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(illustration by Lorenz Frølich)

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I.

 

In these new days, the grand and old

Lost tale of Kon shall be retold.

 

Tell first of Rig, skald, and of time

Before much men, our world’s prime:

 

Gray Rig, who lives in winds and whirr,

In weather’s wetness, rainstorm’s stir…

 

From heaven sifts he down and walks

Where pebbles wink in ocean’s slosh;

 

From marvelous hall in lofty laund 

He steps, and strides along the strond –

 

’Long green ways ’neath an ancient sun,

Where pools collect and fresh streams run,

 

That wild earth of a thousand deer,

Of man no creature knowing fear.

 

Yon hut sits meagre, poor, and low;

And the door’s been left unclosed.

 

The fire is little, and the fare,

But Great-Grandmother broth can spare,

 

While Father, Great and Grand, breaks bread:

A guest of theirs shall be well-fed.

 

Rough’s the bed, of straw and hay:

Between the couple Rig has lain.

 

Three seasons hence, in groaning squall,

Great-Grandmother gives birth to Thrall: 

 

His head of hair’s dark as a cob;

His frame is stumpy, squat and squab.

 

Lives he ’mongst beasts – with roots and nuts

Calms he the growling of his guts;

 

But thrives that soul, and multiplies

Across the wild earth, cold and wide.

 

 

II.

 

Through rain-drowned ways of next year’s spring

Our ancient father’s journeying.

 

Comes he upon a house of sticks

Within that strange world gold and slick.

 

Man hews a beam, dame spins a cloth;

And Rig takes seat beside the hearth.

 

“Oh sup our boiled calf and stew,”

Grandmother saith – Rig tastes the spoon;

 

And by that eve his belly’s full.

Then ’neath bed’s scratchy quilt of wool

 

With night-time clothes he smoothly creeps,

And ’twixt the yielding couple dreams…

 

From secret place comes forth in time

The vig’rous Churl, whose fair-haired line

 

Grows great – the farmers, smiths, and thanes;

And o’er low breed of Thrall now reign

 

Half-humble ones of middling means,

Who till the loam and scatter seeds,

 

And hammer sparks in seething forge,

And swing the axe in families’ wars

 

“Til much the land with blood is sprent –

And dark remains that world of death.

 

 

III.

 

How gleam the foothills one spring morn!

What glory of a day new-born!

 

This wilderness, so far from Thane

And Thrall, shines with a passing rain;

 

And all the wood-sprites flit like things

With gentle faces, frantic wings.

 

Now long ways walks our saunt’ring god

Up paths by most of men untrod,

 

Into the heights where trees are frail,

Where Ymir’s bones confuse the trail,

 

Among harsh mountains bare and raw,

Where grim tarns ripple, ravens caw,

 

And hall gleams forth: Rig knocks the ring

Upon that door – and’s welcomed in,

 

To sit Mother, Father beside.

She’s pale as frost; his skin’s pure white,

 

As blank and fair as child’s tooth.

He carves a bow; she sips her brew

 

From goblet wrought of what dwarfs love.

The wine-drops run upon her glove;

 

And feast of dainties, silver plates

In moonlight glint as hour grows late:

 

Bacon and gammon, mead and ale,

Cold grapes and apples, pheasant, quail,

 

All comfort Rig as time of sleep

Steals o’er the household – and between

 

His hosts one final time doth lie

This guest mysterious and sly

 

Who’s gone by morning… Now again

The belly of the wife grows big;

 

And soon Earl cries upon the air,

That infant lord, the high hall’s heir,

 

A beauteous bairn, wrapped up in silk,

Of cheek and brow as fair as milk,

 

Whose eyes like Nidhogg’s own do blink,

That snake that ’mongst the wraiths does slink

 

In frosty caverns gods forget,

The holes of sorrow, halls of death –

 

A lordling waxing, learning skill

In bending bow that hart should kill,

 

In hurling spear that foe should pierce,

In taming horse so free and fierce,

 

In swimming o’er the burly wave,

And e’er despising yawning grave.

 

 

IV.

 

The dart, it flies from practiced hand;

The hounds, they rove o’er tangled land;

 

The falcons perch on Earl’s wrist;

The sword he swings with wrathful fist;

 

And seasons race: Old Mother dies,

And Father goes to where she lies

 

In dripping autumn. Thane and Thrall

Now bend the knee in Earl’s hall…

 

Oh blood, it runs as winter melts!

The life of rival tribe is spilt:

 

Wood’s bane consumes the rival’s manse,

Servants and sons are put to lance;

 

And now in dim wilds, cursed and cold,

Earl finds poor daughter ’mid a grove…

 

How brute storm bellows! Tempests shriek,

And weeping damsel writhes in grief.

 

 

V.

 

He prowls among the wastes, the child,

In snow-time harsh, in vernal mild.

 

The root and berry serve as feast;

His mother knows eternal peace

 

In fosse filled up, where white weeds spring.

Here stand the rooms of trees and wind

 

Beneath a ceiling of no height –

Jord doth the child raise to his might

 

Of wolf and bear. The hart runs off,

The forest flees from where youth walks –

 

And through the mists of mankind’s morn,

Rig once again strides, all alone,

 

Across the dark terrors of earth,

The black stream’s width, the mountain’s girth;

 

O’er ranges windy, whistling, frore, 

Like ettins of the ice that snore;

 

Beneath tumult of sky sublime,

Vast spaces that o’erawe the mind, 

 

To find that child, that naked boy

Who of a mother scarce knew joy,

 

But donned the tunic built of bark,

And of the broad leaves stitched his sark,

 

Who roams the high world… Rig walks on,

And towards the place where Dag’s cart dawns

 

He finds the child in silent holt,

That offspring who from death revolts:

 

Earl’s lust-son, fell, noble of blood,

All ignorant of wrong and good;

 

Who snarls, and bites the soothing hand;

But god, through influence so bland

 

Of charming voice, trusses his soul,

And makes child list to what he’s told:

 

Those runes All-Father saw in death,

Weird charms to still the foeman’s breath,

 

To heal the wound the sharp shaft cuts,

To calm tide-foam and make sea hush,

 

To coax or quell the fire’s heat,

To understand the ravens’ speech,

 

To honor gods with song and blot,

And chant their praises ’mid the smoke –

 

And how to slay with tempered steel

Such man whose fate by Norns was sealed

 

To die in war by Kon – this name

Rig gives the youth, who rule shall claim.

 

 

VI.

 

The ravens, talk they in the trees,

Once Rig hath gone – to Kon they speak:

 

Those birds who woeful secrets hold,

Who saw the war of foe and foe

 

With eyes of black; now tongues so dark

Do clack and squeak, and bid Kon hark:

 

Teach they the boy of father Earl,

And of his mother, desperate girl

 

Swift fleeing to the forest tracts

After her kinsfolk’s hall was sacked

 

And family run through with the blade!

Pursued by victor ’mongst the glades,

 

She could not find the way to hide,

Or lose that man in screen of night…

 

So swelled she, hiding where crag juts,

Where mice and birds brought berries, nuts –

 

And bore her infant all alone

’Neath roof of sky, the earth her home –

 

And sleeps now, under mossy heath:

Of grief she died ere Kon grew teeth;

 

And now the son, wise of his sire,

Bloodthirsty Earl, burns with fierce fire

 

To seize his throne, and slay with stroke

That one who slew his mother’s folk.

 

 

VII.

 

“In mountain yonder, past the plains

That burn with ire’s forgotten flames;

 

“Past dim woods, and the gallows’ noose

(Hel’s knot that lets no victim loose);

 

“Beyond where beasts with yellow eyes

Nurture their hate where shadow lies;

 

“Where clouds rush, turning in a wheel

That stirs the thunder’s bounding peal;

 

“And echoes in the caverns speak

Of claws that scratch and throats that shriek,

 

“Three imps within a cave beat fast,”

The ravens tell, “a sword was cast

 

“When infant-world did scarce know men –

When giant-king, exiled to edge

 

“Of continent, with all his kin,

Ordered a blade forged, for to win

 

“Possession of man’s gifted land…

But still waits king until his hand

 

“Might wield that sword, for has he deemed

It must be perfect, true, and clean

 

“Of smallest flaw: So hammer on,

Those kobolds three, at endless job,

 

“Ne’er reaching quite perfection’s state;

For metal’s slightly crooked shape

 

“Those smiths do fear to offer troll,

Whose rage would rave as thunder rolls

 

“Upon receiving faulty gift!

Yet stronger, sharper, and more swift

 

“Is Forge-Hot than what man could make!

For magic heats that pounded blade,

 

“And every foe-sword might it cleave:

Such weapon would slay Earl with ease,

 

“If you might catch him out his manse,

Upon his hunt, a lucky chance,

 

“When all his thought’s on hawk, or hounds.

Seek Forge-Hot under mountain’s ground,

 

“And pray imps lend it, for some price!”

With this, the ravens in a trice

 

Do fly far deep into the wold,

And Kon thinks long on what’s been told.

 

                                                      

VIII.

 

The clanging rolls down bouldered slope

At this high place of world and hope:

 

Triplets of notes, hot steel’s ring,

Cadence like bells upon the wind,

 

A music guiding climbing Kon,

Played by those tireless blacksmiths’ brawn;

 

And now from mouth in mountain-side,

The noble youth sees shooting light…

 

O’erhand, in sequence, hammers drop –

Around and round, and never stops

 

That circle of the laboring fiends,

Convinced for aye some flaw they see

 

In smoking shaft as hot as coal!

Bright hues burst from that busy hole

 

Each time a hammer falls – now blurts

Kon at those imps: “Oh cease your work!

 

For now, at least, I mean… And hark!”

The baffled three stop striking sparks:

 

Stare they upon that man – his kind

They’ve not seen in their impish lives,

 

And marvel they as words proceed:

“For what would ye your weapon cede –

 

“What service or requital ask?

Such magic blade I fain would grasp,

 

“Though perfect is it not – not straight.

Name bet or bargain you would make!”

 

The devils squeak in conference,

Then to proposal answer thus:

 

“One riddle shall we ask of you;

And if answer yours is true,

 

“Forge-Hot we’ll give; but tell us wrong,

And that which on your neck belongs

 

“No more shall sit there!” “Ask, ye wights!”

Replies bold Kon. “Ye evil sprites,

 

“Surely your sword shall pass to me!”

So ask the fiends: “Who might Rig be?

 

“That one who left from Valgrind-gate

And walked down bright bridge of no weight;

 

“Who sired the race of Thrall and Thane,

And Earl begat, who rules the plains;

 

“Who taught you runes and taught you spells

That calm the sea, and flames do quell;

 

“And did the tongues of birds you teach,

So that the ravens’ secret speech

 

“To our sharp magic sword did guide

Your questing feet, o’er Midgard wide –

 

“Oh say, who is that one in truth,

Or off your head goes, cocky youth!”

 

And Kon undaunted doth declare:

“My father’s father, I am ware,

 

“None other is than Odin’s might:

Ygg terrible, dreadful in fight,

 

“Frigg’s love, the Traveler, one much famed,

One-Eyed, the Wise, the Many-Named,

 

“Shaker of spear, broad-hatted one!

Now riddle and reply are done –

 

“Speak that I’m right, and yield your sword!”

And humbled imps, without a word,

 

Pass Forge-Hot to those destined hands

That may its magic heat withstand.

 

 

IX.

 

The pack hounds through the brush have shot

In mad pursuit of bolting fox,

 

As riders follow through the glades,

The ruler’s captains, knights, and thanes, 

 

Hallooing – and the dogs do bark

As panicked prey feels sick at heart,

 

Like soul in torment that’s beset

By demons swirling round its head!

 

The lord is merry, high in blood;

His retinue think chase quite good;

 

And closer, closer move cruel teeth

Upon those little paws that flee…

 

But as hounds’ fangs sink into fur,

From out the woods, a manic blur

 

With shining blade bears down on lord!

Scarce is there time to draw his sword

 

Ere Earl sees horrid weapon slash –

His own it chops as though ’twere wax;

 

And quick as thought, the next blow comes:

Earl’s breast is cut, and heart and lungs

 

Vomit their life-blood; dying droops

That noble off his horse’s croup,

 

And falls to earth! Kon sheathes his blade,

And rulership doth loud proclaim.

 

 

X.

 

The corpse is nailed atop the hall;

And through the hours, meek Thane and Thrall

 

Watch ravens drift from ashen skies

To tear the flesh and peck the eyes

 

As Kon slumps in his father’s seat,

Sipping his mead and gnawing meat

 

Attended by the silent page,

Fed by servant and the slave

 

While on the gable, sire rots

In days of cold and days of hot

 

That see no rain; now kine fall ill;

No grain can grow to send to mill;

 

Hunger possesses every home;

Along the paths poor orphans roam;

 

And children sicken… In Kon’s dream

The glowing face of Odin gleams:

 

What lowering lips, what lightning-eyes!

Kon hears that voice, awful and wise,

 

Command him such disgrace repent!

He wakes a-trembling, dewed with sweat,

 

And orders Thrall the corpse bring down,

And bids with waxed cloth it be wound.

 

He has it set upon a boat

With treasure – vessel’s set afloat

 

As torch-fire eats the keel, and Kon

Breathes prayers for Earl unto the gods.

 

 

XI.

 

Grain grows again, and fatten kine;

The rest is told in gladsome lines:

 

How Kon seeks hall of mighty seats

O’er ocean, throne of puissant chiefs,

 

Searching a princess for to wed…

In time, a crown adorns his head,

 

For rules he tribe of ancient Danes,

A goodly folk that love his name!

 

The ring adorns the vassal’s hand;

Much wealth comes to Kon’s battler-band;

 

And all his sons reverence their lord,

Who live on hill, and plain, and fjord.

 

In misty realm, his people thrive

And honor Rig as king declines

 

And Forge-Hot cools… Our world grows old,

Yet still we sing of Kon the bold.

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