(Thor Battles Hrungnir by Ludwig Pietsch)

*

*

I.

*

With phrases stainless springing fresh, this skald

Lifts high his praise of glorious gray god’s rule:

Vexer, exciter, stern stirrer of souls,

Chafing the swordsmen to their iron game

And poets to their strife against the page

So blank and mocking; and in aid to sing

For Father’s honor, for that faith in him

Who wars with destiny, contends with Fates

In force of soul – call I upon those powers 

Withholding mead in some far space of mind

For sips of poesy: Dole out drink by drips,

This scribbler tantalizing, and his thirst

Just slightly slaking.

 

                                           Rosy with rich boon,

I’ll nothing dread in practice of my task,

For nothing might the steadfast heart suppress;

And sons and daughters all of these our realms –

Oh ninefold splendor, fair beyond all words:

Bless these, All-Father, bless thy children-souls,

Bless these with lightning-grace or furious fire –

Heart-inspiration’s burst, that vision vast

We yearn to glimpse in dreams of day or night:

The golden beam; the joy that endeth not;

Heart-swelling peace; last summit ’midst the clouds;

Our gift, our life; the mother, father, child;

Beauty and tears; our family ’neath the stars.

 

* * *

 

Ygg travels, and the fogs make way for him

In curling def’rence: steed which Loki birthed

On lonesome trails is trotting – ’long the bourne

Of giants’ home and man’s All-Father rides

To trolls dismay, and courage Midgard-hearts

In season this, when frosty jötnar yearn

To roam, as autumn sinks to wondrous cold –

A spreading spell of ice – and wreak their wrath

With blasts that freeze the bones, with avalanche,

With blizzards show’ring homes with snowflake swarms

And bartons blanketing with twinkling rime,

Killing men’s kine with breath of crystal spite

And taunting gods as cold slays helpless flow’rs

Fair Vanir blessed to grace the verdant scene

While yet months did ascend.

 

                                                              Ygg lifts his spear,

A hush commanding ’mongst the ice-troll crew

Which hides where Ymir’s bones have split – those gaps

And gashes of a boulder-range so rough –

Their wild howls muting, sealing up those lips

Sleet-spitting, blowing winter ’cross the lands;

And so he brings reprieve to men from roar

Of wind-blasts frore: at least a few days’ calm

Ere winter’s ire resumeth. Gusts go soft,

Though still doth whirl black atmosphere on high –

A whistling and a whisking of that world

Bold hawks inhabit… Toward uncanny place

Now double legs bear Odin.

 

                                                          See! the rocks

Of canyon carved by flood of long-ago

Now seem to fret and tremble with an urge

From cliffs, by blocks and chunks, to swift escape –

For Jord herself doth quiver, trapped in rage,

Toward climax dread impelled… And oh! what groan

And grinding tumult! Sleipnir rears and stamps;

Pebbles and scree rush flooding, and god grips 

His reins to steady steed…

 

                                                        Then from black stone

A huge form separates: dark as the earth,

As hulking as a crag – some slab-like man

Ten times All-Father’s height! His armor’s slate,

His helm a granite hat – with dust and dirt

He’s caked, and dripping mud his face besmears:

Creature of terra, dank and loamy-damp,

As rough and earthy as that troll was slain

By brothers three, from which he hath detached.

Like boulder now he blocks All-Father’s path,

This wall-like bloke, discharged from mountain’s side.

Stone-giant creaks and groans and yawns and shakes,

Searching for hated Aesir-scent which roused

Him from his slumbers, geologic dreams;

And peering round, he spies Odin below –

Such hated enemy! – and spies his horse,

That slipping thing he knows might cross wide plains

Or ocean waves in easy bounding strides…

And greedy-eyed, gruff creature bends down low

His face to Odin, speaking with a voice

Like heaving of the mountain caves’ deep lungs:

 

“I know thee, Ygg, ye terror-soul of runes –

The enemy of all my folk and kith,

Whom I ought hate! The clatt’ring of those hooves

Did wake me from long slumber underground,

As well thy odor, Asgard fruit-perfume:

That reek of apples, youth, and blooming life –

Unpleasant to the nose for such as I,

Who loveth moss-smell!”

 

                                                   “What is it thou mean’st,”

Rejoins the god, “in springing from these stones

To halt my travels? Challenge? Or a fight?

Speak, elemental! Nowise mightst thou best

Valhalla’s lord at any deed you’d dream!”

 

The giant laughs, so scornful; and careens

That booming mirth amongst the craggy cliffs,

Returning echoes – plus the fellow glee

Of other trolls who chuckle, those who trow 

Their champion more great than Ygg believes.

 

“Why doth he not fly over me, thy nag?”

The giant mocks, again low’ring his face.

“No skill to bound a lowly lump like me?

I deem Slipper might slip, but little else;

And slowest steed in giant-land ought beat

Thy mount, oh Odin, by a hundred miles

Were we to race from here to where thou reign’st!”

 

“What steed then hast thou, boastful bulk,” god asks,

“To prove thy lips no liars? Let us ride

In chasing competition: asa, troll,

Before the world, to show who’s great, who lies!

Indeed, if thou o’ertakest me but once,

E’en by a nose, among the many leagues

Of man’s dominion, ere we reach that gate 

The honored dead find happy rest beyond,

My head is yours, and nothing shall I flinch

When swingest thou the axe! Bring forth thy horse,

Whichever wishest thou – surely thy choice

Shan’t matter: e’en the worst should doom my head

If sooth thou’st spoken!”

 

                                                    And, with not a word,

Then from the sun the giant seems to pull

Upon a vast rope, coiled in the clouds,

Astonishing All-Father – and ’midst beams

Emerges horse, sparkling like sunlit sea!

It steps from star down toward gray graveled way,

Near-brilliant as that sky-gem – creature born

In welkin’s glittering pastures. Odin blinks,

Holding out palm to shield his eyes from shine,

And hears the jotun: “Gold-Mane, god, thou seest,

Of matter splendid more than mundane flesh

(Such stuff as makes that progeny of Lok

Thou sittest on)! I fear for head of thine,

For sunbeam’s scarcely swifter than these hooves

I’ve tugged from out the sky’s resplendent fields!”

And mounting creature lent rich gleam of Dag

All o’er its coat, the giant hollers fierce:

“To Asgard’s porch – thou must e’er keep the lead!”

 

And Sleipnir, sensing much the urgent mood,

Waits not for Odin’s spur, but turns and bounds

As if vipers had sprung from out the ground,

And hastens down the mountain-way he came,

His master slapping reins and chanting spells

To aid his horse’s flight! Stone-giant spurs

That catch that dasher, driving steed to leap

Lengths longer than the Slipper can, and clop

Headlong down rock-strewn road.

 

                                                                  Now foothills reach

The god and troll; and now ’cross plains they race

While Sol, so coy, conceals her face once more

In storm-thick darkness: raindrops tap on hat

Of frantic asa, who by backward glance

Sees jotun gaining on him inch by inch

Like axe of fate slow-swinging – bringing doom!

His spurs dig deep – Sleipnir whinnies in pain;

Horse-legs run hurtling, eight blurs o’er the earth;

And soon horse-pace sparks flames across the grass –

Gold-Mane doth too; and men of Midgard trow

The wrath of Surt hath come before its hour,

That fire of end-time, eating wights and world.

 

*  * *

 

Now seven times hath silver cart flown high,

And ’pon high rainbow-bridge now hooves resound,

Twelve hammers striking hard: Gold-Mane hath moved

Abreast, almost, of rival! Wheezing foam

Spits from their mouths, and riders bark for speed,

For desp’rate burst, and vict’ry ’neath that gate

Looming amid soft cloudscape of pink dusk.

And Odin sweats to see the giant’s horse

E’er edging closer, as deer dreads to see

The slav’ring wolf gain on him…

 

                                                                    Heimdall leaps,

Dodging the racers as they dash beneath

Huge arch… Oh, scarcest margin yet remained

For him who feared to lose his head! Troll spits,

Grunts, swears and curses, pulling on his reins

While Odin yells to him some ways away:

“So close I let thee gain upon me, friend,

To make my triumph sweeter, and thy loss

More ashen in thy mouth! The world shall learn

That Odin shamed trolls’ champion today,

Not once letting opponent take the lead,

And proved the Aesir better than thy race!

I’ll tell it to the disir, dwarfs, and men,

The sea-sprites, little varmints of the wolds,

And every bird – who’ll tell it to thy trolls,

That they might laugh at thee when thou return’st

To jotun-home: a long and bitter trip!

But thou art thirsty, surely: come and drink

The ale of Valhall’s hospitality

While steeds sup up the sloshing flow of Thund –

That river stuffed with swords and knives and spears,

Which wards off timid hearts from gloried halls

Thou seest on yonder hill. Come, follow me!”

So grumbling jotun dismounts, and he leads

Gold-Mane to Sleipnir’s side at current’s bank,

Where plunges horse his tongue into that surge

So cold, bracing, restoring – but recoils

His head when weapon-edge nips at his nose;

And with more caution then he dips again

His thirsty mouth to slurp.

 

                                                      Meantime, the thurse

Appears in Valhall – and Einherjar gape,

Half-draw their swords, leap up upon their seats,

Spill suds and plates, upsetting banquet’s spread,

To see such enemy, colossal troll

Conducted by All-Father, who declares:

“Oh sit, ye all – my welcome hath this bloke,

A worthy one to drink here: seven days

We’ve raced across the world, testing our steeds,

From Midgard’s edge to Valgrind! Bring him mead,

Axe-Time and Raging! Loser he may be –

Oh yes, a loser – but he is our guest,

So let him drink as much his gut might hold.”

Then settles down huge stone-troll on a bench, 

Scowling and scoffing, hatred in his heart,

While heroes glare upon him, much dismayed

By what Odin hath brought.

 

                                                             The valkyries serve

Great horns to jotun, such as even Thor

Might find too much – but giant knocks ’em back

Like thimblefuls, and motions now for more

As gods and heroes gawk… And soon is drained

The last tun from the pantry! Heidrun’s yield

All sloshes in the giant’s stomach-cave…

And soon the mood grows sour on each side.

“I’ll lift this house – I’ll sink it in the sea!”

The troll announces, kicking, swinging fists

As one-time warriors range themselves for fight,

Some donning casques, or clanging blades on shields,

Each calling, cursing, while the thurse roars on:

“Hrungnir ye view – a Brawler fit for feud!

Freyja I’ll filch, and Sif, and bring them home,

While all ye lie in heaps, as dead as stones!

Aesir and men I’ll roll into a ball,

And hurl ’em down my mountains!” And with hand

So bear-paw strong, he ’gins to swing at men,

Sending them skimming o’er the tabletops,

Breaking the seats to splinters, cracking helms,

Rebuffing each assay of godly arms

Or might of souls who once were Midgard men!

Now Odin hails good Axe-Time ’midst the din,

Ducking the trenchers thrown, the flying cups,

And cries: “Oh, send for Thor in Ironwood,

Where slays he vulpine children of the trolls –

And bid him hustle, if this roof of shields

And spear-shafts he might wish to view again

Upon its walls, and whole!”

 

                                                         The valkyrie nods,

Then springeth out the door, obtains her horse,

Ascends through deepening dusk, and rides with speed

Her steed through cold night air, cloud-swathes across,

Until Sif’s husband spies she ’midst the pines,

Battling those wolfish progeny so grim –

Those drooling maws, those paws like spiky clubs

Swung at his sweating face – and shouts at him:

“Come back, oh son of Jord and mighty Ygg:

Leave off thy hammer-strikes at thick-fur foes,

And fly with me, for Valhall’s crew’s assailed

By one thy foolish father took as friend

And let within to drink: stone-armored thurse

Who’s wrecking walls and bowling down the men,

Tossing the tables, breaking plate and fork!

Bring Mjollnir, so fat crown of his thou’lt dent –

Sif’s much upset, and Freyja hies to hide!

Leap on my steed!”

 

                                        And wrath and courage speed

That one with belt and gloves upon maid’s horse;

Then up from snapping jaws swift they depart,

Two sitting on one back, valkyrie and god,

To soar much faster than the fleetest hawk,

Or meteor that scratches Nott’s blue skin,

Then land in Asgard city – and straight in

That portal whence she left, shield-maid arrives

With Thor behind – he stumbles through the door,

Roaring with fury:

 

                                      “Match thou art for these,

This Valhall host, oh troll – but thund’rous maul

Shall prove thine head an anvil none too firm,

Swung by these arms granted a double strength

By cincture which I wear! Not ever Sif

Shall taken be to giant-home in hands

Defiling all they grip! Stand back, oh souls!”

And prince of lightning makes to toss his tool –

A frightful sight which seizes every eye –

But Brawler booms abruptly, loud and sure:

“What honor, Thor? What honor mightst thou gain

Defeating foe who weapon none doth wield?

Fight me with fists – or let us set a day

To meet upon some ground, armèd as each

Sees fit, with seconds to attend our duel!

Kill me with hammer now, and all shall say

Thou didst skip chance to clash on equal terms,

Dodging my danger, proving courage hath

Not much home in thy heart… At Stone Fence House,

At Midgard’s margin: let that be the place

Our struggling-skill is tried!”

 

                                                          “In one week’s time,”

The god responds, “I’ll be there, right at noon,

With second who shall serve as warrior –

So bid assistant come in arms as well;

And if thou breakest faith, I’ll search thee out,

And smash thee, whether weapon’s held or no!

Now get thee gone – and never dream again,

Not e’en if god invite thee, here to tip

A horn against thy lip!”

 

                                                And Brawler leaves,

Thumping his stony chest, though much o’erawed,

In truth, at sight of Mjollnir. Gold-Mane he

Jumps on in hurry, and down shimm’ring bridge

Rides toward his wintry home; and Dag shall rise

Times seven, ere grim Thor he’ll view again.

 

 

II.

 

At Stone Fence House the Brawler’s brutish clan

Much groans to hear what champion he’ll face,

For feared is mallet-master, hated, famed

Within that wall of Ymir’s eyebrows made;

And giants are there few who know no kin

Slaughtered in battles, massacres, or raids

By him of iron gauntlets.

 

                                                    “Who shall serve

As mine auxiliary?” Hrungnir asks kin.

“Not two, but four, shall fight when week concludes.

Lives there in Jotunheim one strong as I,

Or nearly – hero hailing from a home

Of storm or stone – or demon of the flames –

Or ice-thurse – or some troll of many heads –

To stand beside me whilst Thor’s head I crush?

Certes, the Thund’rer, and his second too,

Shall slain be, even if I fight alone –

But why should solely I gain great renown

As asa-slayer, vanquisher of god?

None speaks? All fame is mine, Hrungnir’s alone?”

 

And every silent jotun mills about

In Stone Fence House, each hoping other speaks

To volunteer his strength – but none is brave;

And Brawler scolds, and raves, and tosses scorn

On timorous folk: “Ye throw away renown

So great, gained easily? No matter, though:

When riding home, a plan did knock my brain –

My muddy, runny brain – and said to me:

‘Why shouldst thou not build comrade from the earth?

A golem of the mire: scooped, sculpted, dried,

Nine leagues in height, or more: tall as those tors

Where griffin makes his nest – and three leagues broad

Across the chest: a monolith, a man

With head amidst the mists, with club and targe

Not even Thor might break, for very bulk!’

Oh come, let’s scrape this riverbed below

Our stony home, and pile the mud heaps high

To build an ally shall not quail before

A little god, so puny ’neath his heel!”

 

And all the trolls delight at Brawler’s plan,

Such nifty notion, sure to bring success,

Humbling the Aesir, terrifying men,

And crowning Hrungnir as the nine worlds’ lord!

So with great eagerness, the giants spill

Down to the mucky silt, that half-wet stretch

Where in the spring prodigious torrents poured,

To gather clay, to slap and stack that goop

First into legs, two pillars high as pines,

And higher still – then torso, massive trunk

Rising through layers of cloud toward vault of night

E’er hov’ring ’bove the day – two arms as well,

One holding mace of stone, the other shield –

And last a head, thick-helmeted with rock,

Up nearly ’mongst the comets. Angels gape

From misty lounges to behold such shape

Intruding in their sphere!

 

                                                     But every thurse,

Once safely down on earth, doth wonder much

How might that form take life – what heart might serve

To pump some vital spirit round such mass,

And swing the bludgeon, lift the targe, and walk

To hasten asa’s fate? “Oh fetch a mare

From farmyard,” Hrungnir saith – and with a sword

Cuts in to seize red organ that’s desired,

And has two cloud-trolls set it in the trunk

Of Mist Calf (so that titan-thrall is called):

A servant sure to stall the Thund’rer’s hopes

Once glimpsed in battle! Twitches, rumbles, shakes

Colossus, feeling sanguine life ’gin swirl

Throughout his cavities – unsteady he’s,

But fearsome, e’en to host of mighty trolls;

And all are keen to see how Thor shall fare

In facing Brawler plus such mountainous man.

 

* * *

 

Now Nott hath flown her wain full seven times

Since duel was set; and Son of Earth’s now dight

In all his iron dress. Thialfi drives

Teeth-Grinder, Snarler ’cross Thrudvang’s expanse

From goat-pen to Bilskirnir’s porch – then leaps

That god into his war-cart next the boy,

For fight prepared with shield and hammer both,

And angry glare, and helmet o’er his skull,

His look enough to stir the clouds to rage,

Exciting storms and thunders, whilst his wheels

Shriek like the lightning’s noise! From Power-Field

His huge car rumbles – bushes are crushed flat,

The beasts do scurry, men their safety seek;

And winds uproot the trees, and crumbling crags

Spill down the storm-black valleys.

 

                                                                         “See what looms

In smeary stretch of sky, concealed by clouds,

So high above the hills!” Thialfi shouts

Amid the tempest’s tumult. “Man of earth:

Figure which stands like massive sentinel

Guarding all access to the giants’ home,

Warding the world away with club and shield!”

And Thor replies: “Not sentry, I should ween,

But counterpart of thine thou seest ’gainst sky:

The being thou must fight!” And Donner laughs

As thrall turns ghastly white as winding-sheet,

Babbling in bafflement, wond’ring how he

Might shirk such combat – but Thor lends him words

To steel his heart, and lends him axe as well

While saith he: “Chop that duffer’s feet from legs!

Much nimbler art thou – and he’s never fought

One battle in his life. A lively boy

Fast on his feet he’ll struggle much to crush –

As cook in kitchen’s much frustrated by

A scuttling mouse his heel’s too slow to stamp!

 

“Now Stone Fence House we near… Run on ahead,

And Brawler give this bit of false advice

I’ll tell thee, for he’ll know not who thou art,

And think thee not my second, but some whelp

Who happ’d to spot my passing. List, oh squire…”

And Thor his stratagem imparts to boy

While reins he his two goats to sudden halt;

And servant, hiding axe behind him, runs 

To where Mist Calf like awesome tow’r soars high,

His mare’s heart thumping nervously in chest;

And Brawler too boy spots, a hone in hand,

A rock-shield in his other – and troll’s heart

Thialfi spies: three-cornered, hard and sharp,

More resolute than Mist Calf’s. Young boy calls

To Hrungnir: “Giant, hear me – Thor now comes!

That bully for whom men have little love,

E’er torching us with fires his lightning sparks,

And torturing our ears with thund’ring of

His grinding wheels – hear me, I speak to help!

Thor saw I burrow into lap of Jord,

Absorbed through portals and down passages

Not even dwarfs have tread: With mother’s help

He means t’assail thee from the very ground

On which thou standest! Therefore, set thy shield

Beneath thy feet – he’ll smash his head against

That stone protection!”

 

                                                 Brawler, credulous,

At once sets targe below him – both his hands

His whetstone clutch, prepared to heave it far

Once Donner’s spied, as to the duel he hastes.

Now thrall retreats, to hilltop scurries he,

And now waves on his master: From his cart

The Thund’rer leaps – on crest of jagged hill

That lightning-god appears.

 

                                                         “Hrungnir, oh fool,”

He taunts, “my young Thialfi hath thee gulled,

For straight ahead comes this attack – a blow

Of magic force no metal and no stone

Could ever counter!” And Mjollnir is thrown,

A fright’ning pow’r – the air erupts in light

As white-hot zigzags spread before the stars;

And misty empire of the sky harsh-breathes

A stagg’ring breath, and pours its rain in heaps

As Brawler screams, and launches hone from hands

To hammer intercept…

 

                                                  A bursting blast

Of shimm’ring fragments! Hammer breaks the hone

And passes on, straight into Hrungnir’s skull,

Cracking the bone and knocking giant back

Against the Stone Fence House, whilst all around

The whetstone’s pieces shoot far deep in earth –

One lodging in Thor’s forehead!

 

                                                                  Drops he down,

And seemeth dead – but now Thor fidgets much,

Rolling in greatest torment, stunned and struck!

Meantime, of this the squire no heed hath ta’en,

For straight at Mist Calf’s ankle axe he swings,

And hacks and hacks! Now totters monolith,

Too clumsy, slow, to hope that pest to crush

With foot or cudgel; and he panics then,

That mute gargantuan: urine pours forth;

And still Thialfi wobbling giant chops,

Each blow more forceful – as when lumberman

Tremendous tree doth fell with vig’rous strokes

Way out in woodlands, joyful in his swing,

To all else lost – and thus unheedful of

Where work his fellow foresters: So strives

Thialfi, heedless, how the clay-shape leans

Toward where the Thund’rer lies. 

 

                                                                  Now one leg’s cleft

Just ’bove the foot – and Mist Calf’s all undone,

Toppling through strata of the atmosphere, 

Like spire collapsing, built on base infirm:

What ruin! Lofty pride of laboring trolls,

Brought low by little boy! One awesome leg

On Thor falls with reverberating boom

Scarce louder than his yowling!

 

                                                                  “Child! I say,”

The Thund’rer calls, waving one arm that’s free,

“The duel is won! But I’ve a bit of pain…

For Magni send – my child, Jarnsaxa’s bairn –

Plus all the Aesir else, to lift this limb

Before I suffocate – ’twould jötnar bring

Some comfort ’midst their grief o’er Brawler’s doom!”

 

 

III.

 

Not even Magni, three years old, but strong

Beyond e’en father, can the pinned god free –

But all the gods now heave and strain and lift,

And with great grunts and suff’ring ’gin to shove

That clay limb off the conquering Son of Earth

Whose head bleeds… Now he stands, touches his brow

But winces sharply, then his hammer takes

From servant.

 

                             “Send for Groa,” tells he squire,

“Strange vala who in cave of Midgard dwells –

A smoky cave, her vision-gaining place

Of central earth – for spellcraft can she speak

Which works a healing virtue, wounds repairs,

And blood restore back into opened veins.

So deep this fragment of troll’s hardy hone

Hath buried in my front, which smarteth much!

Oh fetch her help; she’ll chant the stone-bit out!”

 

* * *

 

A grimy dampness where the lizard flits –

Low pool of shadow tucked betwixt the rocks,

Where waves of chill air well from lowest holes

Like breath of undead wights… Here sleeps the witch

Her half-sleep ’midst the shadows, viewing scenes

That are to come – or sees them ’midst the smoke

Of fire, and mouths strange sorceries: her spells

To sway what deem the Norns (if might be done).

And ever prays she them they might restore

Her husband, Aurvandil, from death she trows

He’s met in Ironwood – but naught reply

From Norns, or any else, enters her heart.

 

Now good Thialfi, at that witch’s lair,

Doth hesitate, his boots rustling the stones

And waking seeress:

 

                                          “Lad, approach,” she saith.

“No need to speak – I know what brings thee here,

For in my sweven did I spy that duel

What laid thy master low, before it happ’d;

And surely did I hear that thund’rous crash

When Mist Calf fell to ground, and Thor yelped loud,

Squashed underneath leg’s weight!

 

                                                                  “Thund’rer, I know,

In his Bilskirnir languishes, his brains

Much rattled, pierced by piece he can’t pick out,

And hath dispatched thee, seeking remedy: 

My song to charm that pebble, pull it free.

Fear not for master – only help me up

(For magic’s practice causes one to age),

And let me steady self against thine arm

Or ’pon thy shoulder, while to Thund’rer’s house

We walk so slow, with careful, cautious step.”

 

* * *

 

Through night, in Thor’s hall, vala chants her tune

In muttered, mumbling voice o’er god in bed;

And he half-conscious, through a dreamy veil,

Feels pain fade much toward distant memory

As charms, so subtle, do the stone ’gin move…

Next morn, Thor opes his eyes.

 

                                                                “Good sorceress,”

Saith he, “thy work recalls me from a sleep

So hellish, I had thought Death had me cast

To torments in a house in Niflheim

Amongst the wicked shades.”

 

                                                             “Oh peace, thou son

Of lush Jord,” saith the witch. “My charm’s not done;

The stone’s not out, some words I’ve yet to say.

Be still, and sleep.”

 

                                        “I cannot stay my tongue

For very gratitude!” the god replies.

“I must reward thee now – and I’ve some words

Must joy thee sure: thine husband, Aurvandil,

Such brave man, battler ’gainst the ettin gangs,

Hath not been swallowed! No, I rescued him

Of late, on raid I made on Ironwood,

Him saving from the giants’ boiling pot,

Hard-smashing all his captors. Weak he was,

Bloodied and battered, so on my return

In basket did I bear him on my back,

Him carrying ’cross Elivagar’s waves.

In cabin doth he sleep now, in a grove

At Thrudvang’s margin – almost all of him:

One little bit he’s missing, for one toe

I snapped off: through the wicker it stuck out,

And so was bitten by cruel winter’s teeth

And lost to frost. That stub I threw in air

To sit with sparks translated long ago

From fire-land – there it dwells in shimm’ring cold,

Aurvandil’s Toe, a rimy jewel of white

Thou mayst glimpse through yon window.”

 

                                                                                 “Oh! Alive

And hearty-hale’s Aurvandil?” Groa cries.

“What happiness thou’st giv’n my grievous days,

Thou hero of all mortals, dear to men!

No more I’ll weep, I’ll see him straight away,

Though he doth sleep… Which way dost say he lies?”

 

“But stay – complete thy spell, thou healing witch,”

Saith Thor. “The pebble’s not yet out my head;

And though the pain’s much less, yet still it stings

Some little bit, my brow – and blood much throbs.

Speak charms, good sorceress!”

 

                                                                   But mightn’t recall,

For very bliss, that woman, how to heal

The wounded god completely: Groa strives

Right syllables to stammer, but her mind’s

Gone blank; and now Thor roars at her with curse

That frights her out the door – yet, she’s so glad

That terror soon she shrugs off, and she hies

To seek her resting loved one.

 

                                                               Slumber dulls

Thor’s lessened ache; and skin heals o’er his wound

As weeks proceed… but never doth it flee,

That nagging twinge of hurt above his eyes,

Through future eras’ wars, intrepid bouts,

Fierce challenges for honor, feuds with fiends –

And ever more it bothers him to wrath,

And more it charges lightning bolts with force

To devastate, and cast to Helheim’s holes,

Those cruel things which e’er menace what is good.

*

*