(illustration by Helen Stratton)

 

 

 

I.

 

In days of long ago the northmen sang

Of one whom neither sin nor blemish touched –

Fair as the mayweed crown about his head:

The shining-maned, son of the kingly god.

Where mists churn ’neath the falls, high ’bove the rocks,

Hid by the ice-crags, there his mansion stands:

A silver lodge, whose roof and gables glow

Ice-white; and flowers spring from glinting stones,

Sprout from the glaciers: there the sun glares down

His heat-beams on the lord of Breidablik.

Great-gleaming flares his face, and love he knows

For every creature, living and the dead: 

Each little one, each being sometime born.

Mercy’s his heart, and kindness e’er his deed,

And just’s his verdict, while he judges men.

This is the story of his death, and what

Befalls the world in bloody after-age.

 

* * *

 

What shadows, whispers flit through Baldur’s dreams,

Flit like the shades of ever-darksome Hel?

How cruel the midnight elf that at his bed

Speaks words like creatures that invade his ear –

Who breathes night-wisdom, omens from the depths!

 

A snarling welkin, weeping rainy frost –

It swells in torment, pregnant with a doom

Known to no one, not e’en god or Norn.

The land spreads black, the heavens race on high.

Within the clouds twist phantoms, while ’midst fogs

The boulders jar and crumble – far they plunge,

When from the mountains burrows out a form

Crow-black, and hissing. Smoke seethes ’round its head…

 

* * *

 

No more. Fair Baldur wakes to view the world

Wide-glimm’ring, and his wife throws round her arms

To hold him long. At last she looks at him

And asks she, she of bluish eyes: “Dear love,

What storm blows through thy heart? I trow I see

Some vision passing darkly in thy thoughts –

Thoughts not once vexed ’til now. E’en whiter glows

My lord than he is wont… and oh! there beads

A frost-cold sweat along thy brow.”

 

                                                                         No word

Saith Baldur. Silence bides within his hall.

Imploringly she stares, Nanna, upon 

Her husband; and her eyes are two ripe fruits

Grown in the winter, sweetness ta’en from ice:

The ice drips, ‘neath the shine of kindest face.

Outside, the flowers open in the morn.

Nothing is spoken. Now goes Nanna out

Into the sun-rays and the mountain winds.

 

* * *

 

Past hills, through rivers, ’midst the troll-high pines

Of edgeless forest rides the father-god

On gray horse, gray as fogs within the brakes.

Those eight legs speed him – Sleipnir is his steed.

His red cloak flaps, his white hair trails behind

In harsh winds, tossed like banner of a ship.

One ring he hath, one eye, one magic spear,

And ravens two that shadows cast on him,

Flying on high to see what lies ahead.

He is good Baldur’s father, and he must

Ride to a vala’s grave beneath the worlds.

The red sun lingers – down towards Hel it drifts.

 

Sleet is his coat, the breeze his mantle. Soon

All-Father halts – he views where he has come.

Nine journey-nights have passed. No sound is heard;

The sky cannot be seen, only a mist.

At Odin’s feet a river grumbles low –

Above it, stretching, shines a span of gold:

This bridge of deepest realm of Niflheim.

Two eyes watch Odin as he passeth o’er.

 

* * *

 

Deep chasms, like the slits of hell: O’er flumes

And waterfall-tops leaps the tireless horse,

His hoof-sounds off the gorge walls echoing

As waters hiss and spill, and cough and spit

Half-noxious vapors, atmospheres, and fogs.

At canyon bottom jumps he o’er crevasse

And deeper pits, a path no man has trod

While yet he lived. The shy bats hang from cliffs;

Slow snakes in pools are coiling. E’er they press

Through coldest darkness, rider and his mount,

Tracing a ledge down dizzy spiral ways…

’Til on a black plain clops the steed divine.

 

This is the shadow-place: no tree nor shrub

Grows from the ground. No rain blows, only gusts

From out the void – a void like lethargy

And saddest passions. Odin quits his horse,

Walks through the chill world. ’Fore him rests a mound,

A lichened cairn: he stops, and lifts his lance

Adorned with runes. 

 

                                           “Oh seeress buried here,”

Saith god in rev’rence, “call I on thy bones.

Let speak the soul that dwells with them – I crave

But merest moment, ’midst the vasts of time,

To learn thy special wisdom… Rise, oh speak!

Vegtam am I, a wanderer, Valtam’s son,

Who o’er the land-ways long to here did ride.

Of Baldur’s dreams, I must a riddle pose:

A raging sky, and snout breaking from earth –

Tell me their meaning! For my son I beg

Some answer to the fiend that haunts his head…

Oh speak, oh rise!”

 

                                         The ravens perch and wait

Upon his shoulder. Faintly drift the mists

When from the dark stones creaks the faintest voice:

 

          Not one year, month, or day thy son might shift

          The time when he shall to these lairs drift.

          Across Resounding Bridge he’s soon to pass:

          A weeping world he’ll leave – yet not his lass.

 

* * *

 

In haste Frigga spurs, and spurs – her light horse

Pants flecks of foam; its muscles dash and pound

Across the wide earth. Unto base of storms

Far in the north Frigg flies, the queen of gods.

From every being and thing she must have pledge:

 

“I pray you all, swear sure you’ll never harm

Sweet lord of Breidablik, who from my womb

Full shining once emerged! Oh wolves and boars,

Oh bears and men, and birds, oxen, and elves,

Trolls, dwarfs, ye glaring angels, ocean breeze,

Stones, sky, and jewels, half-clear crystal spikes,

Ye ferns and minerals – I’ll have your troth!

All things in your arrangements, orders, ranks:

The salty waves, the sapling, rotted log,

Grant me assurance! Let not vala’s words

Bereave me of the loveliest of sons!

Ye fruits, give oaths; ye flowers, vow; and ash

And birch and alder, speak of harmlessness!”

 

She wheels from northward – other lands she seeks.

Her courser dashes, stabbed by Frigga’s love:

The west and south of Midgard see their speed.

“Poisons, lightning, fire, and spiders, snakes,

Swords, arrows, hatchets: keep far from that flesh

Pale-beauteous, and from that stainless soul

That e’er it might abide with me, amid

The upper air and love.”

 

                                                  Eastward she rides

To Jotunheim, the evil fields, and takes

The pledges of the giants – then to worlds

Far off beyond horizons: hot and cold,

Much high and low, beneath the ground, above,

In deepest woods, at edge of all there is.

Through blackest caves, through dwelling pools of fogs,

She takes no rest; her madness drives her on.

The clouds roll calmly, silent as the earth.

 

 

II.

 

In wake of sun-chased showers, the mortal soul

Might glimpse, high-running, drawbridge of the gods –

The way to Asgard, Bifrost called. As from

Night’s clammy vapors dew appears, from rays

And hov’ring drops those blurry hues proceed,

Ascending without cease, beyond the stars

That were the sparks of Muspelheim lobbed high.

The scarlet band is flame: a roasting zone

What singes troll or dark elf who invades;

While all the rest, the yellow, green, and blue

Are glossy metals, firm to feet and hoofs,

So crystal-bright, an adamantine road.

And where those colors crest, there doth keep watch

Nine Mothers’ Son, stern guardian of gods,

Proud Heimdall; and his teeth are wondrous gold,

Though ears of his more marv’lous are by far,

For no land might the growth of wool on sheep

Keep from his hearing, nor the budge of herb

As shoots it from the earth. Less than a bird

The sentry sleeps. A curving horn is his;

And on his helm a rooster percheth aye,

Rich Gullinkambi, brightest of the cocks,

Whose comb shines like a cap of golden weave.

Let sweet meads flow in Heimdall’s happy hall!

None passes by, but those the sentry knows.

 

* * *

 

Beyond, the broad plains stretch; each grass blade glints

Dawn-brilliant, and atop the greatest tor

Grows flashing Glasir, tree of golden leaves.

Its limbs spread vastly – vast as mighty lodge 

And beauteous, the fortress of the slain

Drawn from the fields of war: 

 

                                                            Hail, building-world!

None knows how many floors, how many steps

Rise towards the planets! Gables, windows, stairs,

A roof shield-plated, rafters that are spears, 

White towers, and pearl, and gold, that have no tops,

Or none that might be spied, and gates like mouths

Set in the mountainside, that lead to caves

Where dragons dream; and of huge portals five

Times hundred are there – forty more to boot

One might discover – set along the walls,

Each wide as drake’s maw; and each one could let

Eight hundred fighters march out side by side.

This is the citadel where heroes feast,

As bright as coin-hoard lit by cressets’ rays:

A jewel ’mongst rocks, a star set in the night,

Warm gleam ’midst grayness, twinkle in the void,

The living heart and bastion of the good.

 

’Round Asgard’s outmost walls, fast floods of clouds

So black and grim rush roaring, and they split,

Encircling all that kingdom: tongues of flame

So whitely crackle ’midst that terror-stream

Of misty menace; and the thunder leaps

Through endless distance. Lightning plays in air –

The hall stands sure. 

 

                                           Atop its dazzling roof,

A modest elm grows, straining towards the clouds…

A goat chomps on its leaves, and from her teats

Mead drips into a barrel: drink for those

Who fill great horns, and drain them in one gulp!

A hart doth nibble, too, and without pause

Clear waters dribble from his antler-tips:

Streams without stain, straight down to Niflheim

Where churn of torrents wild and whirlpools

Sloshes and bellows, mixing with those springs

Of bubbling heat, a steady throb of warmth

Whence ireful rivers flow, the many veins

That feed the world of men and other beasts.

 

* * *

 

Urd, Verdandi, Skuld: yet bide those three

Beside the well beneath Yggdrasil’s root.

Four black eyes watch them: those of two white swans

That on the water glide. Small ripples touch

Their floating; and the Norns in goblets catch

The well’s clear life. With sand it’s mixed – the clay

Those sisters smear on branches and the bark:

A balm for rot, a stay against the harm

What aches the wood… Beneath their hoods they hide

Their faces – old they’ve grown, and are ashamed

All beauty’s fled them.

 

                                               In the night, they spin

More threads of life, the fate of those in womb,

And clip, clip, clip, to choose when men shall die.

And none doth listen to their secret work;

None listens to the rattle of their wheel

But swans upon the pool. Wind lifts the leaves;

The voiceless sun burns fierce.

 

* * *

 

                                                                See men at war,

A mock-up war, a game! The purlieus of

Great Valhall host such battle-practice: While

The sun-cart soars, rage knights and heroes felled

So long ago, in Midgard far below

This height of afterlife, where now they slash 

In joyful humor, thrust and cut and block,

Singing their sword-songs, battering with clubs:

Ring-givers’ vassals, lords of ancient days,

All souls who strove so well ’gainst press of death

Amidst the swirling steel. Now once again

The spear stabs into targe, axe chops the bone,

Men’s hauberks rip, limbs spill about the fields,

Clipped heads roll ’round. Watch how the gladsome blood

Glides down in sheets from hillocks unto fosse:

A red rill gath’ring, feeding all the blooms!

All daylight bleed the bodies – yet by eve

All severed parts and trunks united are,

Each man made whole. Great comrade-company

Yawps high unto the heavens! Dusk has come –

The hearth-fires glow their welcome through the doors.

 

Now to the benches! Feet stamp o’er the floor;

A carol’s chanted, teeth sink into cheese,

Bread’s chewed, ale’s poured, a hog turns on the spit;

And wine’s supped out of skulls, those bony cups

Once holding mortals’ musings, brimming now

With blood-red bubbles, nectar dark as gore.

Here come the valkyries! bearing tuns of mead

And slabs of meat still steaming from the fire.

Raging and Axe-Time, Mist and Reginleif, 

Power-Trace and Screaming, Shrieking – these impart

What sooty cook in kettle’s stewed that night:

A blackened bristly boar, to be reborn

Morn after morn, gods’ champions to feed!

No belly’s empty, no heart lacks a friend.

Not ’til the stars have wheeled half their course

Shall hall be still… then in the dawn all dash

Back to the greenswards, to have at once more.

 

 

III.

 

Far from the din, a grove of birches sips

Blue waters cold that gush and spill, then fall

Off Asgard’s edge, to plummet far through realms

Unknown. Here is half-gloomy place – all plump

And softish winged things swim through shade sea-thick…

The cliffs and crags drip rain, the florid limbs

Keep drops between their fingers, while birds’ heads

Fly haloed by the sun. Here heat and cold

Live side by side, as rivals reconciled;

And toadstools, safe and lethal, drink the showers.

Above tall pines, proud Dag glows as a god.

One dreams this place, some nights.

 

                                                                            The Aesir here

Oft meet in merriment, to feed with seed

The larks and turtledoves, or hold sweet talk,

Or play within the pools – e’en gladder they

Gather this morning, for they’ve sport with him

Of fairest face, a happy victim he:

That one whom all the ranks and files of things

And beings through the universe have pledged

Never to harm – Frigg’s son, now pure immune.

They take their turns, his brothers, sisters, friends,

Cousins and in-laws. Ull shoots all his darts,

Frey jabs his antlers, Tyr throws rocks and stones,

Thor hurls his hammer at ’im – but all points

And heavy bluntness touch him like a leaf

And go rebuffed. Now Freyja has her fun:

Lances she lets loose – like so many pins

They bounce off Baldur’s jacket. All delight

At such a marvel, laughing every time

Death fails to take him. No sport e’er made mirth

So much among the gods, no race or match

Or contest, nor their game of golden men

And silver on a checkered board. ’Til noon

They cast and thrust their weapons – Baldur shrieks

With loudest gleefulness!

 

                                                   Hod, all alone,

Alone is sad, for he from birth is blind,

And cannot aim, or watch how weapons fail.

With sighs the brother of fair Baldur sits

Upon a stone, his chin upon his palm,

And envies those who shout and view the game.

 

* * *

 

Not far away, another knows the ache

Of jealousy, and malice much he feels

Toward one who is so fair and so admired,

The circle’s center, darling of the gods.

’Tis Loki that so stews, ’neath gnarled tree –

A sour apple, fest’ring, filled with bugs –

That shades his sorrow, shares his dismal mind.

All-Father’s brother by a blood-tinged pact

Hath mischief on his mind… oh, more than that:

Much darker things than mischief! How might soothe

His chawing envy? harm that flawless lord

Who now past even Death exalted’s been?

“If Baldur’s fair,” thinks he, “no hue must bide

Upon his cheeks… If loved, then those who love

Must press great tears from out once-merry eyes!

But how to strike the blow?” The former troll,

Who still is troll, in mis’ry long doth dwell

As schemings vile wend through his vicious soul.

 

* * *

 

In Fensalir, that boggy, humid hall

Thick with mosquitoes, Frigg her distaff plies,

Spins gold and silver threads, bright red and blue,

Rich colors, endless lines from out her wheel –

More diligent, she, than the sisters three

Of fateful labor; and her seamstresses

Her threads weave into tunics, chitons, sarks,

And godly gowns, fit raiment for their clan

And for the elves, and highest ranks of men.

No trouble bites Frigg’s soul, for no hurt comes

To happy son – for what do valas know?

One voice from misty realm means naught at all…

And what things that queen sees in sleep, are sealed:

She knows the Norns, but doth not speak with them.

 

Her spinning wheel rattles, and her maids

Chat softly – five are giggling in the shade:

Protectress Lin, a guardian for those

Her mistress favors; Gna, who errands runs

On horseback o’er the roady earth; and Eir,

A healing spirit; Var, who vengeance takes

On untrue man or wife; and Fulla’s there,

Keeper of secrets that her lady speaks,

Bearer of ashen box where Frigga stows

Her slippers.

 

                          Through the curtains pours Sol’s life,

The passing noontime. Now the hall door creaks…

A woman’s at the threshold, bent of back:

A crinkled face she wears, bedraggled hair,

And with two hands she leans on knobby staff,

While all around her’s wound a dusty shroud.

She cranes her neck, to view the goddesses –

Such youth against her age, such golden health.

 

“Old woman,” Frigga saith, “I do not know

Thy countenance, but thou art welcome here:

Sit where thou wilt. My servants shall bring cakes

Of currant bread, and cream for thee, and wine –

Please tell us if there’s else thou wishest brought.”

 

“ ’Tis quite enough, I thank thee,” saith the crone,

As settles she among them. “Yet one thing

I come t’inquire, kind mistress – for I’ve heard

Thy wisdom of the magic worlds runs deep 

Through spells, odd sights, and things beyond poor ken

Of one fond, foolish woman, lame of wit.

But, to the matter: not far out these doors,

Where I was walking (somehow I this day

In strange parts find myself), a man is struck –

E’en now, as speak I, struck and struck again –

By others who a ring around him form:

By sharp points and by missiles he’s assailed;

But what is rare past rare: he is not harmed!

From all points fly fierce arrows, stones, and spears…

Yet no dart pierces flesh, no rock doth crush,

And all are chuckling – man off whom rebound

Those hard things, most of all! How comes it thus? 

What magic is at work, so wondrous strong?

And who’s that fellow, and how fell on him

Such marv’lous charm?”

 

                                              “ ’Tis simple,” saith good Frigg

In voice of sweetness. “That man is my son.

My love for him is such that I have made

Each thing of land and sky, of secret dens,

Of white-capped turquoise world, to pledge its troth

They’ll harm him never. No spell has been cast –

It is but trust upheld, the vow of all

To honor god so beauteous and true,

Do right by him, and strangle voice what spoke

Some prophecy of lower depths I shan’t

Waste breath in telling… And those folks who throw

Their weapons do but play: they are his kin,

The youngish ones of family.”

 

                                                             And crone grins

To hear that myst’ry solved. “Yet art thou sure,”

Asks she, “that nothing hast thou overlooked?

Not one small being, element, or soul,

In all thy glean of universal pledge?

The nine worlds hold more things than one might name.”

 

And Aesir’s queen turns silent for a spell,

Searching her mem’ries. Maidens five glance up,

Waiting what mistress saith. At last she tells:

“One thing there was that seemed too young to me,

Too small, too honest, and too delicate

To ever fear, or force a promise from:

’Twas mistletoe, that little perching plant

Seen on the alder, rowan, spruce, and pine.

In innocence it dangled, harmless thing,

From branches, taking pleasure in the light

And warmth of midday, as the sun dwelt high.

I passed it o’er – just one thing in the world.

I fear not: Innocence is pledge enough.”

 

* * *

 

Into the dark weald, far from Asgard’s bourn

Rides Loki on his palfrey – wilderness

But seldom trodden. Here are goblin haunts,

Here fairies good and evil. Falcons watch

The sly one pass; wee mice and squirrels hide

As clops the soot-black steed, and deer make stir

As rush they from the path. 

 

                                                        Hrimfaxi’s foam

Each bud and leaf bedews, wetting the earth

As morning creeps. Corpse Gulper stirs the winds;

And up through trees’ high branches Loki peers,

Searching that plant shall work poor Baldur’s fate.

 

* * *

 

“Why sulk ye there, good friend?” ’Tis Loki’s voice

That Hod hears. “Why not take part in that sport

Our kinsmen and kinswomen so enjoy?

More mirth we haven’t had in many years,

Throwing at Baldur.”

 

                                          “But how might I aim?”

Saith Hod. “Thou know’st I cannot see. Besides,

I own no weapon.”

 

                                      “Let me help you, then:

I’ll guide thy aim. I have a spear for you –

Not long, and light: an easy javelin

To aim at brother. Stand up… give your hand!”

Hod grasps the weapon, feels its meager weight.

“Pull back your arm,” saith Loki. “Just like so…

Now throw it straight!”

 

                                           Hod springs his arm with force,

Heaving the stick, and listens for its tap

’Gainst Baldur’s chest…

 

                                                   A stricken cry he hears –

A heavy thump, and gasps from all about.

 

“Oh Loki, Loki… Are you there? What is’t?”

 

 

IV.

 

The sun is low, the ship is set. Half on

The land it rests, half on the sea. Upon

The deck lies Baldur, wrapped in cerements,

Resting upon a bier of rowan logs.

Each god hath come. Skidbladnir, ship in air,

Hath borne good Frey; Thor’s goats have pulled his cart;

Heimdall’s arrived on trotting Golden Tuft,

While Freyja’s cats their mistress have conveyed;

And all the other Aesir, elves, and dwarfs,

And Vanir, and the foremost kings of earth

By steeds and feet and oars to seashore here

In mourning gathered have, to send off god

Most noble of creation. 

 

                                               ’Round the bier

In blinking mounds is piled a treasure hoard:

The wealth of Breidablik – bracelets and rings

Of wrought gold, helmets studded with the gems

Of dragons’ greed, swords, spears, and bucklers bright,

Coins heaped in pots, fat rubies dark as hearts,

Goblets and horns, stout flagons hammered out

Of stoutest bronze, and richest silverwork

Spilled forth from dwarven halls. 

 

                                                                     The judge of men,

All pale of cheek, shines like an ivory face

Upon his bed: the color of the rime

Of first-blown winter. ’Neath the gunwale kneels

His weeping wife; she hides her teardrops from

All those who stand about, and wipes her face

With flowing silken robe. Forseti, son,

Stands close beside her, and he grasps her hand.

No drops are twinkling on his face – he keeps

His vision skyward, dwelling on the realms

He’d fain his father’d go, instead of Hel.

A gold youth is he, heir unto that hall

High in the glaciers.

 

                                         Slowly, Odin treads

Unto the boat-bed, and from finger takes

His ring of magic – Draupnir, dripping gem,

A gift of gnomes, forged by the metalsmith

Whom Loki wagered with, who nearly won

The sly one’s head. On chest of fallen god

He sets the ring, then in his death-white ear

He whispers words breath-soft; and what he breathes

The world doth ponder o’er, e’en to this day,

This age of sorrow. With his mournful steps

The king-god drifts away. 

 

                                                     Now straw is brought –

Bundles and sheafs, all set around the bier;

And Nanna wails – she cannot stand her grief:

Her love now proves a curse; and husband fair

Shall enter Hel. Down on the stones she sprawls,

Sobbing and gasping, held close by her son. 

 

* * *

 

From Jotunheim, by wolf, Hyrrokin rides:

The Fire-Smoked, whose skin as dark as prey

Of Logi seemeth: shriveled giantess,

Singed as a cinder; and her reins are snakes,

A hissing bridle. Four berserkers take

Those vipers as she steps to earth – but rage

Of troll-dame’s steed stirs high: it bites and gnarrs,

That wild forest-dog.

 

                                           Its mistress heaves

At Baldur’s ship, long crescent painted gold,

Hringhorni, huger than all other steeds

Of ocean, ornamented with a hoop

At prow’s stem. Only giantess owns strength

To move that boat from shore. 

 

                                                                The straw is lit –

The servants leap from deck. Now rollers spark

Beneath great keel, and earth shudders below

That budging hull. The craft rolls towards the tide…

 

Thor waves his hammer three times o’er the sea.

The flames are spreading – ’midst the salty drafts

That pyre-ship drifts free; it bobs upon

A tumbling ocean. In the dusk, the flames 

Reach up along the mast – smoke curls and pours

Fast upward, towards gray clouds, then disappears.

Frigga the mother singeth this lament:

 

          And should I wish a tomb upon this earth

          My son to shelter? Countless seasons waste

          Away, and leave but vacancy and dearth

          And worthy monuments which cupids grace

 

          With petals and with prime’s most gorgeous blooms

          To comfort ashes on the land that lie,

          To lend sweet pinkness to a dreadful gloom,

          And grayest, dullest grave to beautify.

 

          A thousand years this sad land might live on…

          Upon the water drifts yon ship to sea.

          A tomb I’d wish, if I thought Baldur gone…

          But let the ship burn – hope doth burn in me.

 

* * *

 

“Who rides the road to Hel?” asks Frigg. “Who shall

Win love from me, and beg my son’s return?”

All Aesir, save the trickster, stand by cairn

Of Nanna – for her grief hath ta’en her life,

And follows she her husband on grim path

That each alone must tread, dreading what comes

In darksome hole at end. 

 

                                                   “Who journeys north? 

The queen demands. “If none, I fain would join

My son and marriage-daughter under earth

To sleep amongst the cobwebs and the worms 

Where gruesome things attend.” 

 

                                                             None speaks or moves,

All glancing ’mongst themselves, ’til at the last

One edges forth – ’tis Hermod, Baldur’s kin,

The messenger of heaven. 

 

                                                       “I shall ride,”

Speaks he, “and ride at once. Grant me a horse;

Grant courser swift – my brother I’ll redeem

From foul dungeon. No worms shall his flesh

Grow fat upon, no snakes sup on his gore,

No words of half-corpse force him do her hest!

All things are weeping: ice, and birds, and stones,

The oaks and streamlets, berries and the moss,

Wild hordes of creatures – this I’ll tell to her,

And see if any softness yet abides

In mold’ring breast.” 

 

                                          “Sleipnir is yours,” speaks he

Of one-eyed wisdom. “Nine nights is the ride

From here to Helgrind, wall of shadowed realm.

Here’s mail-shirt for thee, helm made firm with spells,

And sword most true, of flawless iron formed.

Eight legs shall bear you. Swift thy journey make –

May magic of the runes advance thy speed!”

 

Now straight the steed is brought, and Hermod leaps

To saddle. Kicks he flank, and horse is gone…

In eyes of Hermod glows his love of kin:

His heart and pity, and no dread of Death,

No fear of pain, no thought that Baldur’s lost.

 

 

V.

 

Galloping, galloping – meres and tarns now pass,

Now bogs of Midgard… Sun and moon fly ’round

Vast Ymir’s skull – the forests of his hair

Grow thick for endless leagues; his mountain-bones

Shine on horizon. Winds rush o’er the lands;

The famished wolf snarls. From rock-fastnesses

Dark things are watching.

 

                                                      Eve relents to night,

Relents to morning. Onward asa rides,

His cape out-flying – e’er to north he’s bound. 

Upon the twigs, the berries and the blooms

Waste slowly. Mists pour down from looming cliffs;

Frost’s on the road. No creature speaks a sound.

For days and days, the path winds through the tors

Of rock and ice.

 

                                Thick snowflakes settle – now

There’s thunder in the storms. A crackling roar

Sweeps ’cross the firmament. By lightning’s shine,

He spies a river, rider does – and bridge

Arching across, like bend of brilliant ring.

And Hermod spurs… Hard hoofs upon the gold

Ring out, resounding: plangent booms like bells

Struck by a hammer. Rain pours round as though

The earth were parched and sky had threatenèd

With curse and violence.

 

                                                   “Who is that upon

This way to Hela’s kingdom?” Something climbs

From ’neath the bridge – it is a hairy hag:

A giantess, her face with boils flecked, 

Her arms with warts.

 

                                           “Who makes my hell-bridge ring

So loudly?” asks she. “Loud as hundreds of

Dead souls o’erpassing?” Stares she with harsh eyes

Like rubies of a damned place. “I do keep

This way – am Modgud called, sentry of Hel…

But thou’rt not dead! Too colored are thy cheeks.”

 

His wand of spells the cautious god doth raise,

Ready to charm the troll-dame, should she speak

First words of wicked sortilege – or strike

With flashing blow. The messenger finds words –

He stutters: “I am Hermod called, the brave,

Dispatched by those of stations high and proud,

Even the Asgard gods! I charge thee, yield:

Come I to Niflheim, to beg one back

Is dear to us. My brother I’ll reclaim

From lair so deep, the core of seething earth –

From ’neath the stones and roots and dragon-dens,

Dank keep of Death, from nightmare and from howl

Of darkest sleep! Fair brother mine, I mean:

The beauteous Baldur. Nothing doth him suit

His rest in hall of dame half-hideous.

For life was he intended: life in glow

Of upper regions, cheer of fields in prime,

The blowing of the flowers, and of winds,

Where might he walk and laugh with lovely ones

Shall miss him ever… Ah, a woeful trick

Did rob my house of him! Now, let me pass.

All-Father bids it, and with Hel I’ll speak,

To bargain, plead, implore – I’ll cross this span,

And blast ye, if I must!”

 

                                                Keeper of bridge

Regards him long, then grins a wicked look,

Baring black teeth. “So many pass this way,

But few return… Is’t ‘few’ I say? I mean

None whatsoever. Jealous is that queen

Of all her subjects… But I’ll stay thee not,

Oh rider brave. The way is north, and down.”

 

* * *

 

So many hours… So many hoof-clops wend

Along a narrow path, in soundless murk.

Here roots protrude o’erhead, and drip cold drops

In ponds that are a floor of endless black.

Expanding ripples, ringing softest tones

In Hermod’s ear, criss-cross with trembling pulse:

Heartbeats of cavern pool. A far-off rush

Of frothing water’s hidden by the dark –

Some mumbling spout, too shy to show itself.

Whence flows the light? It lingers without source,

A faintest moon-gray luster, yet with gleams –

Here, there – of something warm as summer noon.

Small swimming things gulp flies at water’s top.

The bats’ wings rustle; air breathes ghostly words.

 

* * *

 

It is a shore far from the sun: the waves

Slide on an ocean rainstorm-gray. Dark sands

Lie caked with blood, and corpses crawl across

That strand of pain. All black’s the sky, all clogged

With venom-mist the air.

 

                                                   A serpent red

Chews on the damned, and sucks the syrup from 

Yggdrasil’s root. Moans rise from sinners’ throats –

The flesh of murderers the dragon tears.

Against its scales it tucks its leath’ry wings –

Beyond it loom the walls and towers of Hel,

While ’neath it, rages Bubbling-Boiling-Spring

So fierce, a gurge of ceaseless whirl and pain,

A gurgling cauldron, riddled thick with wyrms

That hiss and squirm, and gnaw each other’s tails,

Some floating out on rivers, through the caves

Toward evil regions, mazes under earth.

 

What lodge doth Hermod spy? Its warp and weft 

Of walls are twisting, slith’ring; and those groans

Sighing from roof-vents chill his heart. The door

Stands open to the north, and Hermod sees

Within do wade through streams of stinging drool

Flowing from vipers’ fangs, those who betrayed

Their lord in life, or brother, or a friend,

Or took the wife of neighbor to a bed –

Oath-breakers and seducers, woe to ye!

The serpents’ heads drip venom, which shall swirl

Forever round your thighs. Despair is pure:

The torment’s endless – moans die in the black,

And cold air whistles outside sans a pause.

Infernal place, this lair of the damned!

A hundred wingèd snakes shriek through the dark;

The sea is stained with blood.

 

                                                              In pit he sees,

The messenger, those brothers three who warred

So long ago ’gainst Aesir: Völund, smith

Who forged the sword he meant should cast the gods

From towers pearl, through cloud-realms, down to floor

Where now he squirms, unconscious. Egil and

Slagfinn are near him; all roll on the swell

Of mounds of serpents, far down in a hole,

Languid and listless, eyes shut, ever gnawed

By adders, asps, and dragons. Heime the son

And all his cousins writhe; but if they feel

Aught of those bites, he cannot tell, the god

Who peers upon them. Never rest the snakes;

The slopes cannot be climbed. 

 

                                                              Now Hermod spurs –

He’s seen the eyes of Nidhogg, yellow jewels

That fix on him, that seem to wish his soul.

Swift bounds his horse – it hath no wish to stay.

 

* * *

 

Oh house of death, calamity, disease,

The mortal wound! In crawling mists you lurk:

Upon thy gable clucks a coal-red cock

Which almost words doth speak, but ever keeps

His meaning from the world. Thy wet wood rots;

The cobwebs clog thy door, and mold and rust

Like scales and scabs do coat thee. Lichens gray

And fungi flower upon thee, mushrooms red

And lichen cups: a furry edifice,

The home of hunger, want, and poverty.

A fence of cracked bones girds thee – at thy gate

Garm barks and slavers: welcome from that hound

Of gory chest and lips! That way is closed –

You bid but few to enter: only ghosts

Of noble mien the dog lets pass within,

And no one living – all poor phantoms else

Must wander loathsome paths of under-earth,

If tortured they are not, nor locked within

Strange cells of lowest caves.

 

                                                            He paces back,

Eight-legged steed – and gallops, leaps the fence,

In dismal yard lands. Garm at end of chain

Is raging, but the rider heeds him not

And dismounts, ties not Sleipnir, and he goes

Swift through the door, not bothering to knock.

 

* * *

 

Within, a single candle weeps its rays,

The dust motes churn, and bats hang overhead,

Soft-cheeping, hiding faces in their wings.

Upon a dark throne Loki’s daughter sits

Arrayed in gold and velvet, diamonds, gems,

Dark cloths and veils adorned with silver threads.

Beneath, her legs are fest’ring, Hermod knows,

With pus swoll’n, chawed by worms; and messenger

Chokes on the horrid stench. She stares straight on,

Not seeing he who’s come, not shifting, and

Her face holds no expression. 

 

                                                             At the board

Pale Baldur slouches, while his wife beside

Emotionless doth sit as well, and straight

They gaze like lifeless dolls, both drained of face,

Full listless in their pose – except they clasp

Each other’s hands, but loosely. Floral crown,

All withered, Nanna wears. The table bears

A cornucopia of rotted fruits

And meats all flyblown. Hermod looks in eyes

Of man and woman – nowise pupils stir;

No word is said. Then Baldur’s brother turns

To gruesome mistress, and begins his plea.

 

* * *

 

“You say all things above us mourn for him,”

The ruler of the dead speaks. Hermod hath

His speech concluded. “If ’tis so, and all

Shall weep and wail for Baldur, I shall let

My thrall to leave, his wife as well. But mark –

If one thing that exists sobs not at all,

Those two shall stay with me – for aye, fore’er.

That is my word to you, oh loving god

Who brother doth lament.” And Hela lifts

All of her veils – 

 

                                 a beauty with blonde hair

Is she, forever youthful… at least from

Above the waist.

 

                                   To brother Hermod turns,

Hoping the god might stir: Deep in his eyes

He glares with sorrow – and, as from a trance,

The dead one starts of sudden, blinking eyes,

But smiling not. Into the hand of him

Who’s traveled to the netherworld, the god

Of justice and of beauty sets the ring

That Odin gave him. 

 

                                          “Hermod,” speaks the shade,

“Dear kinsman: please, with all my love, do thank

Our father – but the living only crave

Such sparkling richness… Here, one wisheth naught

But silence gray, and softness of the tomb.”

 

* * *

 

And soon word’s spread across the nine worlds’ stretch:

Now all things sob – the lands are waterlogged

With piteous weeping. Frigg and Odin ride

To make sure each last thing doth lend some tears,

Beseeching all their son to loose from grasp

Of her of deepest throne. Each man laments,

Each flower cries a spell, and rocks shed drops

Of salty sadness. To all nooks of land,

Each isle and spit, each fen and every wold

The parents bring their plea, so hoarsely spoke:

“Weep him from Hel, the fairest of the gods!”

 

Hope rides with them: no beast nor object’s scorned

Their supplication – straight have they but asked,

And pity’s wakened in each simple breast,

Each soul of herb and beast and silent stone;

And through vast waters, and high through the air

Have messengers been sent – and each was pleased

To never have been spurned, bearing that urge

Of Valhall’s regals. 

 

                                      Asgard now looms nigh,

That isle of paradise, seat of that town

Of holiness, a city gold and pale 

To which the spirits blessed retire on death

Up rainbow-road; and Odin swells with cheer,

For naught’s declined to pay such easy fare

For Baldur to return to Breidablik

And to sweet family’s rooms in highest hall;

And Frigga too is light upon her horse,

Praising each lovely sight, each lovely dream

Of warm-cold summer day. 

 

                                                         The gales blow stiff

And toss the horses’ manes. What now remains

To bar their son’s redemption? All have heard

And heeded suit… except, perhaps, the one

Who might dwell in this hovel by the road,

A hut they’ve never passed. Some meager smoke

Escapes a roof-hole. Frigga quits her horse

And peers within the entrance, while her lord

Walks close behind her.

 

                                                 Someone’s stirring stew:

Frigg squints, and sees it is a withered crone

Who grins with snaggle-teeth, invites her in,

And beckons too her husband. In the hut

She ladles them no soup. Her eyeballs shine,

Two stars set in a skull draped o’er with skin.

 

“What do you wish, oh handsome dame – and you,

Man with a wide-brimmed hat?” the old one croaks.

 

“We ask if thou,” speaks queen, “shalt weep for him

Who languisheth in clutch of loveless one,

That daughter of the devil who hath fled

Our clan just after low and treach’rous deed:

We mean our shining son, by malice slain –

By evil Loki, and unwitting Hod

Who nonetheless, for all his innocence,

Must life-debt pay if Baldur’s not restored.

She asks all universe be lachrymose,

That morbid monarchess: exception aught

Chains holy scion to his fest’ring seat.

Thou art the last one of all earthly things

Who stands betwixt the lord of justices

And renovation… Weep, we thee implore:

If one thing doth forbear, all pains are lost!

Have pity – merest sob is all we ask.”

 

The old one sets her jaw, and smiles again,

Letting those parents perch upon their spire

Of tallest hope. 

 

                               “Ne’er have I wept for one

Who is not me,” grimalkin growls to them,

“Nor will I now – for what hath Baldur done

That serves me?”

 

                                    And full scarecrow-stiff they stare,

Those dumbstruck parents, on that one unmoved

As horror crawls upon them, and it lays

One hand on each of them.  

 

                                                         “But please,” he saith,

Old sire of Baldur, “nothing might it cost

Thy health, thy weal, to shed but snail’s drink

Upon the ground… Hast thou a child, crone?

Take pity! Let me once again enfold

My arms around that beaming innocence

Who by mishap was lost! Decree is strict

Issued from throat of gloom – and ne’er shall come

Another chance of rescue… Thou condemn’st

Our souls to utter mourning; and the tears

Of populations, nature, rudiments

Of simplest mind and heart, shall ne’er relent,

Drowning the world so many times again

Which hath already gasped in grievous flood.”

 

But crone – a fiend, let call her – wavers not,

And speaks to make that couple faint for woe:

“Let Hel keep what she hath. I cannot weep –

No love feel I; it left me long ago,

And now is but a word.”

 

                                                  All day they plead

And threaten, thunder – but old woman grins

With arrogance; and in the eve depart

The parents sorrowfully. She sees them go,

That crone who is no crone… It vanisheth,

Her hut. The mischief-devil laughs and claps,

Then through the dark woods, soundless, disappears.

 

* * *

 

Asgard laments – in Hel shall Baldur dwell,

And for all ages shall the hound him guard.

Upon the storm-blue sea, wave-maidens toss

Man’s ships in grief – tides shudder ’gainst the hulls.

Frigg’s tears run fast – ’fore sun and moon she weeps –

And some, in pity, doth the mistletoe

Take as the snow-white berries of its twigs:

Snow-drops of ache – to eat, much sickening,

Those berries pure of color in tree limbs.

 

 

VI.

 

The somber world wilts. Now a chill wind runs

Before its season, coating life with frost,

Clotting seas with floes: an autumn-time

Harsh nearly as the winter, and as quiet.

In Breidablik, sad Hod his refuge seeks,

That home of sacred justice and of vows

Binding with heaven’s faithfulness – none bides

Within its shining rooms or alcoves now.

No wight might blood shed in this high retreat,

This sanctuary, where Forseti grew,

Learning from father how to mercy choose

And rule with fairness, judging men’s disputes.

Lingers still something of that golden air,

That atmosphere, the sparkle of the good

In hall and threshold – but Hod cannot view

Such waning glimmer: black as Helheim low

Is lonely castle for him – and such grief

As dead do feel, doth weep out from his eyes:

 

“Where art thou, brother? Dost thou dwell in hate

Against me, on the lowest rock of earth,

Where all is sullen turmoil, trembling ire,

A pit beneath hard miles of heavy stone,

Thick-sulfurous and steaming? Oh forgive

This hand that slew thee! Dost thou know ’twas not

My will, but Lok’s, what hurl’d thee to thy doom?

How might I tell thee? None might voyage low

Through Helgrind, save the one who shan’t return…

But oh, I fear the godly law that seeks 

My life in payment for the one I took!

Though none might wish it, yet ’tis firm decree

My spilling blood must answer that I spilled…

And so I grope by day in chambers these

Where Nanna once did nurse her glowing bairn,

And Baldur dandled him, and laughs were heard

Of playing child, and merry parents’ joys:

My safety from revenge, whoe’er it be

Might strike the unseen blow… Only by night,

When air is cold and weird owls speak their note,

When Nott’s robe clothes my coward’s self in dark,

Do roam I ’mongst the shaws, sometimes the glades,

Feeling for berries, or what else sustains

My life a mis’rable while…

 

                                                       “With coney’s ears

I listen as I forage, keen to hear

Least footsteps on the leaves or creaking grass

Betraying subtle tracker who doth seek

To gift my blood to Jord, our mother earth

Who, though with mourning, yet will gulp the boon.

But hush, my heart, and hush my anxious breath…

Let come what will – perhaps to die is best.”

 

* * *

 

Not Mimir’s head, nor Norns, might answer him,

All-Father, when he asks: “Which power, which force,

Which creature shall him slay – slay guilty soul,

Guilty by law, though malice none was his,

But nonetheless is destined to partake

Of table of his victim? None from here,

This Asgard realm, might lift the vengeance-sword:

Forbidden ’twas by sacred oaths, by vows

Sworn long ago, when godly race was young,

To kill one’s fellow asa (then was thought

But little of such somber woeful need

As now doth press, delay of life-debt paid).

This later age, this age of chill and gloom,

Of autumn light slow-setting towards its bed,

Now feels what’s necessary – but no hand

Appears, to wreak the deed.” 

 

                                                             Valhalla’s quiet

Is broken by hushed steps: All-Father turns

To see Hermod his son, all grave and stern,

Who late did brave the gloom.

 

                                                              “Oh list, my sire,”

Speaks he. “Oft have I heard, in lore that’s told

At hall’s hearth, or ’round cooking-flames beneath

High starry hinterland, by skalds and bards

Much-learned, of a wizard to the east:

Horse Thief the Finn, who in a palace sits

Of ice-blocks green like green glass, and keeps herds

He’s stolen in an ice-pen. Winter’s fays

Perform his will, with hailstorms frightening 

Wild horses on the moors, making them rear

And stamp and kick and tell with whinnying 

How much the blasts them gally; and the steed

Bearing a rider, soon hath bucked him off –

And all that noble kind caught ’neath the burst

Off gallops, snorting, wheezing, urged by winds

With madness towards circumf’rence of that realm

Where mews the mage much stallions, mares, and foals

To bulge his wealth.

 

                                          “Each hour, a prophecy

Appears within his mind (’tis claimed). By night

It’s three, brought on by wisps of slumber’s sprites,

Th’unconscious disir of pure ether-world,

Who visions set before his wizened eyes

Shut in their sleep: tumultuous and dire

Portents of deeds and feats, the world’s works –

Fast flow of fate, or slow musing of time.

What from the Norns is hid, may yet reside

Within the wondrous chambers of his brain –

Though sure to ask his wisdom means dread risk,

For Rossthiof no visitor does wish,

Only more herds… Yet still, for Baldur’s sake,

And sake of holy justice, vows, and love,

I’ll seek that sorcerer, set out again

On desp’rate journey. So command me, sire,

And grant thy steed once more. Uncomforted

Shall seethe dark blood-spill of thy fulgent son,

My brother, should revenger stay unfound.”

 

And Odin’s soul, with admiration roused,

Prompted to courage by his valiant son

Who ’fore no peril quakes, makes zealous hope

For vengeance all his heart-thought.

 

                                                                       “Oh brave child,”

He saith, “none ride towards Horse Thief, save the crazed

Who fain would perish – or no danger reck –

Or wit not who’s before them… But I trow

None ’mongst such fools e’er brandished runic spear

Such as I grant thee: Only what is etched

Upon its shaft might prove true shield against

What magic swirls in Finland’s wilds, called forth

From wastes untrod, unnamed, and seldom seen.”

 

* * *

 

The land drops sheer – so tall, that glimm’ring cliff

Sweeping from Asgard down, down towards the vales

Of man’s dominion… Down through gorges gray

Sleipnir is racing, leaving sun and gold

Of worthy Valhall, shattering the rocks

With hoofs and pounding might, such urgent speed

While Sol sparkles aloft. The grand world roars,

Loud winds and heaven’s fire – now into shade

The steed is dashing, faster than a star

From hidden sky-realm plunging…

 

* * *

 

                                                                          Silence sits

On land of craggy caves, tunnels and twists:

The mossy tombs of beasts, where skeletons

Of hideous skulls and claws and horns and fangs

Rest mould’ring. Contours of these loathly wastes

Now speak with cycling winds, cold crawling sighs.

This is the land god seeks, but not a sign

Of palace shows to Hermod. Long ago

The trail-path vanished. Here the land is rough;

And clods and branches, rocks and boulders strewn

All ’cross this earth delay the eight legs’ pace.

Now comes an eerie shuffling under stones,

And scratches from the hollow places catch

The ear of rider – glances he at cave

And cave, straining to gaze inside the dark,

But squints for naught. For hours follow him

Those noises – sometimes ’neath him, sometimes from

The hills, rock-piles beside him: whispers, steps,

Faint grinding of loose gravel.

 

                                                              What mirage

Beams in the purple dusk? A fantasy,

Forbidding ice-spire of a frosty green

Infused with evening’s rays – horizon-far,

A sight smeary with brightness, indistinct,

Still hundred miles remote. Hermod takes cheer;

His wonder-steed trots faster. On and on,

Towards prouder hillocks, through the fogs and brush

They press the rest of eve, ’til Nott up-stirs

And rouses Mani.

 

                                   Eyes, flame-red and green,

Peep from the caves’ mouths – figures stir within –

And now within the moonlight fidget shapes 

Marshaled for murder! Croaks and horrid barks

Through hill-lands echo: Goblins, lizards, imps –

Jewel-bright and dreadful – kobolds, snakes and sprites,

Lindworms and minions, all assail the god

With hisses, taunts, and sneers: they mock that soul

Who moves toward wizard-master.

 

                                                                        Hermod kicks

Sleipnir to courage, and against that horde

Lifts lance inscribed with magic symbols shown

To Odin as he dangled from the ash –

And ’fore such sight, the demons moan and quail

And run to clefts and pits, those spells t’avoid

Harming the foes of bearer of the signs.

And so triumphant seeker passes swift,

Chasing the devils down before eight hoofs,

Thrashing his father’s spear at laggard imps

Too slow to shelter gain – and soon beyond

That fiend-stretch Hermod rides, to open fields

With snow half-dusted. All through deep’ning night,

O’er felsenmeer so frigid, frozen grass

That clinks beneath the hoofs, the fearless god 

Approaches gloomy citadel that glows

So evilly in starlight, like some gem

Intelligent, alive with soul malign,

Breeding a wicked dream. 

 

* * *

 

                                                       Mage opes his eyes

At tower’s pinnacle, dispelling trance

Of sea-floor of his sleep: Horse Thief hath glimpsed

Young asa’s progress, and those sigils’ force

O’er guardians. Through casement down he peers,

Tracing with eyes so maliceful that dot

Through tundra moving… Eight-Legs looks a prize

Surpassing every horse he’s stol’n before –

A fine gem ’mongst his herd.

 

                                                           To ettin’s shape

Mage translates, gaining threefold stature, and

A rope he gathers. Down the winding steps

Leaps Rossthiof to meet that deity

So foolish, rash, his bastion to approach.

What might he think: to rustle stallion-crowd?

To challenge magic-maven – gain his fort,

Make Finland his dominion? Horse Thief gnaws

His lip with rage, then with his giant-lungs

Fierce bellows, god to frighten.

 

                                                                 At the gate

Of emerald ice encounter god and mage,

Wrathful and ready. Odin’s horse rears high…

The lasso’s thrown – but Sleipnir slips that snare

And rides around the jotun, who is tripped

With blow of lance. Quick-leaping from his mount,

The rope god seizes, then binds hands and feet

Of clumsy giant, faster than can rise

His heavy bulk: god wrestles Rossthiof

To former wizard-form.

 

                                                “Now art thou thrall

And helpless ’fore my will!” Hermod exclaims.

“Thy cord I’ve wound about thee – now, to save

Thy life, reveal to me one thing thou’st seen

In swevens of thy sleep – no tricks, Horse Thief!

Return I shall, if thou think’st to deceive

One owning Odin’s spell craft. Tell me sooth:

Who shall fulfill high law, exact revenge

On wretched Hod, my brother, for his sin

Of slaying Baldur? Who shall him beget,

Who bear him? Where arises he on earth –

Or under earth, or on the angels’ plane –

That one requiting blood with slaughtered blood?

Tell, by words or vision; and upon

The Leipter, stream of Helheim, must thou swear

Thou speakest true.”

 

                                           And Hermod slackens rope,

Unties the knots once mage gives solemn pledge

By dark creek that he shan’t the god deceive.

In snow a finger scrawls, and towards the sky

Mage mutters what he writes: strange formula

Invoking prophecy. 

 

                                        Now globe of gold

So lately fallen, traces back its course

Up from deep rest, its beams stinging the eye,

Bright’ning the land, o’erwhelming meager moon,

When of a sudden, Sol ’gins dim behind

A mass of mists that rushed upon her rays,

Choking the blazing queen. Now Nott hath reign

Once more: the lands tilt back again toward shade,

And mountains tremble, fearing what shall show

To marveling Hermod.

 

                                              “Lo – thine answer, god!”

The sorcerer booms, and points he to where stretch

Champaigns night-glinting, towards an ice-blue peak

The mists disclose. The clouds like whirlpools

Go swirling in the hawk-realms – hailstones whirl

Upon storm-giants’ gasps and puffing breaths…

And from the tor’s top dribbles life-blood now

As though Jord wounded were: a scarlet gush,

Gruesome eruption, staining purest white 

Of cornices and slopes – toward humble hills

At berg’s foot spouts that flood. Aiguilles and gaps,

Glaciers and knolls are spattered, drowned and whelmed 

By deluge ominous, ’til last the plains

With discharge are discolored. 

 

                                                              “See who shall,

By Odin’s seed, give birth to slayer of

Law-breaker Hod,” saith Horse Thief… and appears 

From snow ensanguined, woman without clothes,

Splendid and awful, shining as the fire

Raging in Surt’s realm. Miles tall she stands,

That apparition, easily both moon

And strangled sun surpassing in her glow;

And curls, like brazen halo, crown her head

So noble, haughty – all upon this world

Disdains she as crude earth-clay; every man

She scorns with coldness. 

 

                                                       Yet, a babe appears

Now at her feet – she, gloomy, sinks to ground,

Seeming to wither, as when flower wilts

When cold or heat excels. The infant grows

Soon tall as mother was – a youth, a man! –

And strides o’er snowfields, quiver carrying

Upon his back – and arrow suddenly

Reaches to grasp – a bow’s within his grip.

He notches, draws… and shoots! That comet-dart

Burns softly ’cross the high and bournless murk,

More wondrous momently than visions all

And lamps of firmament. Hermod shuts eyes,

Then gaze resumes – and all hath disappeared,

Those prodigies and omens. Nott serene

Bides o’er the world; once more unstainèd sits

The glist’ring snow.

 

                                         The god hath recognized

That female sneer: Rinda, proud princess of

Rough Ruthenes, masters of the edgeless steppe:

King Billing’s daughter; and a royal girl

More arrogant, despising, knows the world

Not one. Few suitors hope to win her charms,

For each and every, son of suzerain

Though be he, thinks she full unworthy of

Her fav’ring kiss. To ride in headlong hunt

With maidens of the swan is all her wish,

And with those valkyries dash above the clouds,

One of their number, storms swelling where drive

Their soaring stallions: Heart of heroine

Chafes ’gainst the palace walls that block her will

And ’gainst stern father wishing her to wed

Some wealthy prince. 

 

                                         “That archer,” Horse Thief speaks,

“By Ygg begotten, by great terror-god,

Shall gain to manhood ere the moon hath set 

That very night he’s born – and through Hod’s heart

Fated is he a killing bolt to send

Before three days pass. But, for all such speed

Of flesh accreting, and of search to slay

The blind god, slow shall prove the wooing quest

Of Odin, ere all this – for virgin girl,

Aloof, contemptuous, might even spurn

The highest hero, one who shows by deed

A god-soul that’s disguised. A courtship hard

Thy father must pursue, if cosmic law

Be satisfied, and gore balanced with gore.”

 

This saying, and all magic sparks dispelled,

Without farewell, and sweeping swift his cloak, 

The mage returns through open gelid gate,

Leaving the dazzled Hermod and his steed

To trek back home, that Ygg might vision learn. 

 

 

VII.

 

The months progress, and glacier flowers freeze

To be reborn in thaw of dripping spring

In places men ne’er visit, only sprites

And disir, little mice, and things with wings

High in the mountain woods of evergreens,

Where now a solitary wand’rer hikes

Eastward through landscapes cool and dark, sublime,

Through canyons and through passes far from homes –

A blue-robed figure, trudging through the herb,

Gungnir in hand, a broad hat giving shade

’Neath lamp that’s shifting in and out of clouds

Like maid displaying beauty by meek fits.

The trickles of cold melt run under boots

As towards the streams they gather. Oft in mists

He’s nearly turned around, losing his way,

But e’er regains direction.

 

                                                     With th’ascent

Of prime’s last month, now through one bergschrund last

Of glacier-region Odin journeys down

With tireless step, down hills scruffy with scrub,

A windswept tree appearing here and there,

’Til afternoon, half-sunny, sees him gain

Those plains immense where Ruthenes move and dwell –

The grandest horse-herd land, windy, far-blurred

Monotony of grass, where columns, crowds

Of riding bandits rove and, thund’ring, strike

The unsuspecting town, hamlet, or camp,

Setting to flames the halls, the tents, the homes

As wealth and women gratify their greed.

 

Now Odin stops and, hand against the sun,

Looks o’er that grassland running towards the edge

Of all the world, as though it should not halt

Until, in some strange age, it fell abrupt

Off into nothing… Days and weeks of breeze

Rustling the gentle stalks await the god,

Long journey through the herb ere site he finds

Where Rinda lives: a walk unvarying

As cirrus-wisps like ships pass overhead

In upside-down sea – vast, infinite blue.

 

* * *

 

Ruthenian hall: upon the plain it sits

As, on a table, some exquisite cake

Bright-decorated perches. Onion domes,

Elaborate tessellations, zigzags, stripes,

And golden cupolas like giant bells:

Rare workmanship, strange fancy of a folk

All-Father hath forgotten – distant sons

Living so far from Asgard.

 

                                                    By the guards

Cloaked wanderer is questioned – in short while

Before King Billing’s throne and court he stands,

Bows low, and offers service: “Hail, great lord,

Ruler of steppes so wide one might traverse

Not half them in a season! Vegtam is

The man of no fixed home who here arrives –

A warrior errant, handy with the spear,

Slaught’rer of hundreds. Where the carrion birds

Do gather, circle, watch, knowing great feasts

Will spread beneath a sword-clash, there I go

To earn my gold at playing iron game,

Plus other boons besides… Plunder and loot

Enhance my wages, and the hefty sum

I hide ’neath earth, some future day to claim

When strength of spear-arm falters, and my shield

I lift only with wincing.

 

                                              “Word hath reached

Mine ear of hosts assembling in these parts:

Thine own, and fell invaders’. Murmured speech

And whispered hints I’ve heard, no overt news –

But ’nough to steer my step towards Billing’s way;

And those few whom I crossed, more near I came

This hub of empire, more persuaded seemed

Some battle-outbreak gathers… But, straight on

To what I proffer: all my skill, to lead

Ruthenia’s soldiers in thy stead, oh king –

For aged ye are, ’twas told, and’s plainly true;

And one well-favored, as I am, by gods

With utmost verve of brawn and hearty strength

Shall courage lend to knights’ and horsemen’s hearts

More surely than one frail, though frail king be

So ven’rable, well-loved. ’Tis said the swarms

Of bandits swell to double what thou sway’st,

And yet come gath’ring still… One thing alone

I’ll ask of thee, once deities have blessed

Thy cavalries with triumph, if thou sett’st

Vegtam at columns’ head: somewhat that’s dear

To thee, I dare imagine – yet with joy

Shall granted be, I trow… Tell thy reply,

Oh wise King Billing!”

 

                                             Odin with his eye

Now watches snooty Rinda come in view

Amongst the court – fair-haired and haughty-faced,

Sneering straight at him! Ever sneering, cruel,

Disdainful of rough stranger… yet so fair,

So cruelly fair! All-Father’s spirit sighs,

So stricken is he now by that divine

Though mortal beauty: Freyja all her gifts

On Rinda did extinguish when in womb

Was knit she to perfection. Oh, that lacks

Such creature mercy matching with her charms,

’Tis infinite pity… Wicked is her mind,

Alas, toward man’s affections, toward vain hopes.

 

The ancient king speaks with a voice much hoarse

For anguish o’er the wars of old, for cares,

For loss and lonesomeness, for good queen’s death

Not months ago, and now for newest surge

Of grasping bandit-kings from outer plains:

“Oh one-eyed bloke, whatever thou dost ask

Thou’lt have, if thou dost smash the foe in truth –

Those hateful armies which e’en now do cross

My kingdom’s bourne unguarded… But success

I doubt much, truth be told, e’en with thy aid

Of leadership, for every Ruthene lad

And man – with horse, without, noble and rude –

Who stirs upon my summons, treble meets

(Not double, as thou’st heard) in teeming host

Of plund’rers. So my spies and lookouts tell…

And each of enemy thinks tracts to gain

And wide estates, a household and a wife,

Putting to death we lords within this hall,

Making our daughters and our wives their own.

Three kings have made themselves a single force,

And ’gainst three, one king hardly hopes to stand:

One stag against three wolves, bereft of aid,

Bereft of friends – though not quite, for arrives

Such heartfelt soul as ye. How curious,

Thy offer comes just now, when downfall looms…

But I’ll not brood o’er ruse or stratagem –

Perhaps thou’rt more than seemest. Ah, no more;

Cease speech, old Billing! Take my steed and sword,

Oh Vegtam, and on morrow, lead my horse

And foot to meet this threefold nemesis

With might of dauntless beater ’twixt thy ribs –

Guerdon thou’lt have, if beating still it is.”

 

 

VIII.

 

The buzzards’ banquet: Odin walks in dusk

Stiff-leggedly through field turned marsh of blood

And oozing limbs. Three heads he holds by hair,

Each open-mouthed, astounded by the blade

That swung the neck to cleave. Three crowns are crushed

By hero of the Ruthene soldiery

Upon a des’late plain no man had viewed

’Til Fates fulfilled their judgment men should rot

In thousands here, unburied, glimpsed by none

Save stars indiff’rent, and by sun and moon

Perched so aloof.

 

                                    The gore-flecked battle-chief

Lifts grisly trophies, that his throng might view

How wasting is the massacre. Hoarse cheers

Are lost upon the wind – not one-third live

Of all who Billing heeded, who obeyed

Vegtam in warfare.

 

                                       Little they suspect

Most grand of gods at army’s front them led,

Though saw they much of courage in his mien

And fire-like ardor – then they felt revive

That same heart in themselves, deeming might drop

An endless foe before such shakeless strength.

At crack of morn, an arch Gungnir described 

Through air betwixt the hosts, inviting hordes

Well-girt for war, that day to lave in blood.

Red shield was lifted, and the fight came on –

And by the setting of the targe-blocked star,

No bandit had the god-led crowd escaped,

But all were cut down, or were captive made.

 

And Vegtam now turns back to Billing’s hall

So many days away, eager for prize

Whose issue shall exact Baldur’s revenge.

On sun-flush day, before the court he stands

With vict’ry proud, and of the grateful king –

Grateful and much relieved, sweating with joy –

Requests his boon: that hand so delicate

Of doll-like Rinda.

 

                                    King swiftly assents,

In fact is keen to grant her, for he lacks

Grandchildren any: “Let the nuptials

Be held this very night! Var shall hear vows,

And I myself shall pour the wine for guests

And bride and groom! The hammer shall I place

In daughter’s lap; at head of torchlit crowd

I’ll see to bed the couple. Messengers:

All o’er my city, also nearby towns,

Send word that subjects, by dear Vegtam saved,

Must come to bless this pairing, and bless heirs 

Shall rule my kingdom o’er the gracious years!”

 

And Billing bids his daughter, standing near,

Come grasp the hand of her betrothed – a pledge

She’ll not refuse to lend her will to him

Shall be her husband.

 

                                             But that flaring pride

Flashes in eyes of Rinda, as though blaze

Within her heart were stoked, swift rousèd up

With princess-hauteur, hot scintillas waked

To more than usual wrath. Tall, trembling with

Panicked dismay, the sudden damsel sweeps

Her cloak, as from the hall she quickly flees,

Stunning her father, and perplexing lords

Returned from war.

 

                                         All-Father only grins,

Knowing how far the maiden shall retreat

Across th’eternal fields of swaying green,

Into the hidden places of the land

Jagged with boulders – songless, birdless tracts

Far from all comfort, company, and aid,

Hoping her fate t’avoid – foolish and fond,

So useless, oh vain princess! Horse she takes,

One of the barons’ – quick unties the knots,

And down the road, straddling her steed, she speeds,

Veers into herb, letting the high stalks slap

Her weeping face, frighting the crows to flight,

Drawing the stares of all the court from porch

And from the windows. Soon she’s disappeared

Behind a hillside, riding towards bleak lands

Horizon keeps like secrets ’neath its rim.

 

* * *

 

In agony she writhes, a poor bird shot

By hunting-arrow loosed by Fates’ decree

E’en ere her birth – e’en ere her parents’ births,

Prior to time, and all the vain assays

Beneath the restless wheeling of the orbs.

In woods she languisheth – the cold rain falls,

The pines shudder and whisper. What shall crawl

From pain-swoll’n belly, from the womb that bulged

By Odin’s ravishment?

 

                                              Not one day grown

Inside of Rinda, now the child doth press,

Its freedom to attain: why ’twas conceived

It knoweth, ere all else. Prodigious growth

Makes princess squirm and wail: her father’s name

She calleth on, though he is worlds away –

And now, advanced to higher agonies,

Some mercy-seraph begs she breast to pierce

With slaught’ring lance, and so cease punishment

For disobeying father.

 

                                             Two throats now

Issue the wailing… but one silent falls

Ere long: ’tis not the babe’s. The afterbirth

Drops in a rainpool. Rinda faints away,

Relaxes, and she feels her breathing die

As child-avenger crawls, then takes to feet,

Stumbling and stomping… Soon his footing’s sure;

And Vali by a lightning flash discerns

Quiver and bow All-Father left for him:

The instruments of law’s fulfillment, though

No thought of law stirs child, only the lust

Of hunter to slay quarry.

 

                                                  Deadly darts

And bow the new child seizeth – not a thought

Spares he for mother. Eyes like ouches black

Flash ’neath the moon as races through weird storms

That child becoming youth, becoming man

Each passing minute. No sound makes his stride,

For rabbit-soft’s each step. Naked he springs

Through night-cold moorlands wet with half-sunk rain:

Rough gardens of the world, snail-nibbled ferns,

Thick brakes whose thorns draw blood, and flower-fields

With petals op’ning now, as peeks its face

Eye-blinding morning. Fleeter than a wolf

Runs Vali up the foothills, and no beast

Could hope to match his speed up rocky heights,

Up lonesome, treach’rous mounts – snow slows him not,

On ice he never slips.

 

                                            Valhalla-wards

He climbs two days, and not once stops for breath;

But high to slopes unscalable he mounts,

Ascending lumps of rock and pyramids,

Great peaks and bluffs, bright summits that should be

Only in dreams, stark pinnacles of dark

Against the violet world… Now steps he gains,

Crude footing, staircase carved in rock face sheer,

First entrance to that realm held over ours:

The Asgard path, high porch of dizzy tier,

Long heaven-access, fatal to mere man,

With flights of steps which ever grow more sure

The higher one doth climb; and now there swells 

From clouds, dread choirs’ music – chantings soft

Of Vali’s quest, and destiny… Revenge!

Revenge! Revenge! The very universe

Moans with a howling passion.

 

                                                               Soon, huge door

Cream-pink of heaven glitters in the mists

Not far from where the sun roars. Cherubim

At runner marvel – mountain disir gape

At black-eyed bowman; and none bars his way

Straight through that portal, for to touch him seems

To hazard instant death. Blue heavens beam;

The clouds swirl all beneath him, and a gale

Grabs at the flags and banners of high fort,

Thrilling their lengths a-flutter. 

 

                                                               Hermod stands

At gods’ vast gate – the youth he notices,

One grim-determined, dauntless as he runs,

But knows not Vali ’tis. “No boy with hair

Uncombed, and unwashed hands, may enter here!”

Stern god speaks – and the lad who’s nearing halts, 

Tenebrous eyes transfixing Hermod’s own;

And mouth of boy replies, with voice that rings

Like nightmare: “Bar not him begotten was

To grant what law implores, what heaven cries

Must be enacted! Come I forth to slay

The god who Baldur slew – bring me before

My father, Ygg, the shaper of this world,

To learn where haunts that wretch, the doomèd one!

Speak, Hermod, brother!”

 

                                                      And the god at gate,

All wordless and subdued, leads black-eyed youth

To Valhall’s throne room. Frigg th’avenger spies,

And now despairs to know a second son

Must tread the lower paths. In maidens’ arms

She hides and weeps. Einherjar and the maids

Who serve them at their feasts all gather ’round –

As well, what gods are there – and Vali nears

The high god on his seat. 

 

                                                    All-Father greets

His son not three days old, yet full a man:

“Offspring of Rinda, swarthy-eyed and cruel,

My child most merciless: thou wast conceived

For harsh but glorious task – half-human, thou

Mightst slay this guilty one and not defile

We Aesir’s honor, forfeit not our rule,

Our righteous reign o’er cosmos and the void.

This holiness – this sweetness and this power,

This dreamlike glory of a rare-glimpsed realm –

Shall undebased endure, and earth as well

Shall stave off cataclysm…

 

                                                        “Look, beyond

My throne room shines a threshold – yonder stretch

Dark wolds where cringing Hod puts off his fate,

Roaming by night, seeking his desp’rate fare – 

The rowanberry, mushroom, and the root –

Groping his blind way, ever list’ning for

The footsteps of his slayer. Go, and end

Disbalance of high justice! Naught shall rest

’Til corpse the first corpse counterweighs. Proceed,

All Asgard urges thee! Nothing delays

Horrific consequence!”

 

                                                And Frigga sobs

As towards the beaming fields bold archer runs –

Across the splendor-plain, the silver meads

Glinting like moonscape, soft as eiderdown,

Disturbing nighttime fays that ’mongst the tufts

In gangs make merry – then ’midst murky holts

He dashes whilst the sun dips, list’ning for

Half-brother’s step or breath.

 

* * *

 

                                                             Pure quiet’s all

Hod’s ear discerns… Yet something pricks it up,

Making him freeze; and breathes he not at all.

Minutes of breeze pass, whistling, tousling locks

Atop his head… when suddenly a voice

Reverberating like some knell of fate

Rolls ’cross the forests towards him: “Comes at last

Thy doomful killer, destined to destroy

A cow’ring knave self-exiled from the law,

Postponing only thy grim destiny,

Annulling not! From far thee I espy,

Who hast the same guilt which vile Loki hath,

But runnest ’fore him towards the pit of death,

Oh Hod, who with thy brother’s gore art stained!

And now I draw my arrow. Run, if wilt:

’Tis sport for me, unerring demigod 

Whose dart shan’t miss! Oh run, if hope thou hast!”

 

And Hod to Breidablik seeks to escape

As Vali screams, his cry a hunting call

More fell than any winding of a horn,

A clamor shiv’ring earth. Heedless and wild,

O’er stones and roots stumbles the panicked one,

Frantic that in the hall of Baldur he

Might clutch some sword of terror and a shield

Of darkness, then for aye in cupboard hide,

Or closet, wardrobe, attic, cellar-nook,

And ne’er come out, though slowly starve he should,

And thusly yield his ghost: No terror, there

In four close walls – no sudden, singing shaft

Transfixing him, like awful lightning bolt

With total pain it sends, with boundless fear 

Just in that awful moment.

 

                                                        Aim is firm;

The archer’s hands are steady. Vicious glint

Of arrow-tip springs with the twanging note

Of shudd’ring yew-string – and hardly hath passed

One heartbeat, when Hod gasps and clutches chest,

In mid-stride falt’ring, feeling blood spill down

His body trembling with its harm – a warm

Gushing and gurgling, like the retching of

Some mouth new-formed, so horrid, in his breast…

And down the stricken asa falls with force

Amongst wet leaves and mounds of gentle moss

And beds of lichen. 

 

                                        Then it fairly seems

A crew of angels weeps, swept by harsh breeze

In circling motion, men and women both

Through frigid air, up ’mongst the nebulae,

Sobbing sans tears and wailing without sound –

Scattered to stars, lost, straining limbs to gain

Some footing on strange worlds, some scrap of earth

Anchored to nothing, or some narrow ledge

They’ll ne’er discover.

 

                                              And grim Vali stands, 

A terror to all Aesir, white of skin,

Above his victim, heaving with the joy

Of guilty sent to Hel, and destiny’s

Swift movement through all space – that sudden sweep

Of vast becoming, fate fulfilled, and law’s

Urge towards grand doom.

 

                                                   Soon Hod sits down beside

His brother in the feasting-hall of Death.

 

 

IX.

 

Yet still revenge remains: In wilderness

Thor finds the sly one, whom two gods now weigh

With heavy death-blame round his clavicles.

To Sigyn and to sons the trickster fled

Once Baldur’s death was final: In their hut

Way out in nowhere, where he bade them go

So long ago, he huddled in their arms,

Peering through windows four, off towards the north,

West, south, and east – squinting so keen he saw

Each dwarf that holds its corner of the sky.

And so he watched directions hour by hour,

Rotating through them – ’til one fateful morn

As Dag in glory rose, he spied a form

So far off running towards him, like some dream

Absurd and disconcerting… Hours passed,

The racing figure nearing bit by bit –

And now poor Lok, assailed by nightmare-fear,

Discerns the red beard of the hammer-lord

On fellow who approaches. Quick he flees,

The crafty one, leaving his family there,

And panicking, swift in a river leaps –

But not unseen by Thor. 

 

                                                New form he takes,

That tricky wiggler: ere he splashes in,

A salmon turns he, flapping, green and bright,

A gasping gilly gulper! Far he swims…

Thor’s close upon him, chasing ’long the bank,

Seeking those scaly glints. 

 

                                                    And Odin too

From Hlidskjalf’s height that transformation spied –

Saw arms that turned to fins, and skin to flakes

Of iridescence, face to tapered snout –

Saw trickster dive in frigid foam and flap, 

Deeming he’d prance his way, with currents’ aid,

Away from Aesir’s vengeance, hid by hills

And endless mounds of Midgard… But he smiles, 

The one-eyed watcher, for he sees what pulls 

Pursuer out from’s purse. 

 

                                                   The son of earth

Downstream of slipp’ry fugitive proceeds,

Wading – he loses balance on the rocks,

But soon’s upright – then he from wallet takes

A well-knit net: He throws it in the waves,

Draws it upstream – but just as web doth threat

To snare, the scaly prey leaps over it,

Enraging prince of thunder! Loki laughs 

In croaking fishy voice, wagging his tail

To mock the would-be trapper. So it goes

So many times; but at the last Thor grips

In vice-strong hands the fleer, and he shakes 

Him back to wonted form.

 

                                                   Now torment waits

For slayer and deceiver – children eke, 

And anguished mother, forced to witness all

Close ’fore her face: Avenging magic shifts

Narfi to vulpine body; and Thor grins

A grin so hideous, enjoying woe

His spell inflicts, the retribution gained

As Narfi snorts and howls and brother tears

To shreds so piteous, while Sigyn wails

O’er scene of torture.

 

                                          With the bowels spilled

From Nari’s stomach, Thor binds Loki down

Unto a slab inside a nearby cave

Through which the winds flood, howling with lament;

And o’er Lok’s head a viper fixes he

That shall on traitor’s face its venom drip:

Around tree roots he knits it, under earth

Where hot springs hiss, and groves twist down through stone

While limbs high up reach moon-wards. In that hole

Among stalagmites and stalactites like

The teeth of famished mouth, the brother of

Helblindi writhes with woe, his only help

His wife, who e’er thereafter kneels and speaks

Sad words of succor, comforts steeped in grief;

And in a cup, she falling poison takes,

Sparing her husband – but when empties she

That brimful vessel, then doth trickster scream,

His face assailed by wicked life-bane’s sting;

And all his limbs convulse, straining to free

From gut-ropes made of Nari – and then shakes

All earth, and tremble all the towns of men,

And children clutch their dolls and mother’s arms,

Wond’ring how land doth rage.

 

                                                             Through endless days

Farbauti’s son hard suffers, but endures,

While weeps his wife ten times what serpent drips;

And both dream on that time, still long to come,

When children of Foreboding rise, and wrath

Floods darkly to the Aesir’s gleaming hall.

 

 

X.

 

Oh lacy, frozen firmament of lights

Beyond moon’s orbit, past the grasp of thought,

Thou field where Bil and Hyuki play their games

Inside the silver cart – thy reaches breathe

Delicious coolness on the cheeks of men,

Women, and young ones hot from laboring

At harvest, while the autumn still holds back

Descent of snow, and all the world yet keeps

Hard at its urgent toil to gather food –

Thou night, thou drinkest heat from off the land

That not too warm we wax in our travails…

 

But oh, how surely creeps a darker cold

Across the mid-world, which a nip foretells

As ling’ring season draweth towards its end.

 

* * *

 

Now deep the winter settles: cold unknown 

To any creature. Never dawns a spring:

Houses rest buried, frost-blasts wrack the world.

For nine months rages ice across the earth –

The Fimbulwinter. Flurries kill the man

Outside his home, the beast outside his den;

And seeds of flowers languish in the loam,

Suppressed and sealed. 

 

                                            Down from the glaciers wend

Frost-giants, monsters, ogres that are damned,

Colossi without ruth, all huge and vile

Man-shapes and creatures that a fence once held,

But now with force tremendous rend that wall,

Breaking the eyebrows that once guarded men –

Ur-giant’s eyebrows. Now on race of Ask

And Embla, once again the giants prey;

And soon ’gainst rainbow-bridge ice-chunks they dash,

Hurling the icy mountaintops with ire.

Harsh spark-wall flares, and melts those blocks to slush.

So winter wars against hard Asgard’s door

Protected by the sacred fire – yet see:

’Mongst brothers there’s no faith; Love’s in his grave;

Murder and Envy are the lords of life;

And ’twixt so many brothers Malice comes,

Rending the blood-bond, spatt’ring it with gore.

Through Midgard clans of jötnar march, and men

Are borne to battle: Kings’ and princes’ wrath

Stuff Hel’s halls full.

 

                                       Above! The valkyries ride,

That martial order by great Ygg begun –

Broad-heaven-dashing, treading on the storms

High over damp realms, choosing from the slain,

Strong spirits seizing, bearing those aloft

Valhalla-wards: Let swell the heroes’ ranks!

Like shudd’ring thunder crash so many hoofs

Across the sky-fields… Dawn and twilight joined

Seemeth the women’s armor-splendor – now

Wert thou to see them, no more shouldst thou see!

And horns speak courage; throats thrill with a roar

Extolling heart’s last hope, its utmost deed.

Who are the horde? Grim Herja is the first,

Leading the riders, proud to devastate

The fiends of dark lands. Skuld shall bear the shield;

Brunhild shines, all in glinting armor clad;

Rota growls like storms, Kara is wild,

And din doth sound from Helmet-Clatterer!

What are the rest called? Pricker, Stormy One,

Tumult, and Cloud, Wand-Wielder, God’s Daughter,

Host-Fetter, Olrun, Quaking One, and Mist,

Swan-White, Spear Flinger, Sword-Warrioress,

And Silence, Strength, and Noise, and Very Cruel!

 

Now watch who’s with them: Rinda, even she

Who ’midst that grove so close to world’s edge

Forsaken was by son, by Odin’s child, 

To suffer and to perish, wasting ’way

Amidst her blood – but heartbreak did her in,

Uncherished by her progeny; and none

Saw tragic agony, save sustren’s eyes –

Yea, soaring sisters, who with ruth then gazed

Upon Ruthenian princess all forlorn

As brushed they ’long the clouds’ skirts… Then with tread

Soft as the snowflakes’ fall, down airy course

Came they to her; and in their jeweled hands

Bore Rinda up through light towards heaven’s porch

With pity, and with tenderness, and pride

For one who wished in company to ride:

Courageous in her chest-core, female soul –

A valkyrie, truly; and a hauberk slipped

Those battle-maidens o’er her gore-stained corpse…

And swiftly, new life breathed they in her frame

As helm they set on pate, spear placed in hand.

Her sight too they restored, fresh vision gave

As ears of hers did wake to bugle’s call

Proclaiming proud girl’s wish: dread cavalcade

Of gloried arms to join, and guidon bear

That flaps in Zephyr’s breath, through planets’ swirl.

 

Her tear-dewed face now weeps into the wind

As riders’ rage sallies from strongholds down

Through tiers of heaven – martial angel-life,

Fell woman-host, grim hundreds moving now:

Strange Creature, Armor-Battle, Curly One,

And Ale-Rune, Shield-Truce, Clemency, and Peace!

Proceed, their names! Proceed, their glistening ranks!

Now song and shield! Now lift the chant of war!

 

* * *

 

O’er Midgard’s darksome wolds, swifts, hawks, and kites,

Falcons and eagles, birds of whistling speed

Announce these words: “Flee, men – your families take!

Hide ’midst the rocks, in crevices of earth,

Down deepest folds of Jord, where never blasts

From welkin, nor the seeking spear, might slay!”

 

At heaven’s edge, Corpse Gulper slowly beats

His eagle wings, like breathings of the lungs –

Oh faster strike they, pinions of that troll!

All o’er the lands are dead men blown, for Death

The spade outpaces, and men rot, and worms

And maggots feed their fill. The greatest towns

And fortresses of kings turn wilderness;

The wolves feast on cadavers, glut and gulp,

Gaining much lard, vast families breeding now.

In Ironwood those broods of fangy fry

Circle and gather, silver whirlpools

Swirling upon some thought of gruesome deeds,

Watching horizons purple in the dusk.

 

Now mountains speak inaudibly to clouds:

“Our time runs short; like wax we’ll drip away.”

Throughout the worlds, the storm winds sing and race;

And Odin walks in dread across the winds,

Striding through lightning, stepping o’er bright beams –

Those crashing bolts, that glow from lofty place.

 

* * *

 

The great ash groans – its leaves tumble to ground

While fragile regions tremble in its limbs.

From Mimir’s head proceed the words of doom:

“An age of swords, an age of axes comes.

How winds and wolves spring, heedless of their speed!”

The Norns lament; they shut their eyes and weep.

 

From utmost throne, All-Father views the lands,

Watchful for stirrings, watching with one eye.

In inmost heart, a thought of sin him gnaws:

“My bond to Loki have I broke,” he saith.

“A brother of my blood I have betrayed.

Yet what else might I do? His acts bring death…

He must lie bound, as Fenrir on his isle,

As serpent-son rests buried under waves

And Hela’s hosts escape not from their pit!

My ravens fly aloft, and fix their eyes

Upon all these imprisoned – and they tell

That chains are groaning, straining, and now threat

To tear apart, lending this world to Death.”

 

* * *

 

One morn, a rooster calls: ’tis Heimdall’s bird 

That issues shiv’ring cry. The dawn is yet

To peer above the mountains. In a glade

In Jotunheim the sound’s heard.

 

                                                                Eggther heeds

That note of fate – his harp he lays aside,

Ending its poignant strains. The bird he keeps

Stretches its neck, then shakes its crest… and calls.

The rooster on Hel’s hall shall crow as well.

 

* * *

 

A lifting sun, like world’s origin:

The air flames golden, dazzling as that day

When first the sky-set wain of hotter light

Above horizon journeyed – years and years,

Ages and ages, voyage to repeat –

But now, unknowing, rises for the last.

 

At rainbow’s top, the four winds bate their breaths.

Nine Mothers’ Son is list’ning, and he hears

Each snowflake settle. Rays flow richly down

And frosts are dripping; birds swim in the gales

Like fish that in the sea-lanes swift are borne,

And call they ’mongst the wispy vapor-isles

With hushèd warnings.

 

                                            Now the watchman hears

Low tread of feet, far off in giant-land:

A plodding thud, so faint, no other god

Discerns; but slowly sound is growing loud.

Now many feet are marching, crunching frost –

Now more than many… and far more than that…

Hundreds and thousands, crushing frozen shrubs,

Dislodging boulders, knocking massive trunks.

All this the keen-eared sentinel perceives,

And soon spies giant-army lifting snow

In swelling clouds behind it.

 

                                                       Eastern fence

At broken points admits vast trollish crew,

And breed the Aesir loathe advance en masse,

Shouting and holl’ring, fury stamped on brows,

Drooling and cursing, lusting for gods’ deaths,

As wrathful as once waxed they when their sire

Odin and brothers slew with shocking blows:

Murder still unavenged. Hrym is their king:

Nine-plated iron targe lifts he on high,

A plate so massive, both his hands he needs –

A screen ’gainst fiery bolts and arrow-bursts.

Upon his lips the sentry sets his horn:

That note rends air; it tears the anxious world.

 

 

XI.

 

The whale-home boils, rageful, and its spray

Spatters the sky. The sun is bleeding life;

The stars drop, as a candelabra held 

In hand by one who trips goes down – and snuffed

Are all those fires: Now sun and moon alone 

Lend rays, and grimmer dimness grips the land.

Race, sun; race, moon! Two wolves gnash at your wheels!

 

* * *

 

Exceeding vision, girding all of earth,

Beneath the billows coil’d, a hoop of hate,

The Midgard Serpent wakes: its shriek is heard

Unto the halls of Gimle, past the winds.

From whirlpools the monstrous head is birthed,

From out appalling churning, direful foam,

A lathered maelstrom: eyes like venom-lakes,

Beak like a nightmare-crow’s, face like a fiend’s –

So eerie, leering, green… And angels scream

From perch of heaven, shouting sharp alarm

At gods and mortals, all who might oppose

Such awful dragon reaching o’er wild black 

Lost stretches of weird coasts, the savage strands,

As tempests spill through voids. The ocean’s rent;

The fogs flee madly ’fore the wyrm of doom.

Quick o’er the stark earth slithers he, with hiss

That no more as a cloud of bubbles breathes,

But rather like the voice of spiteful fire

As forests it converts to bed of ash.

Toward Vigrid plain the fateful snake heads fast –

To war he’s wiggling, ally of the trolls.

 

* * *

 

Oh madness of the worlds! All bonds are torn!

Naught keeps a creature in its prison cell!

From Lyngvi ’scapes the wolf – his binding’s burst,

Shrugged off like tatters; and the steely strength

Of sword in’s mouth hath snapped like frail beam.

Four furnace-vents, his eyes and nostrils flame,

And fires they spew catch grasp of woods and hay,

Destroying farms, men’s homes, and wilderness. 

Through woodlands black fell Fenrir lopes with lust

To gobble Odin’s flesh.

 

                                            See hound escape

From lowest Helheim! Now it breaks the leash

Was tied to gate of bones. Garm races up

The path of nine nights’ journey.   

                                                 

                                                               Hearing bark

That dog so vicious, Loki stirs and knows

His dreadful things are gath’ring. Sigyn’s face,

So lachrymose, now drips with different tears,

Warm drops of gladness. Sly one tests his bonds,

Intestines of his son, and feels them give…

He wrenches, wriggles, shifting on that slab

Below the harsh rocks, wife weeping her urge

That trickster butcher high ones! At the last,

Those gut-ropes snap – and Loki disappears,

Running to northern seas, far harbors of

Frore Niflheim…

 

                                   Not long, and ship is seen

Sloshing o’er black waves ’neath the frantic orbs,

Sloshing to Midgard, and its captain gleams

With malice-glint, destruction in his eyes.

A boat of dead men’s claws the traitor steers:

Nail Ship, yellow barge! Its banners preach

Of vengeance and of hate – huge crew of ghosts

Hiss maledictions at the Aesir’s weal.

 

* * *

 

Out Hela’s fosse surge forth the hordes of shades

As when a river overflows its banks;

And follows all that army up the route

The dark hound took towards mid-earth, towards that bridge

By Heimdall kept steadfastly. Low so long,

So listless, lost, and lonesome, languishing,

Now animate and zealous fly those crowds

Of Death’s pale subjects, fervent to expand

Their master’s kingdom bleak.

 

                                                           Those who remain

Awake more slowly – all lie in the pits

Amid the teeming serpents: Völund and

Egil and Slagfinn, plus each half-elf’s sons:

That clan that slaughtered was at Asgard’s porch

So long ago, leaving the master-smith

To weep upon his isle, ere he them joined.

Now in the slith’ring depths, they ope their eyes –

And painfully they climb up steeps and cliffs

To find a landscape black, bereft of souls,

And leash of Garm torn. Winds that once did waft

The tattered phantoms, now waft emptiness.

The family all join hands.

 

                                                 From gloom they go,

Knowing what’s nigh; and Vigrid is their goal.

 

* * *

 

The rainbow’s bent, by hammer-blows much cracked…

It flakes in pieces, and the scarlet flames

That once held fiends at bay, gasp out and die.

Across sore-wounded arch the giants climb

And many-headed monsters, wolves, and ghouls.

Their scream’s a hurricane – Heimdall retreats:

Through Valgrind runs he, toward Valhalla’s keep.

And soon the rainbow shatters: spill in shards

Those glossy metals, once the villains pass.

Dark angels hail the conquest; cornets ring

Through cloud-fixed halls usurped by demon-lords –

And dark’ning tiers, so wicked and ornate,

Loom ever massive o’er the godly plains.

At stone doors weep the dwarfs – their world lies wrecked;

Into their hiding places dash the elves.

The welkin rolls – men’s souls assemble there.

Troll-maidens sink; the earth’s mouths yawn for them.

 

* * *

 

Oh vision dire! Comets and meteors

From reachless heights descending – fulgid, scorched –

Herald a coming to the smoky earth

Of igneous host. From out the shattered plain

Of shadowed cloud, the sons of Muspell flood:

Flame-demons flying, fires of vicious spleen

Like specks and spiteful flakes stirred from a blaze:

A burning drove, and Surt their god-king bears

A sword of sparks e’en sharper than a ray

So spiky-fierce released at dusk or morn –

The same blade Skirnir threw in wooing’s cause,

That blade that passed from Gerd to evil hands:

The hands of Ve, who lord of southern flames

Became in early life, and took the name

Of Black, for cooked by constant heat was he,

Inuring self to dancing element,

That flaring wrath of Logi, primal god,

And making minions of the twisting forks.

Now sword that Od once stole, Surt lifts on high –

Flambard so flagrant, signal captains heed

To lead their legions from the sleepy gulfs.

A steed tar-black now spurs the fire-prince

Who’s skin’s alive with cinders, and who’s look’s

Disaster’s countenance. With star-like leaps

He bounds athwart the violet depths of dusk,

Singeing the clouds, evaporating mists,

Toward Asgard galloping; and the vast acclaim

Of fiends’ mouths greets his touching on that turf

Was once the Aesir’s haunt, their playground and

Site of glad gambols, games.

 

                                                          Like seething sea

Ripples and moils his army – scarlet flags

And sable sway like ships’ masts on a surge

E’er swelling, as the ocean swells with rain.

Now ’fore his host Surt rides with sword aloft

That runs and crackles like a dreadful jet:

Oh tragic sight! A dream that soul destroys,

All kindness, sweetness shatters, life doth break,

And love undoes! What screams! What music fell,

Blasted from bugles, pounded on rough drums,

Erupts from trolls and demons nigh and far

Across the Vigrid plain, site of the war

That looms e’er nearer – champaign wasted, ill:

Of friendly paths, there none exist; and shrubs

And grasses high abound. In sea of air

That plateau floats – it is mute Vidar’s home,

The strangest part of heaven. Hundred leagues

Is’t broad, as many long; and little space

Remains unclaimed by monsters and the imps

Calling for gods to meet them – dev’lish swarm,

A tide of nightmares, hell-throng without end.

 

* * *

 

It travels through the woods of cow’ring Earth,

The whisper sent by Odin: “All ye birds

Of flexing claws, and all ye animals

That antlers carry, horns, or tusks, or teeth

Like knives set in the jaws – hear this my plea:

From south Surt comes (of old was kin to me),

Leading his blazing companies – from east,

Big jötnar join him, and from north that thurse

Turned traitor to the gods by ship arrives, 

Enjoining massacre. 

 

                                            “Flock to me, then!

Flock here to heaven’s fields, by ways so dim

The lanterns of my castles shall illume:

Flock here by secret passages, and take

The plain of Vigrid by we Aesir’s flank

To scourge those vile eruptions from the pit, 

And die with fame, in universal war!”

 

* * *

 

Odin, lace helm! Einherjar, seize your spears!

Don hauberk, glove; and grip the slaying blade!

Famous of fight, war-brilliant, knights and jarls,

Berserkers: to the field, your hour’s come!

Heimdall grasps sword, All-Father lance, and Thor

His hammer, Frey his antlers of the stag

Whilst Ull his whetted darts in quiver packs,

And Hermod, in high spirits, grabs his blade.

Vidar, the son of Odin, steps beside

His father; valiant Freyja too takes arms.

No shield he hefts, but axe shall Tyr swing swift.

In radiant mail that family is dight:

Fighters from firmament, the noblest clan.

 

High on a balcony, Frigg and her maids

Press close to watch the heroes’ march from out

Valhalla’s rooms, so many from each door –

Five hundred forty doors, each yielding now

Eight hundred all abreast, down silver steps,

Marching through portals pearl, marching with mace

Or brand resting on shoulder – marching down

Steep inclines bright towards Vigrid: roseate,

Surreal-sweet landscape, heartbreak-beautiful!

’Midst swirling smoke, that scene sublime proceeds:

From off the metal coats soft sunbeams fly

Like birds quick-scatt’ring, glory grand to view!

See helmets, fired black, resembling swans,

Boars’ heads and wolves’, the hart’s high-antlered pate,

Or frills of dragons, lions’ yawning maws,

Or beaks of birds that hunt, or serpents’ heads.

The Agnars twain are with them – nephew, eme –

And Svipdag, who in vain did seek his love,

And Kon of old, who learned the ravens’ speech,

And every soul who ever fought for them –

And every soul who bled, and did not flee.

 

But – lo! – see who have joined them: master-smith

And peers and followers his, who once did war

Against the gods upon some fields not far,

But now do grasp sweet cause unto their hearts,

With hordes of warriors cheering! Close they cleave

To comrades new, and form a phalanx great.

And Od of many bloods, from roaming long

Around the earth, hath finished circuit now –

Returned and ready, lance a sparkling dart,

All enmity ’twixt he and father gone;

And with the gods, beside his Freyja sweet

Takes he his place, and every soul turns glad.

 

Like unto fish scales ripple banks of shields;

Like screens of flame, the mail-shirts sparkle keen.

Off bright-gemmed gloves and gauntlets glare the rays

From light above, to high source now returned.

Such flashing sight no eye might spare of pain,

No heart not move to courage. March, and march,

Through golden light, the waning of the world!

As many as creation’s beasts you are,

Ye valiant dead, destroyers of the damned.

 

* * *

 

Look high, oh heroes! Now come those who’ll die

In dreadless charge upon the clarion’s blast!

’Top vapor-cliffs the valkyries appear,

Red dusk behind them. Sky is endless space,

A churning cloudscape. Wingèd casques they wear:

Each helm is flick’ring, flashing like a star

That shoots to earth. Their banners roll and flap,

Swords blink in sunlight. 

 

                                                  Now the women spur…

A thrilling scream! To slay is all their wish –

The richest cup to drink, the cup of blood.

Down lightning-vales their horses whisk and wheeze –

Toward Vigrid they descend. So battle nears:

The drum of thunder, trumpet blown by Fate.

 

 

XII.

 

It comes at last: this fury of the worlds,

This blood-drop storm, a tide of frenzied shrieks,

Despair, the faltering soul, ecstatic screams,

Dark howls of millions. Every ear is wrecked;

Red flecks the lungs inhale.

 

                                                     Hands, heads, and feet,

Arms, legs are hewn and fly – and all is swept

By maelstrom, whirlwind, cyclone: elements

Swirl’d up by war, stirred swift and spiral-thrown

In dizzy vortices, blended and blown.

The air, ferocious flame, and ocean’s foam

At warring foes do grasp, and toss them far

As land quivers and breaks, and starving gaps

Consume the battlers’ striving.

 

                                                            Fenrir gapes:

His lower jaw’s upon the earth – above, 

His upper scrapes the sky; and wider would

His mouth spread, if it might. The wretched fall

Into his gullet. 

 

                            By him, ocean’s wyrm

Wriggles and hisses, rasping venom on

Valhalla’s crowds. Grim Surt no fewer slays:

His strokes of flame turn bravery to smoke,

And ashes glow where sword of his hath worked.

Oh gods, charge forth!

 

                                           All-Father rides, more fast

Than hunting hound – his Sleipnir is a blur;

His glory’s blinding. ’Gainst the wolf his spear

Is couched for killing… and at last steed leaps

At awful fangs –

 

                                 between the jaws are lost

Sweet horse and rider, and they’re swallowed down

That throat of void! Poor stricken Frigga swoons:

Her third great sorrow; and she’s near to death.

In maiden’s arms she falls.

 

                                                    Yet Vidar still

His courage holds – indeed, he’s crazed with rage.

His sword-point glints. At roof of mouth he stabs –

Then pins the lower jaw beneath his shoe!

(Oh sturdy boot, cobbled of leather scraps

Shoemakers dedicated to this deed!)

The wolf gnarrs loud – all Vigrid quakes and thrills

As gleaming blade is fixed within his maw!

By upper mouth now Vidar seizes head:

He strains, he heaves, he pulls. In agony

Fenrir is howling… Muscles, tendons snap –

The jaws are ripped, the head is torn in two!

Deep heaven-ward the son of Odin throws

That grisly part he’s torn, and speaketh loud:

“Thou hast thy vengeance, father! But draw near

The deaths of all – e’en mine, e’en greatest gods’.”

A gory geyser’s foaming from the head –

Upon the ground, vast Fenrir drops to die:

No more, his feast. The weeds his life-blood sup.

 

* * *

 

Oh Mjolnir! If couldst speak, thou wouldst proclaim

How many thou dost fell at final hour!

The serpent’s at Thor’s back – swift ’round he whirls,

And throws ye, muscles taut with rippling ire!

Not since the high seas saw encounter fierce

Between these dread ones have they met to clash…

Now lightning hurls itself across the sky

Like meteors’ or comets’ bold careers;

And with flung force of height’ning wrath, the weight

Of hammer bursts through snake’s head, flying out

Beyond the storming realms, one thousand miles

Behind stern clouds grey-gold, infinitudes,

Fantastic spires and caves of dazzling mists…

 

A squirming spasm shakes the plain: Oh hard

The wyrm collapses! Hod and death-queen hear

That fall, and Baldur; deepest roots of hell

Shudder like nerves…

 

                                            Nine times Thor reels back –

He staggers, pants bleak curses, rolls his eyes,

And falls as well – thick poison’s brought him low.

Oh loss to men, red-bearded foe of trolls!

No owner hath brave Mjolnir, and no power.

 

* * *

 

At Tyr the hellish Garm leaps forth – it rips

His throat with fangs; but axe breaks spine of hound.

Both lose their ghosts, close-crumpled on the earth.

 

What gods fall next to death? Loki a sword

As cruel as treason raises, and he slinks

To Heimdall’s side. The watchman wheels about…

Two iron blurs, two whizzing swings of gray –

His head is chopped just as the sly one dies.

Their bloods flow thick; they mingle on the field.

 

* * *

 

Take care, oh Frey! Against the fire-lord

Your antlers strike – they stab his flaming skin.

But swift is Surt, and no wound thinks to heed…

Frey’s neck pours gore. To weeds he spills – his life

Spouts thick, a scarlet spring. Oh, that he’d kept

His wondrous sword, and not to Gerd it giv’n!

Who now remains? The deaths of all draw nigh.

 

* * *

 

Oh sun and moon, e’en you shall not survive!

Hati and Skoll quick gulp their prey, while Surt

Sprays sparks across the worlds… Valhalla burns.

Od’s maid is pierced with spear-points; Frigga dies,

Her maids are roasted, shrieks are swallowed up.

Forseti turns to smoke clouds; every child

Of goddesses is killed; each man and troll,

Each beast and giant burns, all things alive.

The glaciers crumble – Breidablik is washed

Swift to the sea as timber, splintered ruin;

And Logi o’er land dashes, to all shores –

The eating devil, gobbler of the woods.

No grove or forest grows, and nothing stands –

Each realm’s afire; the world-tree turns to ash,

A sparkling brand amid colossal night:

Consuming candle, short gleam in the void.

 

* * *

 

In dark abate the flames; thick vapors swirl.

The gargling ocean bloats up, dribbling o’er

A hissing kingdom… and from mound of rocks

On high peak perched, an evil head breaks forth:

Its gold eyes glow, its mouth shrieks – and out flies

The serpent Nidhogg. Scar-streaked wings unfurl,

Displaying sinners chanting hymns of woe,

And swirl the smoke clouds. Thrice it circles o’er

A wasted earth –

 

                                   then with a direful screech

It burrows back to Hel. Naught sounds at all

Except the rush of waters, and the steam.

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(Battle of the Doomed Gods by Johannes Gehrts)

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