where taught she was to weave a glorious rug,

To sing with caged canary, and to play

Sweet instruments, the zither, dulcimer,

And make with worthy beau fine flirting talk,

As were her sisters all, each fair as she –

So many, many of ’em. I have seen

Within those chambers, on my sky-career

In search of bride, so many golden heads

Such as thou strong desirest! No guard wards

The suitor’s way, no frowning patriarch

On would-be husband lowers. Say, go on,

Go straight inside, the servant shows thee in

And shall prepare thy comforts.”

*

                                                                    So Thor strides,

With trickster at his heels, that last long stretch,

New heartened by the promises he’s heard,

Not put off by the castle’s evil face –

Not in the least, thinking on girls alone;

And in those snowy mists, amid the blasts

Of icy evening, bangs he at the door…

Where’pon it creaks ajar, and there reveals

A gawky giant-porter, leering, odd,

Who grins upon them, asks to take their things –

But nothing have they brought, and Thor shall not

Part with his staff. Now shown are they inside,

And guided are through grimy corridors,

Lok nervous, Thor much confident and bold,

Happy and easy; and to separate rooms

The troll has them retire. “Anon you’ll meet

All whom you wish to see,” speaks he to Thor.

“But meantime, take thy ease – sit in this chair:

Sit deep, and let thy feet throb off their pain –

Close eyes, and let dark night-sprites grasp thy soul.”

But Thor need not be told: he sits and rests,

His staff upon his lap – soon hearty snores

Resound, as Lok lists through the chinks in stone,

Wond’ring when death might strike… and hears the door

Swing ope, and four feet enter in Thor’s room.

 

* * *

 

He wakes, the thunder-prince – for something’s off…

He looks: the floor seems awfully far below,

And close the rafters o’er him. Somehow lifts

The chair he sits in… and accelerates, 

So that a squashing death looms – he’ll be crushed

Upon the ceiling! Grasps the god his staff –

Points up, and braces ’gainst his nearing doom:

And rod, so slender, bends, but shatters not –

His chair is halted! Groans he hears below,

Strange straining groans… now presses he with all

His doubled strength ’gainst ceiling – and swift down

Crashes the seat! Two shrieks high-horrible

Of agony leap ’neath him – then all’s still;

And rising, Thor two corpses finds beneath

The place he sat – two bodies fresh with death,

Seeping their blood: Two necks that have been snapped,

Two chests crushed, one on other; and Thor knows

Those two were those at whom he threw two rocks

And made retreat with howling. 

 

                                                                 “What keep’s this?”

Grouses the storm-god. “Loki, where art thou?

Where hast thou led me? Castle this thou saidst

Held beauteous maidens – sure no gals like these,

Such heinous demoiselles, had I in mind!

Art sure this is the palace? Mayhap took’st

A wrong veer somewhere?… Canst thou hear me, friend?

No matter, though – I’ll find sweet beauties yet,

Where’er they hide.” And Thor tromps out the room, 

Loki dismayed th’assassins came to grief;

But tiptoe-soft he follows him down halls,

Hopeful some trap might spring, and do him in!

But naught jumps on the blithe god – castle’s still;

And in each room he sticks his wond’ring head,

Bemused and blank-brained.

 

                                                            Down long spiral steps

Eventually he treads, to sub-ground floor

Where wicked fires prance, screaming; and sly Lok’s

Nor far behind him – footfalls Thor can’t hear

For roaring of the blazes. Now the light

Trembles and shakes; the sweat beads on his brow…

At end of steps, a hundred giant-fiends

Turn round to gaze on guest.

 

                                                            The red walls pulse

With angry glow of hearth-flames, which seem ghosts

Fleeing from Hela’s tortures. “Welcome, Thor!

Pronounces Marl-Flesh. “What – thou need’st a cane?

Art lame? Or longer in the tooth than’s said?”

The villain snarls – his teeth in fire-shine wink

Like pois’nous pearls. “It drops the heart in me,

Poor Flesh-of-Marl, I, master of this hall…

I’d thought to play a game or two with thee,

Such hearty, strapping asa!” And he sneers;

All jötnar cackle, family and their thralls

As baron rises. “Come – let’s toss a ball

In friendly game of catch!” And swift he takes

A pair of tongs from table… sticks them in

One of the twenty fires, and pulls a sphere

Snapping with sparks, more red than red itself –

And spinning, hurls it at the lord of storms!

*

Now Loki from the shadowed steps this views,

And sees his fellow snatch the ball in mitt,

His iron-gripper! Giants gasp and gape,

That glowing orb in gauntlet witnessing –

Then throw up tables for quick spots to hide,

Huddling and cringing, while the master-troll

Behind an iron pillar nimbly ducks,

Thinking he’s safe – but Thor takes careful aim,

And launches like a dragon’s fireball

That smoking missile!                      

 

                                               Through the column bursts

Bright streak of flame, and punches through the troll,

Blasts through the wall, and lodges in the earth –

And Marl-Flesh, hissing, dies and drops to floor

As family wail their grief, and kin take arms

To brutalize the slayer – now the stour 

Erupts in earnest: Skulls are smashed and struck,

The staff collapses faces; blood that nears

A hearth-flame bubbles, and its steam escapes

Through open windows. One by one are crushed

Th’attacking clan, ’til not a wight remains…

And quiet now rests hall, littered with meats,

Plates, tables, chairs, and corpses.

 

                                                                        Yet one thing

Still trembles in a corner: ’tis the blonde

And gorgeous daughter, she alone of looks

Not hideous in family, and she crawls

Behind a table. 

 

                                Loki slinks to Thor

Who scowls, and saith: “Why, uncle, thou didst err

In castle we’ve arrived at – only one

Fair damsel have I found… Yet oh, so fair,

I scarce should trow she springs of clan I’ve dashed –

Such shapely branch from gnarled, misshapen trunk:

One’d think was grafter’s work… Be not afeard,

Oh miss – come hold this hand controlled by heart

That loves thee so.”

 

                                         And golden maiden peeps

Above the table’s edge, then slowly goes

To slayer who hath won her, and she says:

“My lord, my strong one – thou hast rid this realm

Of most unwholesome tribe, that which is mine

In blood, though not affection. Each I hate

Who now below me lies, never to rise

And curse or beat me more; for uncles all,

And brothers and these nephews, did despise

Me for my looks, which held they ugliness –

For ugliness was beauty here, and fair

Thought most grotesque. I languished in my room

Nigh all the hours, and only was let out

To dine at mealtime, by my lonesome self

Off in my corner – dogs might lick my hand,

But kin would e’er ignore me; and I wept

So oft I wonder household were not drowned

Long ere this day… I’ll gladly go with you

And with thy funny comrade, for it makes

Me naught but sob, this castle oh so dark,

This wretched cell and coffin! How thou cam’st,

I know not, nor do reck – I only joy

Another life is mine… My sisters I

Fain would see dead as well ’midst bloodshed this –

But know I not where are. Most cruel their lips 

And fists of all who harmed me!”

 

                                                                    And the god

Describes how Gjalp and Greip met horrid end

By his own pole-thrust; and the maid exclaims

To know they fall towards Hela. At her voice,

A little child, not more than two years old,

Holding a toy bow and some harmless darts,

Emerges from a door between two hearths,

Looking at damsel with imploring face,

Anxious and frightened; and she bids him come,

And takes the child in arms. 

 

                                                         “Who’s this?” saith Lok.

“Thy bairn? I thought thou saidst that thou wast shunned

By all, and always shut up in this place,

Ne’er let to leave.”

 

                                      And damsel saith: “He sprang,

My little Ull, out of my loneliness,

His only father; and I kept him hid

For fear my clan should beat him, as he glows

E’en handsomer than I.” 

 

                                                   And from that manse

The four of them depart – they cross the flow

That runs so cold from heights where storm-clouds dream,

Then hitch the goats, and cram inside the cart

As thunder-god whips beasts, which bear them home. 

 

* * *

 

Now Thor decides to call his young wife Sif,

And soon is Ull a glowing sister giv’n:

The self-assured sweet Thrud, an infant touched

By honest blessings. She and Ull in time

Now take to tramping through the emerald world

Of scruffy shrub and forest, all the woods

Of outer Asgard; and the boy with’s bow

Oft shoots unheaded shafts his sister’s way,

To jar but not to harm her. Newt and toad

They pick up and inspect, and tangled vales

Oft hear their mingled shrieks and whoops and laughs:

Such happiness of new souls raised to life

From out the dark beneath, towards gloried light

Above the dreaming void.

 

                                                      From Sigyn come

The twins Nari and Narfi, moody boys

With demon-glint in eyes. To home they keep,

Not loving much the bright earth, and they play

So oft some trick malign, or schemes devise

At some poor child’s expense… Sigyn demands

Her husband teach them discipline, and whip

The malice from their minds – and so he tries,

But nowise it avails; and at the last

He tires, throws up his hands, and bids them leave,

All three, to some retreat in wilderness –

Some far-off hut of sticks by brook or stream

Far off in man’s world, where they’ll vex him not.

  *                    

*