*

(illustration by Lorenz Frølich)

*

*

I.

 

Of late did sing I how all things began:

First confluence of cold and furious heat

Amidst a glimm’ring vacuum, from which sprang

Millions of rainbows, curtains of new light

Like children of that union: dappled voids,

Expanding vistas golden; and I’ve sung

How flesh was butchered for to sculpt the earth,

Blood rushing down in floods, pooling as seas –

Of births of creatures, origin of dwarfs,

And sparks fixed high to shine as night-sky lamps.

Valhalla’s rise I’ve told, gods’ laboring

To raise proud palace ’top the cloudy slopes

In dream-realm o’er men’s heads, and of new reign

Of Asgard’s lords, forever dreadful towards

Th’envious brutes of out-world doomed t’abide

Where ice-sting never thaws.

 

                                                          Now heed this tale

Of what continues: multiplying gods,

Vast handsome household: War of deities,

One tribe in magic skilled, in arms th’other;

Exchange of prisoners; next, Kvasir’s birth

And doom so horrible: how he was made

Into a honeyed mead-brew; and last, theft

Of skaldic potion by one sneaky god

From maiden ’neath a tor, thick rocky vault

Its keeper thought secure.

 

* * *

 

                                                     Plump cupidons

And wheely ophanim, sky-maids and powers –

Astrild, her playful crew of puckish loves –

Moon-dwellers, sprites who ride the shooting stars,

Translunar beauties, damsels of cold space,

Celestial bevies, all the sparkling set:

Such host of Gimle (crystal, pendant realm

Like diamond chandelier, dangling in dark)

To ringing low now lists: a world of sound

From somewhere deep beneath them: glossy boom

And clanging clamor – all eyes search for source

In squinty lands below…

 

                                                   ’Tis Bifrost bridge,

They notice; and all winged things crowd on clouds

To point, and watch what work proceeds apace:

Odin and brothers framing, batt’ring light –

Hamm’ring the spectrum, bending beams with blows,

With mallets into arch – th’iridescence

Firm-fashioning as avenue through space

Of endless miles to span that misty gap

’Twixt mortal and immortal.

 

                                                         Who now stoops

As low she might, straining to colors glimpse

So deeply downwards? Maiden of th’above,

Grander than all, sweet, stateliest of souls,

Who from her wheel so oft spins wooly mists

And cotton fogs, or tufts of cumulus

Which scud across blank skies like lonesome dreams:

Frigga her name, drawn by those hammer-notes’ 

Metallic music, plus that new-made arch

All bright tints comprehending – now she drifts

O’er infinite lengths of time, while much doth change,

Her robes a-flutter, halo mingling with

Fierce brilliance of fresh rainbow as she nears,

Floating half-conscious towards strong toiling ones

Such vasty reaches down, there to embrace

Valhalla’s lord, the foremost of the three,

Now all alone – long left with hall all his –

And take him for her husband.

 

* * * 

 

                                                              Bawl of babes

And mewl of infants soon assail their ears

Throughout the mansion’s rooms.

 

                                                         Their first son gleams

Like deep-sea pearl, and Baldur is he hight –

Destined to reign with justice from a throne

Perched o’er cascades, in world no mortal spies:

Emblem of sweetness, hope, forbearance, love –

Figure of mercy, conscience in the heart:

A type with blemish none.

 

                                                    Bragi comes next

From great queen’s womb: words issue from his lips

Needing no tutor, spilling where they would

Like stallions out a gate, graceful and proud;

And harp he strums without misstep, mistake,

Though lessons he’s had never. Beardless cheek

His youth forgoes, producing whiskers coarse

From first of days; and poems of his grow too

With wisdom, spoken to his fingers’ strains.

*

Tyr next is born – handy in arms, a prince

Of many shrines, the sacred brooks and groves,

Expert at sword, and brave beyond all kin. 

With wolves and hounds he joys, master of packs,

A lover of the hunt and rabbit-chase,

Whelp-rearer; and young fangs oft nip his wrists

As wrestles he with dogs upon the swards.

*

Quick-tempered fourth one, not of Frigga sprung,

But spring-ripe Fjorgyn, joins the brothers then:

Firm as the oak tree, stern as lightning’s dart,

Red-bearded after childhood: Thor he’s named,

A stormy fellow – often rage doth gain

Possession o’er his soul, swift anger pricked

By pranks or slights of playmates… Yet he calms

Ever right soon, as sudden storm doth quell,

Its wrath spent with its violence. 

 

                                                               Frigg now cedes

Hermod, and Hod: the latter’s blind; the first

A nimble rider proves. These two are brought

To vigorous life and sunlight – yet his eyes,

Forever sealed, keep Hod’s soul in the gloom,

A dweller in mind’s underworld. ’Gainst stone

Or log he slumps, listing to brothers’ play:

Those shouts, mock-conquests, squeals of victory

Through Asgard’s forests… Pines he for that light

Sadly denied him, universal grace

From him alone withheld. Oh how he longs,

Poor sightless one, to join their races, games,

And wild cavorting, sport amidst the groves!

But learns he slowly, patiently, to bide

In soft contentment, bittersweet… save when 

Play stirs to heights delirious – then frets

His outcast soul some little bit he must,

In ceaseless night, to margins stay confined;

And then he sighs, his head held in one palm.

 

* * *

 

From pillowed cloud-mists, out of winter’s heart,

Down from the north walk maids of jotun-race:

Three sisters beauteous, white as the moon,

Or cloud-froth on the heavens; and each wears

A dress of gossamer which veileth not.

Pace they to Asgard, hov’ring land of mild

And bounteous nature – who those maidens be

Not one of boy-gods guesses, though all peer

(Except the eyeless one who envies kin)

From hiding-spots upon their gracious shapes:

Those arms that sway, those necks which slightly roll,

And legs that plod not, rather seem to step

Like angel’s footfalls: all their movements pure

Cloud-shifting softness.

 

                                               Spellbound youths pursue

In stealth the moving strangers… By Urd’s well,

Hot bubbling swan-home, ’neath the Great Tree’s boughs,

Settle those three to spin their many strands –

Some silver, golden, some of colors dull –

By day, by eve, and by the secret hours

Of Mani’s chill-white run… 

 

                                                        So destiny

Of god and man’s decided by their shears –

Then carved as runes upon the ash tree’s bark:

A record known to none but those three Fates.

*

Now in the west, the boys perceive the dusk

Distend with golden light, like treasure horde

Unbolted, gleaming beams – so slink they home

To tell their father, mother, what they’ve seen.

*

*

II.

*

The groans of breakers ’gainst a rocky strand

’Neath swirling clouds and fogs that choke the sun:

These rise from mothers nine, parturient 

Wave-maidens, thrashing in their labor throes,

Weeping for woe while spill they ’cross the shore;

For womb of all doth swell with urgent son –

All-Father’s seed, swift-growing in grim force,

Eager to break from home, and dash with tides.

One belly all of these in common hold:

Gjolp, Greip, Imth, Atla, Eistla, sisters all,

Jarnsaxa, Ulfrun, eke Angeyja and

Eyrgjafa: all, relieved of bulging ache,

Bear infant ’loft, and place him on the sands:

A gold-teethed prodigy, great horn in fist:

Heimdall he’s named, gifted with eyes might pierce

The thick of murk for leagues, and ears can sense

Wool growing on the lamb, or herb on earth.

To him lends strength the land, the frigid surf,

And blood of boars, as waxes he from youth

To strapping manfulness, destined to guard

The hall of great ones… Takes he post at end

Of luminous pass, to blow his birth-gift horn

Upon the jötnar’s march.

*

* * *

*

                                                  A spring-thaw day,

And icicles like fangs drip from the eaves

Of slavering Valhalla, house that craves

Great heroes who have died to pass within

And tell their tales of deeds and fearsome feats:

Stern spill of blood, defeats of horrid foes,

Claiming much honor, as the cave-snake claims

Great heaps of coin-wealth.

 

                                                 Who is’t Heimdall eyes

So far away approaching? Nubile girl:

Not giantess, but gold-bright damosel

Like daughter of the dawn, a dazzling child

All naked as the th’infinite welkin’s bare;

And in her right hand carries she a rod

From which broad blossoms spring – red, silver, white,

Yellow like sunlight; and a whorled casque,

Tapered at fore and aft, perches on curls

Blonde as the summer’s wheat.

 

                                                               How is’t she now 

So near doth stride, on rainbow suddenly?

Lovely, voluptuous – all charms attend

That fair one sporting not the thinnest gown.

Young watchman blinks – one hundred miles it seems

She’s skipped upon a moment… now before

Tall sentinel she halts, a brilliant form,

Perhaps from spheres descended.

 

                                                                   “Warder, hail!”

She crieth. “Heid I’m called, a figure bright,

Of Vanir’s stock – a race beyond snow-peaks

Thou seest on horizon (when ’tis clear)

And eight more ranges yonder. We’re a clan

Wise in the magic practice – mostly spells

To keep us blanketed from searching sight

And roaming spies: even thy far-flung eyes

Have touched us never. 

 

                                              “I would pass to speak

With chief of Asgard, for I’d offer him

Instruction in my spells and witchcraft-rites –

Not all, but some: those I don’t mind to share –

In trade for gold… Wilt let me audience?”

*

And Heimdall, much bemused, inquires of her:

“What wizardry dost speak of, threadless girl,

Importunate and brash? Thou witchcraft know’st

When yet this world, and thou, are springtime-young?

Something of future-telling? Glimpses ta’en

Of awful destiny, those secrets known 

To Norns alone?”

 

                                 “Ah no, more wondrous still!”

Heid, shining, answers. “Influence o’er fate:

O’erruling of pronouncements of those three

From Jotunheim arrived… Why ought three shoots

Of Ymir’s root rule destinies of men

And e’en of Buri’s brood, thy kindred gods?

Seid is my magic practice: smoke, and chants,

And seeings in my trance-depth all collude

Our future age to stall – or stretch, or twist,

Reverse, turn inside out… Might I proceed

To court immense, where good All-Father holds

Sway o’er his household? Or shall I turn back,

Some other tribe less proud than thine to grant

My sorcery for coin? The choice rests thine,

Good sentry, keeper of thy holy race!

Give answer.”

 

                         And Nine Mothers’ Son glares hard

At girl so bold – mistrustful, yet entranced;

And lips of his within his beard now twitch

’Twixt rapture and revulsion. 

 

                                                         “On,” he saith.

“Thy shape and speech work witchcraft, sure enough,

And rule me stronger than my scolding sense

That strife doth go with thee… Pass on, straight on:

Thou’lt find All-Father on his burnished chair.”

 

* * *

 

Now hath he listened to the glimm’ring witch, 

Stern god-king on his throne, and scowls he,

Mussing his beard with’s fingers. Ought he trust

This trade of far-born spellcraft for his wealth –

Trust girl of distant clan, off’ring such sway

O’er doom of many a wight?

 

                                                         The progeny

Of Odin stand about that radiant girl,

Attendant on his word. At last their lord

Addresses gownless maid:

 

                                                  “Methinks thou mean’st

Our treasure hall to strip,” Ygg, frowning, saith,

“And nothing to repay us but blank charms

And null enchantments – for who could compel

The course of lives and realms with feeble phrase

Muttered o’er hall-smoke? Sons! ’Tis not a witch

Amongst us, but a swindler! Seize her arms!

Gullveig’s thy proper name, girl, and not Heid,

For gold is all doth transfer in thy trades!

Stoke fire, then, my offspring, in great hearth!

We’ll roast her in the flames: such be the prize

For those who’d grasp our wealth!”

 

                                                              And oddly calm,

Heid’s seized by ankles, wrists, and lifted up,

Borne to the blaze quick-coaxed to howling life,

And straight tossed in – wherein she hardly writhes,

Not thrashing, shifting… making little sound

While flesh of hers doth blister, roast, and melt,

Dripping from bones, like foliage which falls

When cold withers the tree’s dress. Smoke clouds hall,

Sparks spit across the floor – but still no shriek

Hath squeaked from out her lungs… Her shape falls limp,

Subsides to cinders; and the flames burn down

Into an ashen heap.

 

                                          But what doth leap

From embers into midst of youthful gods?

Fresh Heid, without a singe! No blackened burn

Nor even ashy smudge shows on her skin,

So golden-shining as it ever shone;

And rod of hers as well appears untouched,

No blossom harmed at all, while helmet glows

More rich and brilliant from the heat it’s ta’en,

Pulsing like halo ’round a favored brow.

And Aesir, all aghast, behold such sight,

Cheated of murder, wond’ring who hath come

Amidst their mansion.

 

                                            “Fuel the flames again!”

Commands the Aesir’s lord. “E’en hotter, sons –

Pile on the wood, and grease and oils pour 

Which scullions bring from kitchen! Toss her in

Once ardent as the dragon-maw’s our hearth!”

And brothers, swelt’ring now in hall so hot,

Toss in the magic maiden like a doll

Which smiles serenely, while the bold flames sup 

Once more on her physique, sizzling her skin,

Blacking her flesh, and breathing great room thick

With fleshy fumes.

 

                                     “But whole again, I run!”

Heid taunts, no more inside inferno’s heart,

But suddenly on floor, and new as e’er,

Jogging with vigor ’midst the startled boys.

“Still think ye I’m a cheat who knows no spells

Of real effect? Thine eyes tell otherwise…

I’ll warn ye Aesir once: Hurl me again

Within the hearth – those flames ye think a death,

But are to me no more than gentle winds –

And Vanir turn your stern-sworn enemies,

A tribe intent on vengeance: elders, youths,

Far-flung relations, each in wizardry

Well-schooled for cruel endeavors, sworn and bound

My guiltless self t’avenge! Think well on that,

Oh Odin, ere thy sons toss me once more

In useless third attempt!”

 

                                                  “Again, again!”

All-Father cries, his knuckles and his face

Knotted with rage. “Stuff fireplace with logs,

All what might fit! Bring bellows, fan the flames!

Nigh hot – no, hotter than the dragon’s breath

Must swell our kindled ingle!” And lads stoke

That roaring wood-bane – lass is final stick

To be consumed.

 

                                  “Oh Aesir – war’s now yours,

Right surely!” saith sweet girl amid the court,

Contempt, amusement, and regret all bound

Within her voice. “Brace doors – a fury flows

Of strongest sorcery!” With nymphish vim,

The miss runs round a final time, unharmed,

Speaking those direful words. She crosses hall,

Regarding not dumbfounded ones who gaze,

And skips out open door – dashes through fields,

Passes the bridge-guard (startled by her rush),

Then slides down arch of colors towards those worlds

So far beneath, not looking back at all,

And disappears – to Vanaheim she hies.

*

*

III.

*

Now anxious days, as to contention falls

The Aesir’s household: whether shall arrive

In truth the promised onslaught – curses cast

Across nine mountain ranges, striking souls

Who scorched rejuvenate maiden – or if boast

Was air as hot as wind that blew from hearth:

Such is the subject, field of wordy fight.

Debate runs long, but caution wins it out:

Windows are boarded fast, doors braced with chairs,

All ingress barricaded: hall is made

E’en more a fortress than before… Meantime

Are swords well-honed, all spearheads whetted keen,

Each shield ta’en off its peg upon the wall,

And club and bow and arrows kept to hand.

The dust on helm and breastplate’s wiped and blown,

Big bucklers polished, rusty blades scraped bright;

And hundred lesser gods, a thousand thralls

Prepare reception bloody for the foe,

Drilling their movements, practicing their squares,

Patrolling purlieus, checking lock and bolt,

While Heimdall now keeps double vigilance,

Scanning the peaks, cupping at ear his hand,

Tracing, retracing with his eyes each place

From which might move th’assault: no hill nor howe,

No river, mountain pass escapes his sight –

But flight of bird, beast’s walk, are all he spies;

And not the least sound speaks of warlike graith

Gath’ring and grating, scraping, somewhere far

Where armies might be forming…

 

* * *

 

                                                                        Of a morn

The watchman hears strange whistling overhead –

And craning up, sees ’midst the sun’s broad glare

A flock of god-forms trav’ling – helpless he’s 

To hinder such invasion! Heid leads on

Her vengeful kinsfolk.

 

                                             Soon the Vanir’s wands

Conjure the Aesir’s manse to slightly quake,

Then shudder strongly, lifting each god’s legs

High off the floor – they’re dancing, falling down,

Much shaken by the violence. Helmets hit

High lofty ceiling; bench and chair and throne

Clatter and shatter; mead and wine spill, spray

In every corner – dogs lap up the drink

When gain they some short respite. Candles threat

To catch the rugs and tapestries, but mead,

Sloshing all places, snuffs each spreading fire. 

Pitchers and jugs crack, pots and cauldrons bang,

And sharp things clang and sing – and Aesir curse

Amid such sorcerous earthquake!

 

                                                              Storm wind’s next

To strike the deities’ palace: not a cough

Nor even sneeze Behemoth might release

Could match this blast: the windows, doors break ope,

Flinging frail boards and barricades with force

That smashes dishes, shatters all the flasks

And each stray thing that’s not yet cracked or crushed.

And Frigg and Odin, Tyr, Hermod and Hod,

Thor, Bragi, Baldur all must grip some knob

Or post or pillar, lest through blown-ope doors

At back of mansion might they fly, to flail

High o’er the Asgard plains, through torn-cloud skies

To whirl and hurtle, drop with comet’s force

And strike earth who-knows-where… Oh, how long lasts

That typhoon-terror!

 

                                            “Cowards – all of ye!”

All-Father yowls, his arms wrapped fast around

A column of his hall. “Ye tribe of Heid,

Assailing from afar, from past this roof –

Contend with arms! as any hon’rable 

Great war-clan ought!”

 

                                            And just like that, winds die –

And Aesir drop, collapse; a hundred moans

Sound from each room and hallway. From the floor

Now rise hard-armored household, aching, mad

For retribution… when amidst them all,

Of sudden, with a wink and spark sun-bright,

The Vanir flash in view! A beaming cloud

Surrounds them… Tunics strange, of red and gold,

Like fire and lightning blaze within that mist –

And all the Aesir gawk.

 

                                              Heid forward strides,

A sacred dazzlement pulsing from brow,

Stepping in silence, naked now no more,

But dight in vestment scarlet; and her eyes

Intend grim terror toward the king of gods

To whom she paces. Odin on the floor

Blinks not, and scarcely credits such strange sight

As Heid, the young magician, bends and lifts

A wine jug (yet unbroken ’spite of all),

Walks nigh to him, then raises it on high…

And breaks it ’cross his pate! She smiles and turns,

Rejoins her clan while Odin yet doth reel,

And with a wink so smug, and second flash,

All Vanir disappear!

 

                                         Odin amid

Great mess of shards, sputters and rubs his eyes,

Groaning with ache and anger – all his sons

And wife and minions aid him, gather round,

Dumbstruck by such destruction.

 

                                                                  “Oh prepare,

My family,” saith stunned god as he’s helped

To feet again, “for campaign past the peaks,

Bringing our iron ’gainst such insolence,

Proud mages from afar! We’ll slit their veins,

Slice hands and legs – let blood lathe plain and field,

And tie their carcasses to trees and poles:

A prey for birds, a sign to all who see,

That clan and man allwhere learn what befalls

Those wretches who molest us! Gather arms

And all your retinues – we move at once!”

 

 

IV.

 

Down river swift as galloping of horse

The dragon-ships of furious Aesir float,

Crashing through rapids, skirting whirlpools,

Descending waterfalls with heavy plunge;

And much spray laves the beard of every god

And vassal, underling, packed on the decks,

Each clad in war-shirt, keen for promised wealth

They’ll pilfer from the Vanir’s vast estates

And fastnesses. Each ship deck bristles with

Fierce mass of lances, war-horns, helms and blades,

Targes with lions, eagles, serpents traced,

And every bright war-instrument: each crowd

Of weapons quivers with hard greed to slay,

Torture, dismember; and broad empty boats

Are towed along to bear back throngs of slaves.

*

The oar and sail assist the current’s work,

And past great snowy crag-walls ships proceed,

Those warbands breathing chants that Fates might bless

Their steely fortune, weapon-weather luck.

Nine mountain ranges winds the river through,

Spilling and falling. Caves and grottoes pass

The Aesir’s wooden water-steeds… and beat

Recurrent flurries now – hail, sleet, and snow:

A frigid, stinging storm. Here is a land

No god nor man much visits, chill and cruel,

Domain of wolves and dark things. Goblin-folk

With eyes like rubies peer from corners black

Along the shore, keeping well hid from boats

That ship a frightful host. The pines grow tall –

E’en taller with each mountain-wall they pass,

Casting great shadows o’er their heads – and hearts,

For even in the giants’ lands no trees

Reach high as these. They’ve rowed right off the map,

This paddling army… Odin at the lead,

His hand upon the foremost ship’s great prow

(A rageful dragon spitting forks of flame,

Grim murder painted blackly in its eyes),

Scans up and down, uncertain where to seek

Precisely, though he trows the Vanir’s keep

He’ll recognize when’t shows. The river’s mists

Churn thickly; countless gorges funnel now

The water down the rock-shelves. 

 

                                    * * *

 

                                                                       To a plain,

In time, the ships arrive… here current’s stilled

To gelid slumber, frozen shut. The gods

All gaze about, frustrated how, ice-tight,

The river checks them. 

 

                                               Far away stand cliffs,

Tremendous mountains – half a circle form 

Those walls of stone… and rising from each peak

Loom spires, domes – pure diamond, or pure ice;

No god can tell. Like teeth set in a jaw

They flash and sparkle; and All-Father knows

Those citadels hold foe.

 

                                                  He orders boats

To drop their anchors, war-stuff all unload,

Prepare for march: across wide field they’ll seek

Their wizard enemies.

 

* * *

 

                                               Awakened minds

Perceive th’incursion: High up, ’top the peaks,

’Midst temples formed of rime and shrines of ice,

Where spells keep hearthfires sparkling, songs now ring,

Flames glitter tall and taller, colors flit

Like comets ’cross the walls. The magic clan

Views all of Odin’s movements, and they speak

In unison to sylphs, whom they command:

“Oh little helpers – minions, messengers:

Ye see as well as we what warbands move

So vainly to engage us, and we send

Your wings to where high snows teeter on peaks –

Where rocks and ice-slabs totter, cliffsides creak,

And mountains yearn such weight to shrug, at last!

Take wands! Shall need but little sorcery

To nudge what sits on edge…”

 

                                                                 The pixies grin,

Nod to their icy masters, spells rehearse,

Take up enchantment-rods, and straightway zip

On wings of butterfly, or hummingbird,

Or moth or robin, dragonfly or bat,

Out doors frostbitten. Through the pearly mists

That swirl around those heights, they move unseen

To settle where, precarious on verge,

The mountains’ burdens loom.

 

* * *

 

                                                                 Below, the horde

That’s disembarked makes speed to where a pass

Seems up the steeps to climb half-gradually –

The route Odin and army his shall scale

To set upon the Vanir – dire surprise –

Slaught’ring and slaying, dyeing icy fanes

Deep red of gore. No war-cry lifts that host

Enjoined to silence – only clink of arms

And tread of boots are heard.

 

                                                      The peaks stand tall,

Nigh overhead now… Odin suddenly

Doth halt – and all his company do same.

He bids them hush – a stirring’s in the air,

A groaning, creaking. Every ear perceives

That atmosphere portentous: cracks and booms

Grow louder, ’cross the valleys echoing…

And each god, minion, vassal peers straight up

To see a snow-cloud huge looming like death,

Dropping with ice-chunks, trees, and sprays of rocks,

Rumbling and tumbling! 

 

                                                    Odin shouts retreat,

And flight is instant: weapons, shields are tossed –

Mayhem takes hold, and universal scream

Contends with rush of avalanche to reach

The farther listener… They fling their helms,

The routing crowd, and each looks back while drops

Great snow-cascade upon defenseless heads,

Muffling their shouts, in cold heaps burying

Those warriors by hundreds. 

 

                                                            Hangs again

Pure silence over all that frosty world –

’Til at long last ’gin peep, like plants of spring,

The Aesir’s heads and hands. Bedraggled wights

Crawl o’er the snow, too weak and dazed to moan,

Seeking the boats. And Odin, gazing o’er

Such devastated scene, curses the Norns,

Himself as well, but wizards most of all –

Gnashing and snarling, hateful towards that hour

He must make peace with lord of Vanaheim.

 

 

V.

 

Soon truce is made – and in a pitcher spit

All-Father and cool king of winter-land

To symbolize the cease of arms, and pledge

Exchange of hostages.

 

                                               All gods leap back,

Aesir, Vanir alike – for what doth creep

From mingled spittle? All unguessed, a god, 

Slick with saliva, hath the jug produced:

Two hands grip rim… a head comes into view…

And soon a naked body spills to floor:

A mixed-blood creature – old from very first,

For beard, whiskers, and hair are winter’s hue, 

And brow hath hundred years at least of lines.

He opes his eyes, and “Kvasir” saith he then:

“My name is Kvasir… Waters of two mouths

Were father, mother mine: each both; and jug

Served for my womb.”

 

                                      “Come bide with us, rare being,”

Saith Aesir’s king, eager for subjects, glad

To gain new blood for clan. “Come bide where blow

Rich blooms, in Asgard, home as warm as hearth,

Where rills run, never ice-locked, and the larks

Sing wondrous to my clan each purple morn.

Handsome are we, we tree of Buri’s root –

Not cold, aloof like wizards! Oh be kin

To summer-brothers: ever picnic-days

Thou mayest savor, plus brisk sports and games,

What though thy hide be wrinkled, head be gray.”

 

* * *

 

To Asgard, for to live with Odin’s blood

Arrive three of the Vanir: guarantee 

Of lasting concord. Up the bright arch walks

Shipbuilder Njord, with his twin offspring: Frey,

Blonde lustrous youth, be-robed and bold, his face

An origin of rays… lambent as well

Goes sister, even she who cracked that vase

O’er god-king’s crown. Freyja’s her name in truth,

Pert plucky damsel: now diaph’nous cape

Half-modesties her beauty. Boar she rides,

A battle-swine (he, Ottar in disguise,

A weak-brained servant, who from seeress learned

His pedigree, inheritance to save

From wager’s peril); and two thralls pursue

That family, to serve them in their stay

’Mongst Aesir for all time: Byggvir the man,

Beyla his wife, a humble minion-pair

Who’ll water fetch, and wash gods’ shining clothes.

*

The counterbalance Vanaheim receives:

Huge slumbrous Mimir, sent away from well

He’s kept for eons placidly. So cross,

So sleepy-headed, on his way he sulks,

Unwilling hostage, dreading ceaseless cold

And frost-mage company. 

 

                                                       It is a trick

The Aesir thought up – for no asa’s he,

But cousin to the Norns (one of the few

Jötnar not direful) – thus doth Valhall save

One of its own from leaving cherished realm.

To Vanir’s touted he as wondrous sage,

Gazing much sights e’en icy clan can’t spy –

And ’tis not far from truth… But in his gloom,

Deep slump and funk, not much that jotun views,

And proves most oft a drowsy layabout,

Reluctant to awake, stingy with words,

Not much for lending counsel. By the hearth

He snoreth oft, and when harsh-jabbed to speak

Upon some weighty issue, e’er he saith:

“I’ll let the rest decide.” All Vanaheim

Agrees on what’s to do…

 

* * *

 

                                                     Odin on throne

Accepts a box: odd gift, from far away,

All unexpected… ’Midst the tissues sits

Blue head of Mimir, herbs keeping him fresh.

The shocked king and his court in silence stare

Wide-eyed, while Njord and’s children slip away

To lie low for a spell. 

 

                                          The high one’s hands

Turn round that noggin, musing what to do,

Until at last he sets it on a board

Close by, and crushes herbs upon its skin,

Speaking weird spells, biding its life return…

And eyes, shut fast, now ope full wide again,

And Mimir glanceth wildly round and round,

Remarking his new home. All Aesir gasp

And whistle in amazement, ’til they close

Once more the wise troll’s peepers.

 

                                                                         So he’s kept,

Sans body, right beside the lord of gods

To prophesy and preach when doom seems nigh

And lend advice – though Mimir, most the time,

Just snores and snores, annoying everyone.

 

 

VI.

 

Slothful he’s not, meanwhile, that jug-born bloke

Who’s also come to Asgard. Restless-limbed,

Broad tracts he yearns to tramp: Valhalla’s width

Seems narrow as a cell, and heaven’s fields

A cottage garden-croft scarce vaster than.

He packs a sack, and past Heimdall he trips

With “farewell friend!” on’s lips, and down the bow

That trav’ler skates, with pleasure at th’escape.

Midgard he wanders, well-worn track and trail

Ofttimes abjuring, sometimes taking them

To meet with village folk – craftsman and wife,

The not-far farmer – and his wisdom share

For fare and lodging.

 

                                          Soon good Kvasir’s name

Means judgment, savvy, ’mongst the hoi polloi;

And now th’impatient rustics questions press

Upon him, soon as hamlet draws he nigh –

Asking how best to sow, or brew, or net

The slipp’ry stream-tribe, or hunt stag or boar.

And, knowing where his blood’s from, wish they too,

Those country people, knowledge of high spheres

And those who live so lofty: “How tall stand,”

Ask they, “those ones immortal, and their halls?

What games much play they? And what enmities

Or loves subsist amongst them?” Thousand such

Quick questions shower sage… His tongue gives much –

Though nothing of what comes in future days,

Only the past and present. Man grows plump

And wealthy by his words, wiser and shrewd,

Heeding his news and guidance.

 

* * *

 

                                                                   In a cave

Close by the sea, beneath the weed-choked dunes,

Somewhat not far from men, somewhat removed,

There dwell two souls, outcasts of dwarven race,

Who’ve learnt of spittle-god, that vagabond

And half-blood benefactor. Fjalar one

Is called, the other Galar: squat and mean,

Cruel-eyed and hairy – knaves more treacherous

Please tell me if thou’st heard of, none have I;

For meditate they ever how to slay

The honest wights of earth, and ill-got gains

Convey to chambers theirs, the well-concealed 

And low den that’s their home.

 

                                                                Good Kvasir they

Now understand doth roam their neighborhood,

Imparting for quite modest price his store

Of brain-kept boons… An ambush set the rogues

Along a much-used road.

 

                                                    Soon young-old god

Doth walk that way. Emerging from the woods,

They wish him health, implore to feast with them,

For too much meat and drink have they prepared,

And need another stomach! Kvasir ne’er

Hath met with soul who’d do him wrong, or lie,

And therefore invitation swift accepts

And goes with dwarfs to banquet.

 

* * *

 

                                                                     Silverware

Clinks noisily ’gainst dishes as they dine

On ham and herring; wine slops o’er the tops

Of goblets, bubbles pop on chalice-rims,

And foam stains tablecloth: messy repast,

All swallowed up in minutes. 

 

                                                            Dwarfs entreat,

Once every sip is supped and tidbit’s ta’en:

“Oh guest, descend with us to lower floor

Of subterranean den, where thou mayst view

Our wealth-hoard – such a heap ne’er glimpsed by eyes

Not of our race: the bangle, torque, and targe,

Ingots and bowls, crowns, brooches, cups and rings,

Each gemstone of the earth, ewers and flasks,

And mirrors clean as sky without a cloud –

All those, and coins besides, stacked up twice-tall

As standest thou – enough to cause rich wyrm 

To squirm with envy in his treasure-lair.

’Tis more than we might reckon, count, record –

Acquired o’er centuries… Now, as reward

For kindnesses thou’st done, of which we’ve heard,

For men across these lands, we’ll let thee set

Thine eyes upon this secret gleaming scene –

And what is more, we’ll let thee take one piece

Away to keep, as souvenir of feast

And fitting boon for goodness to the world.”

*

And glad god shakes their mitts, accepts with glee –

Mistrust unknown to him, a foreign word –

And steps with those two down a stony stairs,

His hosts much winded to keep up with strides

Quite long for eagerness… A great grim door

By tapers’ light is seen, and dwarfs a key

Produce to open it.

 

                                        Inside there’s naught

But dingy darkness… And two knives were hid

By evil brothers, now come out of sheathes –

And oh, what founts! wound-weepings! gore that spews

And pours from Kvasir’s sides! He falls to floor,

Twitches a bit, then with a gasp expires,

Goes limp full-length… and casually the dwarfs

’Gin mop up all that blood – then wring it out

In cauldrons three they keep within that cell:

Three vats, now brimming red. 

 

                                                           “A mead we’ll brew,”

Saith Fjalar. “Now, mix honey with the blood…

Ferment with yeast, and that concoction new

Ought grant verse-wisdom to the one who sips:

The poet’s portion, for to dream rich rhymes, 

Circumlocutions, clever comments, quips, 

Kennings, and questions’ answers – effortless!

A treasure truly, one we’ll never share,

Only content if we might own it all.”

*

So honey’s dolloped in – life-liquid’s mixed

With sweetness; and those dwarfs store potion in

Their spacious cave of treasures, lightless hall,

Keeping their secret of the mead from all.

 

 

VII.

 

Not long, and dwarfs new victims entertain –

No profit planning, merely for the thrill

They take in slaying. Gilling and his wife,

A giant-couple, meager wits, now feast

Within that lair where Kvasir ate his last,

Gnawing and noshing, greasing hands and lips,

Their cheeks – of usual, quarrelsome and loud,

Abusive towards each other – stuffed and crammed

With meats and vegetables that vanish fast

While evil brothers grin. 

 

                                                 The supper done,

Galar asks Gilling: “Care ye for a jaunt

Out on the wide sea with us? Oftentimes 

The kraken’s arms or whale’s spout we might spy,

Or serpent’s head when peeks he o’er the brine,

This upper world to glimpse. What merry time

We’ll have: the wind breathes fresh, no rainclouds swell!

Fjalar and I shall row, and hoist the sail:

Thou mayst recline, enjoy!”

 

                                                          And poor old lunk

No more suspicion thinks than Kvasir did,

For mood of his runs high, swoll’n with that food;

And so he bids adieu to wife, and hikes

With scheming short ones swiftly to the beach,

Out on a dock, and steps into a ship

Which to its owners seemeth galleon-big,

But scarcely’s large as wherry for that troll;

And there on deck doth Gilling take his ease

While dwarfs shove off. The sail creeps up the mast,

And puffs up, proud. Oars dip into the drink,

A steady rhythm – wavelets ’gin to surge,

Bobbing the crowded craft; foam sprays in wind,

Bedewing those three’s beards. The seabirds squawk,

The coast retreats, while far away looms edge

Of tossing ocean, where it ever drains 

Into enormous void, a gaping dark

That swallows water, plus sea-beasts and ships

Which wander far, towards peril’s thund’ring ledge

Of cascades, roaring. Squat men wheeze and row,

Breathing like bellows – and this jolly verse

Sing they to Gilling while they paddles ply:

 

     Love we to row a kind guest o’er the sea,

     Where mermaids or a dolphin he might meet.

     So many friends cavort amidst this swell –

     We’ll greet them, and speak with them, for a spell.

 

     The waves now curl beneath a huffy sun

     That’s breathing heavy, and makes breezes run

     Into our sail, and nudges us towards where

     A nasty drop might rob us of our cares.

 

     Who’s better host than Galar – Fjalar, too?

     Oh say, good Gilling… what is that we view?

     Sea-wyrm is wriggling, wants to be our friend!

     Stand up to greet him – o’er the gunwale bend!

 

Oh trusting giant! Soon as on his feet

And leaning out to look, the hull hits rock,

Launching poor Gilling o’er the starboard side,

No more to rise, for anvil-heavy sinks

That swimless sap… Now brothers head for coast,

Amused by murder, laughing all the laughs

You’d think would last their lifetimes; and new lines

Compose they on the spot, these stanzas cruel:

 

     Oh, Gilling spilled headlong into the main –

     Rub-a-dub-dub, he shan’t come up again!

     He must have sunken to the floor ’bout now –

     Or’s wound up in a whale’s gut, anyhow.

 

     His wife is next; how shall we end her life?

     By poison, drowning, choking, or by knife?

     We know: a stone shall crush her head –

     A weighty blow to make the poor wench dead!

 

* * *

 

Her eyes, filled up with tears, to grief give rein

Upon the dolorous news.

 

                                                    “An accident:

A swordfish leapt and stabbed him through the heart,

And both fell in the sea.” A rueful tone

Fjalar is using. Giantess sobs hard –

The floor sloshes with tears, and now dwarf speaks

The second trick: “Might thy heart solace find,

Good creature, if thou sawest where he died,

The far-off spot at sea?” 

 

                                                He leads her by

The hand, crossing cave’s threshold… Ready now

Stands Galar, just above. The stone he shoves

With perfect timing: widow’s head is crushed,

Blood spurting everywhere, all o’er those dwarfs

While chortle they, those foul and wicked imps.

 

 

VIII.

 

Soon stalks a vengeful giant from out-lands:

Suttung, the son of Gilling, who’s ne’er loved

The selfish mining breed, and tales hath heard

Of murd’rous brethren settled on the coast –

That same shore he’s informed a giant-pair

Did lately wander ’long: his sire and mum, 

Long missing. 

 

                            Dwarfs he grasps by scruff of neck,

Speaking no word, and bears them ’cross the sea

That sloshes at his chest. His victims curse,

Struggle and punch, ’til giant sets them down

Upon a rock – that same rock brothers struck 

Their ship against, to launch poor Gilling off

The deck, and to his death.

 

                                                        “Now tide shall take

My vengeance!” Suttung taunts, and each dwarf takes

The other in his arms, deathly afraid.

“Gilling, my father, laughs, where’er he be!

Let combers comb your beards, and breakers break

Your heads upon the reef!”

 

                                                      Dwarfs tremble, quake,

Each brother clutching other – but a scheme

Quick springs from Galar’s mouth: “Oh jotun, list!

’Tis just thou seek’st our lives for what we did;

We do not argue… But if thou wouldst bring

Us back to shore, we’ll render thee reward

Most precious: mead which, by the merest sip,

Unfolds the tongue – lets speak rhymes in cascade,

Stanzas in streams… verse-rivers broad, full soon,

High-swoll’n with inspiration’s springtime thaw.

’Tis underneath our hill, in cauldrons three,

In nook too small for thee – we’ll fetch it out!

’Tis wondrous prize, to keep, or sell, or trade,

This meed of mead – all thine if thou’lt agree

To spare us of this end!”

 

                                                  Suttung, intrigued,

Muses the offer… and at last cries aye,

Though hating still those two. Under his arms

He tucks them, bears them home; and soon they haul

Their deep pots up to surface. Suttung holds

Them ’gainst his chest and, careful not to spill,

Departs for wind-wracked east, his chilly home,

All unaware he bears his father’s blood.

The dwarven brothers sigh, look each to each,

Glad murder’s still their hobby – not their doom.

 

* * *

 

To Hnitbjorg, noisy mountain, Suttung hies –

Neck-craning crag with clear view of the world,

Where tremors strange, and knocks and jolts and creaks

Sound through its caverns always: trolls’ footsteps

And dragons’ shifting round, could be… or could

Be throb of fire, its jostling of loose stones –

That ever-roiling heat below one’s shoes,

Which hisses in grim places, seethes its steam

In secret cleft or canyon.

 

                                                   Yellow light

Pours on that grand rock rising from broad plains:

A seat for scrawny trees, but where there grow

Some little blooms and strawberries on slopes

Down towards the land. The gnarled alder twists,

Blighted by cold, up near the frosty peak,

And wind’s the only sound one hears at top,

The knockings much too low.

 

                                                            To secret nook

Half-blocked by snow, now Suttung lugs his mead,

Hearing the tremors – and he sister leads,

Who’ll guard his prize.

 

                                       “Gunnlod: here must thou keep

My cauldrons; and a cave door I shall frame

To bar trespass from outside – but the beasts

Which in these tunnels crawl, I charge thee beat

And drive off, should they wish my mead to sup!

Thou hast great arms and legs: ought be no strain

To vanquish what might come… Meanwhile, I’ll keep 

A lookout high on peak, to see that none

Attempts my treasure by some secret means,

Some ingress I spy not.”

 

                                                  So portal’s built –

Meek Gunnlod’s sealed within, and bade to bolt

That door with iron bar. Her brother climbs

To wind-combed summit where the herb like hair

Grows on that granite skull – and there reclines,

Drowsy from labor – lays out all his heft, 

His pillows tufts of moss. Just for a while 

He’ll doze, he thinks, and then keep constant watch

O’er all approaches. 

 

                                         Soon birdsongs contrive

To lullaby his mind; and sleep lasts long –

Much longer than he’d thought: hours, days, and weeks,

And now more than a month… and still he snores.

 

 

IX.

 

Oh Rumor, dost thou ever keep to home –

A lazybones, content with where thou’st been,

And not run off, quick vagabond with legs

Wide-pacing, racing, reaching lands far-flung?

From vicious brothers ’scapes th’excited word:

Suttung the jotun hath with him a drink

To make one passing wise, superbly taught

In conjuration of the sweet-shaped phrase –

But few know where he’s stashed it.

 

                                                                        Odin’s ears

Pick up the whispers, which shall not depart,

But live inside his brain… That lord of gods

Must let no wisdom dwell outside his mind –

And therefore shortly sets out on a boat,

Leaving the charge of Valhall to his wife,

Crossing wave-wilderness, the brave wet stretch 

Gray as grim winter sky: a little ship,

A bobbing bark in rain, steered by what seems

No more than man in cloak. That humble craft

Appears a drifting mote, a floating speck,

And pulls toward dark escarpments at the shore,

Falling beneath stark shadows from the cliffs.

Now beaches boat below a cloud-lost height

Where wind-blown mists are rolling, curling where 

They butt against that wall.

 

                                                        The moaning squalls

Follow the wanderer for weeks on end

Through lands where few plants thrive… But winds subside

As lands and time pass; and new sunlight’s found

Where earth-fur ’gins to grow. 

 

                                                             He knows this way

He shall find Suttung’s brother, and some means

A sip of mead to gain… He walks on ridge,

Rustling the weeds, raising the butterflies,

Disturbing small things, when below he sees

Tall stalks of wheat.

 

                                         The breezes comb through them,

E’er trying to smooth them. Song of work comes up

To height of ridge; and Odin, striding down,

Ere long sets eyes on workers in the field:

Nine tall men with their scythes, who reap and reap

The golden harvest, limbs exhausted, slow –

A massive field before them, hills of wheat

Beyond the eye. One man sees stranger come,

And soon all lean on scythes, remark that form

Full-robed in blue approach them.

 

                                                                     Close he stands,

Speaking no word, his face but barely seen;

And none of harvesters (they know not why)

Can break their gaze from him. At last he saith:

“My name is Bolverk, oh ye reaping men.

This work I do not envy ye: such toil

Beneath an uncloaked sun!”

 

                                                          “Our task goes hard,”

Says one of them, “the cutting slow and rough,

For lack we any whetstone; and as thou

Dost say, the season’s swelt’ring. All these fields

Must scythe we by September.” And the rest

Nod heads and murmur.

 

                                                  Bolverk seems to muse

For just a moment, shows the faintest grin,

Then reaches in his cloak – and out he takes

A rock, perfect for sharp’ning. Nine delight

While blades he whets, not needing many strokes;

And now the cutting goes an easy thing:

Clean, unobstructed swipes. The wheat stalks sink

Like hair that’s shorn, and hours pass swiftly now

’Til sky-candle burns low.

 

                                                  “Who’ll have the stone?”

Asks Bolverk, holding it high overhead;

And all the reapers reach, crowding so close

They almost jostle him – they offer coin

And goods in trade… but stranger only smiles,

Letting those toilers hush as moments pass –

Then tosses high the prize.

 

                                                       So long it seems

To linger ’midst the clouds, suspended in

A blue-black firmament, that hirelings crowd

At spot they guess ’twill fall: they scramble, shove,

And crane their necks. So furious they grow,

So much a scrum their struggling, that the scythes

They hold are pushed and jerked – and each blade slits

The throat of nearby man! They all collapse:

Each body dribbles blood, each hand drops tool

While all life leaves the flesh. Bolverk steps ’midst

That mess of men he’s mown with wicked trick –

And catches rock, stows it away in cloak,

Then passes on, whistling a jolly tune.

 

* * *

 

In little hollow hides a farmhouse where

Candles and hearth pulse golden light through chinks

In wattled wall, and through the windows crude.

That night, Baugi with guest sits o’er his food,

But little sups. 

 

                              “I found my hirelings dead,”

Landowner tells the stranger, who had come

To door, begged modest supper. “Blood was on

Each scythe blade – some strange quarrel did them in,

Brought death to every party. Now I fret

I shall not reap my wheat ere debts come due,

And so shall lose my land… Where might I find

New hirelings? ’Tis unpeopled country, this

I live in, and ye walk through – long to reach

Even the town where grain like mine is sold;

And shall be summer’s evening by the time

Nine more good men I find.”

 

                                                         Bolverk is quick

To offer service: “Nine men I’ll replace,

Good giant, if thou wouldst my labor buy –

And by September shall the work be done:

The crop cut, grain all threshed, ready to sell.

Ask not how I might do this – only trust

It shall be done; and if ’tis not, thou mayst

Cut off my head! This swear I, by the roof

Of utmost heaven… Now, am I thy hire?”

*

And Baugi, Suttung’s brother, scoffs at first,

But sees full soon his guest jests not at all,

And thinks perhaps some magic knows this man,

Great aid for massive task. He strokes his jaw,

The farmer-giant, and he saith: “If I 

Were to believe thee sane, and one who cares

To keep his head on neck – what wouldst thou wish

As payment for thy work?”

 

                                                      “No coin, no board

Nor even bed,” says Bolverk. “Only sip:

One tiny sip of potion which I know

Thy brother keeps well hid… Thou know’st where lives

Thy brother, and thou surely mightst convince 

One close in blood to thee, to yield a drop.”

*

And Baugi, much astonished, tells his guest:

“That mead’s not mine to give – and much I doubt

Would Suttung part with e’en the smallest sip!”

*

Saith Bolverk: “Then just tell me where ’tis like

His cauldrons he hath stowed, once task’s complete –

And lend me thine assistance for one hour,

However I request… unless ye wish

Those fields to languish, thou a pauper go.”

 

* * *

 

New scythe-man toils like one possessed and grim,

Needing no mealtimes, reaping without rest,

Shearing those stalks, that endless head of hair –

So swiftly mowing, past all human strength.

And now the flail replaces cutting edge:

Wheat’s beaten from the chaff, and soon the grain 

Sits ready in the giant’s ox-drawn carts.

He sells that yield, old Baugi, in the town,

And now, reluctantly, must pay the bloke

For service that’s complete.

 

                                                        “Now follow me,”

He saith, “to where, as all my family knows,

Strong Suttung – he who’s acted family head

E’er since our parents’ murders – hides his brew:

’Tis deep inside a vast and rocky heap,

And sister Gunnlod hath he forced to guard

That treasure in the heart of massive mound. 

I’ll aid thee, as I promised that I would,

One hour – and nothing more; and ’tis thy task

To think how thou mightst sneak inside such fort –

That mountain fortress – and the potion steal.”

 

* * *

 

Now up a rugged path the god disguised

And farmer-giant hike: after three days

They’ve reached the mountain’s foot. Bolverk requests:

“The drill I’ve had ye bring – bore through this rock

’Til inner chamber’s reached. In time, a change

Shall make me slender, for to worm within.”

*

Much loath is Baugi ’gainst his kin to work –

But deal he’s struck, and service must be paid.

So jotun cranks his auger for a time

While weather shifts to stormy, then to calm,

Then back again, ’til Baugi claims at last:

“So deep the drill hath pierced, it’s surely reached

An inner room by now!”

 

                                                 But skeptical,

The one who wants the mead blows in the hole,

And finds that rocky grains spray on his face.

“Nay, nay, drill on!” he saith.

 

                                                           Baugi sweats on,

Grinding the stubborn tool: now going’s slow,

So deep’s the drill. He turns the handle ’til 

His bit can dig no deeper. 

 

                                                     Bolverk blows

Once more – and naught flies back upon his lips.

“Thy recompense thou’st done,” he tells the troll,

Who looks at him – and sees he’s now a snake! 

The rocks Odin creeps o’er, slithers through shaft;

And Baugi, much amazed, sees tail depart,

Then turns and goes, regretful of his deed.

 

 

X.

 

Within ’tis lightless, windy, blust’ry, warm,

With ceaseless draughts breathing through gaps and holes,

Hot currents lifting, cold gusts pouring down,

And seething sounds all o’er – as well those knocks

Of stones and boulders. Back to wonted shape

Of god switches the snake, and through black ways

Mysterious of mountain’s heart he goes,

Wading through cave-ponds, clamb’ring up steep cliffs,

Declivities descending – cautious e’er, 

For that eternal midnight baffles him;

And gropes and wanders he for hours on end,

Searching for vats that hold all sacred songs

And skill to sing them.

 

                                              Rooms of amethyst

And crystal, cellars stocked with endless gems

He stumbles through, touching prodigious growths

Of minerals, wishing a torch he bore

To view a wondrous glinting. Cavern mouths

Swallow the searching god, and oddest sounds

Bring thoughts of lurking beasts to Odin’s mind.

 

* * *

 

Within a chamber, Gunnlod lightly sleeps,

Unmindful of her charge. A golden shine

Floods o’er the walls: a handsome glow of skin

Along with rays her blonde hair seems t’exude,

By sadness still undimmed. Long tears still stain

Fair cheek of giantess, and Odin views

How diamond-like they gleam. 

 

                                                                The vats as well

He glimpses ’cross the cave; and great god wakes

Baugi’s and Suttung’s sister with a hand

So gently… How the maid, astonished much,

With stiffened look doth stare – she can’t believe 

Such handsome vision’s true.

 

                                                            Soft pity prompts

All-Father not to plunder straight away

What she’s been charged to guard… Instead he saith

That he shall offer love in trade for mead:

Some comfort in her cave-shut loneliness.

What outcome else? With gratitude she takes

Her newfound lover to her, and three nights

Remains in his embrace. 

 

                                                   Gemstones in walls

White-sparkle on their union; and twice god

Imbibes the bloody mixture, draining all

Red content of two cauldrons.

 

                                                              In his brain

He views word-wilderness, vast forest dark,

And poet’s lodge that’s built there. 

 

* * *   

 

                                                                       On third night,

While Gunnlod sleeps beside him, smile on lips,

Exuding happy shine, he takes the last

Mouthful of mead – but does not swallow it,

For this he means to bear back to his clan.

His cheeks puffed out, the portal he unbars,

Letting the moonlight in. He closes it,

Then in the night outside, transforms again,

This time into an eagle – spreads his wings,

And soon, against the moon, flaps on his way

To holy Asgard’s hall. 

 

                                            The swish of wings

Sounds through the air, disturbs the one who sleeps

Upon the mountaintop.

 

                                                 Poor Gunnlod feels,

Through sleep’s depth, empty space where lover was,

And wakes – she looks for him, whispers his name,

But no reply comes. Lies she on the floor,

Holding her arms close, almost wond’ring if

Sweet god were merely fantasy brought on

By lonesomeness, and darkness of the cave.

 

* * *

 

Within a minute, door’s pulled ope again;

And Gunnlod hopes her lover’s changed his mind,

Come back to stay – but when she sees who ’tis, 

She hides behind stalagmites for her guilt.

’Tis Suttung! Finding door unbarred, he hastes

To vats – and shouts for wrath when views them void:

Suspicions proven, first excited when

That eagle saw he flying swift away

Against the moon, its wings two frantic fans,

As though it feared pursuit. 

 

                                                         The troll, outside,

Changes to bird himself, an equal beast

Or swifter, and is quick up through the air,

With wider wingspan hasting where he saw

That eagle disappear. 

 

* * *

 

                                            Suttung by dawn

Spies speck upon horizon – Odin too

Perceives the other, hearing flaps behind,

And briefly turns, to notice larger bird

Gaining upon him. Urgent now he hies

To castle in the clouds he calls his home…

But e’er pursuer’s gaining, claws and beak

Poised for the combat.

 

                                               Freyja on green plains

Outside the high-blessed house perched o’er the worlds

Is hunting harts, with hounds that swarm around, 

Sniffing for game in groves. 

 

                                                          The chase she spots,

Two shapes approaching, and she guesses who

Each dark-winged form is – for the purpose of

All-Father’s quest all of his household’s heard.

Cries she: “Oh ope the gate! Odin returns

With foe upon his tail!” She races back

Towards vasty mansion, oft repeating shouts,

Confusing hunting hounds, ’til at the last

The portal’s halves swing wide – and Odin zips

Inside, then Freyja; and they’re shut again,

Enraging Suttung. Screeching o’er his loss,

The great bird circles hall, but entry none 

Discovers: so, exhausted by his flight,

He wheels and turns, much slower now his flaps,

Gnashing his beak for rage. 

 

                                                         To Hnitbjorg’s cave

Vengeful he flies – where good he’ll Gunnlod thrash! –

But knows he not his sister’s left that hill,

Ne’er to return. 

 

                                She’ll hide ’midst weathered stones

Within a day or two, after she’s fled,

To weep for always – tristful destiny –

Her hair bedraggled, clothing rotten, torn,

Amidst grey granite cow’ring, weeping streams

In bleakest hinterland… For god she pines,

Her three nights’ lover whom she’ll see no more,

While evermore of brother shall she go

Deathly afraid – trembling one day shall swoop

Two wings, two claws: that shape of Suttung’s wrath.

 

* * *

 

In pail the mead is spat – All-Father’s back

To proper form. Now every god admires

That liquid treasure; and some little taste

Each one’s allowed (though Bragi on the sly

Doth slurp much more than’s fair).

 

                                                                 So ’tis with men:

A few drops every half-bright brain receives;

But some drink heartily, cannot refrain

From sweet intoxication, ever keen

To souse themselves, and sing ’til blood is clean

Of what’s possessed them.

 

                                                        One thing more I ought

To tell ye: While All-Father, frantic, flew 

From Suttung’s fury, some drops of that sweet

Concoction gulped he down – they passed straight through,

And fell to earth below. Such drops are share

For rhymesters: those who doggerel compose

And craft such stanzas as bring sighs and groans –

Who lose their meter, and no charms invent,

Who bore, or grate the ear, and e’er perplex.

*

The sweet mead, or the foul? I’ll leave it ye

To figure which this poet’s supped lately. 

*                                                                       *                     

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(illustration by Emil Doepler)

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