(I Am the Giant Skrymir by Elmer Boyd Smith)

*

*

I.

*

A cup of wine, to wet the raspy voice!

Bring plates of shanks, for storyteller’s strength!

Now noon’s arrived, the center of these tales:

Fierce hovering summer, midmost warmth and blaze,

Bright riotous pinnacle of year’s career,

Sun’s braggart-hour, downpour of beating beams

While wild blood spills through tubes that feed the flesh:

When blossoms sup up rays, and men a-prowl

Most bare their fangs, lusting for neighbors’ spoils

And toothsome wives, biting with lances’ points

And swords’ to gobble what the foe-man hath.

In swelt’ring zenith-term, on Asgard’s field,

What speaks the ire-red god of ruddy beard

To jocund japester?

 

                                         “Loki! Let us seek

Cruel dastard breed of Ymir in the east – 

Dwellers in out-yards, fair gods’ rival-crew,

The elves’ opponents, dwarfs’ wild nemeses,

Those hill-high scoundrels – for the hunting weeks

Ne’er long do tarry: Torrid season pleads

My hammer and thy wits idle no more!

Such cunning tricks as thine I mean to aim

As Aesir’s weapons.”

 

                                           “When sun’s blood next squirts

Into the sky-vat, and the stars are smirched,

I’ll rise with thee,” saith Prank-Brain. “Both blunt blow

And crafty ruse shall lay those giants out

Into the beds my daughter tends with love

In darksome hall. My cousins once they were,

But now my love’s fast-fixed with Aesir-race,

Welded to goodly souls, ye noble brood;

And brotherhood I pledge to Odin’s crowd.

All urges war: Thy goats snarl in the herb,

Anxious for morrow, eager to be hitched

And drag us towards dark dens of wicked ones,

Those lairs beyond gray vapors.”

*

* * *

*

                                                                      When Dag’s wain

Emergeth next from ocean, fiery spokes

Spinning to ’scape wide wolf-mouth, then doth Thor

From Asgard sally, Loki gripping tight

Tough belt of Fjorgyn’s son – a desperate grasp

’Gainst tumbling out of cart, so swiftly pull

Teeth-Bearer and Teeth-Grinder. Through a gate

’Mid walls ornate, and down steep flashing slide

Of rainbow-causeway dash the bleating team,

Lighting on middle-world at bridge’s root – 

Then wain wheels east, rushing o’er trails and swales,

Addressing straight that ardent car of day

As though in challenge: eastbound god to meet

The one who e’er drives west, were chariot

Of Thor to lift, like feather heezed by breeze,

Ascending cloudy levels.

 

                                                    Loki grins,

Letting the wind drag back his locks – he laughs

To watch poor mortals cower at the din

Of thund’ring hooves and wheels: To hut and home

Meek families scamper, latching tight their doors –

Or leap they headlong into brakes or ponds,

Afraid to catch one glimpse of lightning-lord

(So swift to fury, quick to hurl his maul

From iron-sheathed hands)! Thor’s reins with maddened urge

He lashes gaily, howling at such sights,

Pathetic panic! Fellies flying to bits

Is what he risks; the peasants all indoors

Peek from their windows as the gods roll past,

Harsh creaking of their wheels growling like storms.

*

* * *

*

Night’s chill steals through the woods, the cold wolf moans –

Grim crows and owls chant notes lugubrious,

Night’s cousin-tunes of dirges and laments;

And Loki fain would wrap a cloak about 

His shiv’ring shoulders. 

 

                                                “Full soon, moon shall peer

Above our lowly heads – day draws to death,”

Saith charioteer. “The hovel next we find

Shall be our lodging, be it rich or crude.

Erewhile hath colt of light leapt o’er our heads

In swift reverse of our sense – now he dips

Behind us in the whales’ drink, while the horse

Of frost stamps in his stable, soon to loose.

So look thou keen for hearth-smoke in the gloom!”

*

Not long, and Loki chirps: “I spot a fire

Dancing in darkling dwelling, home deep-set

Within a coomb, a human rabbit-hole,

Cave made by spade… One little window glints

Beneath its weedy roof – and chimney breathes

A fume that veils the moon.”

 

                                                            Thor stops his goats

Beside that rude home, and with meaty fist

Pounds on its door! Within, one whimp’ring yelp

Of horror’s heard… Now slowly creaks the knob –

A trembling couple strain their scrawny necks

To see who ’tis. 

 

                                “Some mead, and vittles hot

We’ll have from you!” the god booms. “Quick! Now set

Your table for us – and plush beds prepare

For lords from Asgard!”

 

                                                 Like two meager trees

Shaken by gale-winds tremble man and wife,

And quiver too their daughter and their son

Clinging to parents’ sides. “No meat we’ve here,”

The woman whispers, “only cabbage stew 

With peas and leeks – but all of it is yours;

And shelter shall you take, oh fearsome ones!”

*

Thor scowls, and grumbles: “Ah! But never mind

Thy lack of flesh for fare! For I have brought

More meat than ye shall see in all your lives.

Stir up thy fire, as hot as ye can bear!”

*

* * *

*

At table’s center steams the cauldron’s heat.

Bright blood spills down six chins: the family

Is gobbling goat flesh – like four famished wolves

Strip they the bones. Teeth-Grinder, thou art sweet;

Teeth-Bearer, tasty! Gristle sticks in teeth,

The belching’s thund’rous! Skinny cur and cat

Wind ’mongst the table’s, chairs’, and people’s legs

To snatch at scraps. Wee daughter Roskva smacks

Her lips with relish, and Thialfi chews

With speed at hunger’s whip – nearly as quick

Are gods’ and parents’ eating. Bone and joint

Are tossed out through the window onto skins

Thor’s spread upon the grass; and all make sure

No bone to break, as hammer-wielder warned.

*

But son Thialfi craves the marrow-fat

Locked up in pieces of those skeletons,

And wond’reth why the storm-god hath forbade

Bone-cracking. On the sly, one of the thighs

He’s gnawed of meat, he snaps! and sucks the juice

With hearty pleasure… then on hides outdoors

The bone-bits tosses he – and thinks no more

Of what god did prohibit, or of why.

*

* * *

*

“Who was’t? Who broke a bone?” Thor stands at door

Ere daybreak, and the family springs awake.

All four spill from their blankets; furniture,

Pots, pans, and dishes clatter with the shouts

Of god, and with the pother of those folks

Scrambling to clothe! A jug’s smashed – dog and cat

Dash ’neath the bed and huddle. Thor’s eyes bulge,

His head steams like a kettle, and his gloves,

Red-heated, glow with clenching them so fierce!

“The bones I’ve hallowed, flesh and life restored

To goats – but one hind leg straggles along!

Teeth-Grinder’s lame! And brother his must heave

The harder, pulling for himself plus half

The effort of his twin… Oh, caitiff, speak!

Which one art thou? Who durst a god defy?

A fell doom scowls on all, if none admits!”

Thor lifts his hammer; home shudders anew –

Dire lightning rings and zings from wall to wall!

*

“Oh mercy!” Boy leaps froth, and falls to knees

At god’s boots. “It was I who snapped that thigh

To sup the fatty fluid that I craved!

Take all my family hath – but spare our lives…

Or take but mine; forgive these ones I love!”

*

Thor’s eyebrows lour – yet high furnace-wrath

Of’s face abates, and steaming dissipates

As Loki in his ear some notion breathes.

Now grumpy god’s less grumpy – hammer back

In belt he tucks. “Hark, ye souls afeard!”

Stout asa booms. “Not yet your Midgard days

Have meet their end! A juster god than I

Might not be found the nine worlds o’er – two things

I shall exact, a fair wage for this wound

To heaving creature: daughter and the son!

Henceforth shall serve as thralls this girl and boy,

Attendants to the prince of forking fire:

In rich hall dwelling, pouring wine and ale,

Varlets for firing-rousting, sparking brands,

And serving dishes to those godly guests

Who grace my manse. 

 

                                              “But first, we press on east

To bash vile ettins’ brains to pinkish paste:

Fine sport for summer season! Children, up!

Pack breakfast; on return shall I collect

My goats and cart – onward, to parlous realm!”

*

* * *

*

Now ten, and twenty, and e’en hundred times

From home more distant than e’er roamed those bairns

Trek they with wonder. Long legs of the boy

Keep pace with godly stride, while Roskva rides

Most times on Thor’s back. Through tall fields of rye

And farmers’ bartons make they – into woods

Their way soon turns; and three times every pass

Of lamp o’erhead, rest they to eat with greed,

Munching old crusts and cheese and cabbages

In shade that cools their sweat. No tears appear

On children’s cheeks – to seek outlying lands

Enchants them as a gift more wondrous than

Some fairy’s wand what charms the creatures wild;

And mother, father bother not young thoughts

Of lithe quick boy, of shy and mouse-like girl,

Both happy-eyed, with hair like glitt’ring gold

Spun by the Fates for mortals whom they bless,

And cheeks that bloom pink like the rose in spring.

*

* * *

*

So walk they… walk… and walk. Soon farms aren’t seen,

And holt and thicket clutter up the world:

It is man’s realm no longer. Not a bird

Speaks in the day or night, as though did sense

Each little thing weird strangeness of these tracts,

And left the wind alone to blow its words

Empty of meaning. “Here the garden man

Tends ’neath the welkin meets its boundary,”

The Sly One speaketh. “This is quiet land,

A place nigh non-existent, for none trek

These trails so overgrown, not since that age

When trolls did prey on people.”

 

                                                                   Colder now

The gusts rise. In the middle of a day

While shines the grand star like a staring jewel,

While one wee cloud like little lost lamb creeps

Across a blue expanse, and winds insist

On shaking shrubs, and scaring leaves away,

Those travelers four emerge upon a strand,

A gray beach, gray as wimpish waves that peek

And plop and peek again across a sea

So broad, breeze-cockled.

 

                                                      “Yonder lieth the home

Of loathsome giant-kind, Bergelmir’s brood!”

Breathes bolt-king. “Past the ocean do they dwell,

Those enemies to gods and men, in lands

Cruel to the goodly creature, every place

To love and faith inimical – a world

Snarling with harm. See! past high mists, those peaks

And mountains, children! far off, beetling high

In frosty air, a crag-wall rooted deep

To stand so tall, near barring wolves and cars

That ever chase above… Now, find a cog,

A boat, a raft – somewhat to float us ’cross,

Ye children! Let us run upon this shore,

All mad and glad to grab our passage-ship!”

*

* * *                            

*   

As in a dream the fishing vessel rocks,

A cradle swaying, lulled by ocean-sprites,

Waving with billows, rolled by weary winds

The far cliffs seem to breathe, as though did sleep

Those granite mounds, and snore. Glaucous and blue

Loom they: dour castles, towers that watch the worlds

With secret ill; and blankets of green ice

Drape on them mantle-like. Roskva scoots close

Beneath her brother’s arm, and children shake

With cold amid th’uncanny, silent sea.

Where flares hot summer? Here the scorching term

Obtains not – e’er is’t chill in Giant Land.

*

The light flows gold, the wafting clouds shine pink,

And Lok is carefree, putting morsels ’twixt

His scar-marked lips, while Thor heaves at the oars,

Pushing that dainty craft with mereswine’s speed

Unto a strange coast.

 

                                             Gravel grinds beneath

The beaching hull. “All out!” shouts Thunderer.

“We’ve daylight yet – now northwards shall we tread

Along the foothills.”

*

* * *

*

                                  Giddy rests the eve.

’Mid woods so tangled, travelers’ stomachs twist

With missing supper… Fogs like serpents’ breath

Or exhalations of the frogs of pits

And black pools curl amongst the eerie trunks;

And gusts like sprites howl o’er that dismal earth,

Speaking no welcome, wanhope all their tale.

Now paltry crumbs remain in Loki’s bag,

While few are nuts and berries to be found

Lying in massifs’ shadows. Crows hold court,

Croaking in circles in a gray-green world;

And resin-scent hangs thick and sickly-sweet,

Perfume of forests, leading mind away

To happier haunts, where troubles all are gone

And dull calm lives. 

 

                                         Where might a fellow find

Some snug spot in the night? The heaven yawns

Its golden mouth, and rains frustrated swirl,

Unsprent, unscattered. Young boy runs ahead

Deep into gloom, hopeful for nook or cave

Or hollow trunk to hide in.

 

                                                       Suddenly

Thialfi shouts – and Roskva and the rest

Speed forth to find him. ’Mid a meadow vast

Beneath the dimness of a mountain’s lee

There lies a hall tremendous! All gods’ homes

Could fit inside it… yet one wall it seems

To lack. No tapers, candles burn within,

No torches, hearth-fires. Thor walks far inside

And calls… but no soul answers. Now Lok thinks

Upon the building: “Who might master be

Of this unfinished palace?”

 

                                                        “I believe

A jotun lives here,” Thor saith. “Such I hope!

For on returning from his wicked deeds,

He’ll find a warrior waiting on his stoop,

Someone to make much prettier his head

By crushing in of crown! Ye three, take rest:

Find comfy corner somewhere in this house –

Such crude house, bare of bed and eating-bench,

Almost a cave, such dark and empty place,

The walls ill-made, each room lacking a door!

Soft seems the floor, somewhat… not rock, at least.

I’ll guard the open side, hammer in hands,

All watchful night – fit welcome for a giant!”

*

* * *

*

Oh sleepy half of life! Thy music sings

Sweet in the dreamer’s brain, through sylphs’ expanse

Of lucent layers, up from earth beyond

The farthest yonder: Entities unseen

Breed in thy bosom, children and the babes

Of most ethereal angels – ghosts and wraiths

Thriving for moments, wisps of thought and heart,

Cavorting nigh the moon at some odd play,

Some revel half-existing, one that’s blown

To tatters by the breezes.

 

                                                    Ere such end,

Not sun but raucous rumbling rends that world

Of starry slumber: Loki and the wards 

Of Thor awake in midmost night from roars

And blasts, and rumbling, deep cacophony

Like avalanche or rockslide; and hall shakes

As though an endless temblor rolled and swelled.

*

“Oh back!” yelps Lok. “Oh, deeper in this place

Ought we retire… Methinks I spy a nook,

Oh children, farther in – in niche we’ll hide

From who-knows-what outside!” And Thor’s thralls haste

Into that recess, Loki close behind,

And hug and huddle close. Outside, storm-god

Hard-squints through midnight, but can nothing glimpse;

And din like crashing rocks, and shaking, die,

Returning all to calm.

 

                                              But soon again

That racket seizes all creation’s span;

Earthquake resumes as well! So through night-hours,

With pause, resumption, pause – again, again –

All’s jolted, rattled! Sleep’s a vanished dream…

Thor grunts and glares and grumbles, while the rest

Clasp hands to ears – but never find they door

Back into drowsy kingdom.

*

* * *

*

                                                          Once pink hue

Bright as the maiden’s cheeks spreads in advance

Of floating candle, then the Thund’rer quests 

To find that rumbling’s source – and other three,

Sag-eyed and wan and yawning, creep with him

Out in harsh daylight.

 

                                             What might they behold

Stretched ’cross the clearing? Never greater bloke

Thor’s set his eyes on! Feet and head rest hid

Within the pine groves at opposing ends;

And legs and belly, arms and chest lie vast

And high as hill range! Oh, how snores that lunk,

Shaking the landscape as he snuffles, snorts,

Sniffles and wheezes!

 

                                             “Dost not rise with dawn?”

Thor bellows. “Up, thou jotun – thou hast kept

My fellows and me from sleep’s kind caress 

Nigh half the night! Awake, tell us thy name!

I shall have words with thee!”

 

                                                              The mountain stirs,

And meek girl hides her eyes. Thialfi pricks

His courage up, puffing his chest, and strides

Beside his master. Lok stares wild-eyed,

His blonde mane bristling – giant sits upright,

Yawning and mumbling, scratching every part,

Searching for him who spoke. Saith tree-tall troll:

“How now? I heard a squeaking… Well, what’s this?

Four teensy ones have gathered at my knees –

Ye are as cute as mice! Three I know not;

But fulminating fellow at my feet

Must be that hammer-swinger, no mistake,

The one that folks call Thor! Thy knitting brows

And twitching eyeballs told me who thou art…

Ywis, those eyes bulge hotly in thy head,

Two hard-boiled eggs that dance in steaming pot!

Thou wouldst have words? Then speak, oh little wight,

What wouldst thou say to me?”

 

                                                                 Thor waxes wroth

As ne’er in’s life – Thialfi trows he spies

Some water-vapor billowing from his ears,

And scarce a ruby’s e’er dug up by gnomes

As pure and bloody red as now’s his face!

“By Jove, I ought’ve known ’twas giant’s wheeze

What kept us up – and brained thee as thou slept’st!”

Snarls Thunderer. “But sporting chap I am,

And offer even contest: thou and I

Both wide awake – your size against my maul!

Here is my pledge!” And tosses Thor one glove

Of iron on the grass. “Now tell thy name, 

Oh wretch! Whom shall I boast that I have slain?”

*

The giant bares his teeth: a gate that gleams,

A door ajar, of lips and pearly fangs,

Half smiling, half ferocious. “Not to toss

A glove’s my plan, but rather, pick one up –

For what I’ve lost is found!” And with a hand

Too vast to tell, the jotun grasps that hall

Where late the travelers dozed – and slips it on

His other paw! Fine fits it – Thor’s agog,

Dumbstruck, and stupefied: That little room

To which his fellows hied, now holds a thumb!

Thor slaps his chops – his eyeballs spin, and spin!

“Skrymir’s the name,” the bold colossus speaks,

“A vagabond through parts hither and yon,

Who makes the star-encrusted cope his tent,

And vegetable-jumble underneath his bed:

A humble lump, a piece of sleeping dirt,

Earth-ettin of the ages.”

 

                                                 “We roam too!”

Swift-cogitating Lok blurts ere his friend

Might wrathful words resume. “The farthest edge

Of all things might not bound our questing urge,

We four: two gods, two servants, keen to prove

If truth, or not, are tales of thurses’ skills

In wrestling, racing, games of drinking mead,

And eating, stuffing much meat in the gut.

Head we to Giant City! For that’s famed

The proudest and superbest citadel

In all broad Utgard… Dost thou know the way?

Is’t up or down? On rocky slope, or slough?

Among the cirrus clouds? Is’t underground?

Behind, before? Left, right? Point us aright,

Oh snorer who might rouse the dark-elves’ dreams

So many miles beneath us.”

 

                                                         “Burg ye seek,”

Saith Skrymir, “lieth on a rust-red hill

But two days from here. Top part of the year,

Most gorgeous blooms that mound, as though did place

Its capital of buds and butterflies

The summer there, ere giants called it home.

Upon that eminence a castle towers,

Stacked high of stones world-old, the grandsire’s teeth –

Stronghold for ogres, trolls, all lumbering ones

Germane to great folk. Feasting ne’er abates,

Nor revelry nor sport there, and the cheer

From windows clamors afternoon to morn.

In callow eon, so I’ve heard, did raise

That fortress he who sits upon its throne:

Utgarda-Loki, Jotun-King! And thanes

Well nigh past number keep him company

In mead-hall round the hours: Some are the sons

Of Muspell – fiery fellows; others hail

From glaciers gelid-blue, and yet some else

From caves have clambered – she who birthed that sort

Was Jord herself; and now her loamy brood

Make merry on her lap. If games ye wish,

I’ll lead ye most the way that city towards –

Though points abroad do beckon, and I’ll part

Ere gate is reached… How happy! I’ve a sack

Of food shall feed us five the journey through,

And all might have their fill! How’s that, this plan?

Shall strike we overland, I gladsome guide?”

Now Lok to Thor’s ear’s quick: “See how I scheme,

Oh meat-brained mallet-chucker? Hadst thou slain

Vexatious brute, sure never had we learnt

Where most his kindred lurk – once past the walls,

Thou mayst dispatch at will! Let’s go with him

And be his traveling partners: Him we’ll spare

So all the rest we slay!”

 

                                                Thor’s beard half-hides

The smile that’s spreading. To the lout he shouts:

“Oh Skrymir – never mind that challenge I gave!

A rage-brained bloke was I, still crotchety

From loss of sleep. Right glad we’ll tramp with you!

Lead on… Yet not too fast – thy strides outpace

Our bitty speed: Take shuffling steps, and slow!”

*

*

II.

*

Grumble of rocks, through gullies echoing,

And snap of tree limbs: These the journeyers

Of little height do follow, for in fog

That giant-guide is shrouded – mists so thick

That gods and servants drink the air, and float,

Sometimes, with swimming steps. Midday, cascades

Like silver wool fast spun, they chance upon:

Old dribblings off promontories overgrown

With seedlings whisker-like. The jotun opes

His bag of good things, followers to feed:

A brief repast – but moldy is the bread,

Rusty the cheese – soon swift again he stalks

Through soupy hinterlands, small folks hard pressed

Not far behind to lapse.

 

                                                 Those eerie clacks

Of slabs knocked round, and crash of falling trees

Roam eastwards ’cross the wilds ’til suppertime…

Now ’neath an oak the hulking hobbler halts,

Sosses so heavily, and sack down casts. 

*

“How sprites of slumber yank my eyelids closed!”

Yawns Skrymir. “And their drowsful phantom hands

Pull frame sure downward… Appetite I’ve none;

But ye four, batten on your fill of bread

While I beguile my brain with visions sent

From singing disir…” In a trice he’s slumped,

Lethargic thurse, in soundest hebetude

Against that oak; and stertorous breaths like blasts

Of typhoons most emphatic shake the woods:

Oh nostril-clamor, such as never heard

Those travelers – even worse than night before!

Thor’s glad for fare, though – to the sack he sprints,

And tugs at strings… yet, even with his might,

Those knots are yielding not! 

 

                                                            “Say, what is wrong,

Oh brawny boss?” Lok asketh. “Doth a cloth

Bag beat thy prowess?” Thund’rer grumbles, fumes,

And rends and tears and rips and strains with strength

Such as he’s never summoned! “What spell’s this,”

Asks Mjolnir’s owner, “mocking godly force,

Defeating son of Earth?” That sack he hurls,

Glaring at Skrymir.

 

                                       “Who’s this slumb’ring one,

Ye three think? For ’tis certain magic serves

His will to seal that knapsack… Not a giant –

Or not one merely, but a sorcerer eke,

With charms at hand: Apprentice to the elves –

Or fays, perchance. I’ll keep an eye on him,

That spiteful churl… Douse fire, then let’s to bed!”

*

* * *

*

So weak, so languorous those journeyers

Must feel in bone and sinew, that e’en din

Of snoring jotun bars them not from sleep

Most of the moon’s procession.

 

                                                                 But nigh dawn

Up from the fusty fen of mossy dreams

Thor’s mind emerges, roused to dismal morn

By respiration – soon proud Mjolnir’s gripped

Most snug and surely. Merry reveries

Of giant-murdering linger in god’s brain,

Goading to grisly action! Though still need

Four travelers guide to Giant Town, riled rage

Of bolt-king’s not to subside: O’er huge pate

All innocent of harm the hammer’s raised –

And down it’s struck! Thor feels the iron heft

Embed in brain…

 

                                      Skrymir blinks his eyes –

He squirms, twists up. “Faith, Thor, did something fall

Upon my brow – an acorn, or a leaf?”

Not skull nor brain’s been busted, head is hale…

Thor’s mouth drops ope. “What art thou doing here,

My tiny friend?” the giant sweet inquires.

“Return to rest – an hour or two remain 

Ere, like a rutabaga, sun’s tugged up

By whate’er airy creatures grasp her hair 

Of fiery tresses, yanking her from sleep

So nighttime-lovely, that creation wakes

And thrives ’til sun doth burrow once again,

E’er wishing buried bed to hide within.

Good dreams, fine fellow!” And back to his doze

Sinks monstrous man. Thor pulls his auburn beard,

Stamping and stomping. “Why, oh why?” he groans.

*

* * *

*

“Here part our ways,” saith Skrymir. “Towards the north

My path doth wend; your way runs through yon copse

Towards larger stands, assemblages of pines,

E’er east, through stretches dense with brush and shrubs,

Then round a valley; and by afternoon

Ye ought to spot Utgarda-Loki’s seat:

A spire gargantuan, nigh windowless,

Guarded with locks, portcullises, and bars,

The strongest stronghold holding warriors,

Bilskirnir not excepted!”

*

                                                  Each attends,

Save Thor, to jotun’s words with cheerful heart,

While storm-god sulks, impatient to be rid

Of one who somehow cheated hammer-blow.

All ’bout, the morning birds peep strains so sweet –

Thor glares and stares as talking troll yaks on:

“Now heed advice, ere giants’ home ye gain:

It’s true I’m not a small wight, but you’ll find

Much larger folk, by far, within those walls.

Trolls of that keep bobaunce shall not endure

From such shall ones as ye! Unless you’re low

In arrogance as much in height ye are,

Your best thought is to head back home again.

Good day! I’ve said what’s best; now choose your course.”

And o’er his back the jotun slings his bag –

With paces river-broad he’s on his way.

*

“Good riddance!” booms the prince of thunder. “Gone

And done with – pray we see him not again!

Now ho! Ye three, do follow ’long the trail

I’ll clear of branches… Viands own we not;

But once each city giant’s put to rout,

Upon their fare we’ll fall: Oh, golden fat!

The succulent roast pig, boar’s head, and goat,

Oxen and game bird, gristle-glistening –

How floats such luring lusciousness through brain,

Sweet things for foodless crew – foodless, and parched!

Let ale we not forget, rich bubbling cup,

And tuns so belly-barreled, squirting foam…

No lagging, gluttons – haste your failing steps!

*

* * *

*

Through leaves the rain and sun insinuate –

The light it cheers, the rain it dampens birds’

Light choral listlessness; and bittersweet

Run ling’ring songs of theirs, meandering:

Mild melancholy warbling. Roskva faints,

Poor child, by trail so hard spent utterly,

By trek struck drowsy, by the exercise

Made weak, ’mid shadows feeling lost, unsure;  

And good Thor drapes her like a sash across

One shoulder. Branches o’er the head grow thick,

The air much frosty.

 

                                          Soon, a sucking mud

Pulls on each boot, while high Skinfaxi, gold

And glaring, swoons in cloudy atmosphere:

More dark the forest falls… ’til soon again

Some little glow revives.

 

                                                   “Look – Sol intrudes

Through verdant curtain!” saith Thialfi. “All

Was green and gloom, but now a beam invades

Amid dim branches.” And th’excited lad

To woodland’s verge now hies, where shade quick yields

To sun’s resumption… Here, a valley drops –

But valley rare, so odd! Seemeth some brick

Enormous, of neat sides cut clean and straight,

From falling must have pressed this gap in earth –

This pit so vasty, cubical, profound,

The question of its stamp might puzzle long

The sagest ponderer. All company

Now meet where boy hath halted, marveling;

And Thund’rer muses: “What? Did anvil spill

From forge in heaven, by a storm-thurse tipped,

Before celestial smith did it reclaim,

One ancient age? Depression’s depth lies dark,

And way around seems long – two hours’ trudge,

I’d reckon… Say – do see ye all that spire

Stabbing in sky? And barbicans and towers

Subsidiary… houses, halls, and homes

So hard-descried in haze? ’Tis Jotun Town;

And valley’s all lies ’tween us and those doors

That guard the wights we’ll slay, and food we’ll use –

Four famished folk we, uninvited guests!”

*

* * *

*

Before a wrought-iron gate the group has stopped,

And studies bars: their spacing, firmness, girth,

Pond’ring some access – but none shows itself,

No means to reach the courtyard that’s beyond,

In which, upon a wall, a set of keys

From hook rests dangling. Thor lays hands to fence,

And strains with much-irked vigor, but nowise

Might metal pillars bend. Mjolnir he draws,

And clangs on cursèd gate; and ringing thrills

Through bodies of conniver, thralls, himself,

Such that each feels fierce lightning-bolts had passed

Through flesh so harried. Hammer sparks exacts,

Bright blooming flecks – yet still those bars remain

Unbent, unbroken, taunting asa’s strength,

And lock sits blithely firm.

 

                                                     Now Loki leans

To Roskva’s ear, some caper new-inspired

Within his mind; and girl brightens at words,

Then squeezes ’twixt the bars – her frame just fits –

And runs to keys, and back again doth bring

Such answer to the impasse. 

 

                                                           Gate’s unlatched;

Thor grumbles, speaks again: “Oh, children, Lok:

The high doors loom, last threshold ere we meet

Fell thick of Giant-Monarch’s trollish band.

Stick close to me as giant-horde I snuff,

Lest death-throes of collapsing bodies crush

Your fragile selves. At last! Mallet I heft

Some yielding things might smash! Now, rend the door,

Oh Mjolnir, of this spire where giants hide.

I’ll take them at a running!”

 

                                                        ’Cross the yard

The four companions rush… but just before

Great portal’s reached, it opens in a blink –

Then slams shut, Thor and company inside.

What darksome chamber! Darksome as those caves

Of Niflheim, but huger e’en than they;

And Thor, bewildered, hears a voice proclaim:

“Oh welcome, you of Asgard – Midgard, too!

And special welcome to the Thunderer,

Swell bloke lugging a maul (though little good

It does him), who drives goats to pull that toy

He calls a wagon ’cross the garden-plots

Of puny worlds!” All ’round mill monstrous legs,

And frightful heads bend down t’inspect the group.

Thor lets fall off his high-blood slaying mood,

And stands plain stonied ’fore one fearsome face

As whiskered as a beast’s: It bares its teeth

And breathes a putrid stench of gamey meats

All o’er companions four as words proceed:

“You meet Utgarda-Loki: King am I

Of fortress this, and all those realms around

As far as jötnar dwell. My thanes these are,

Strong strapping vassals, whom the elephant

Might each serve for a mount! I know ye four,

No need for introductions. Word hath spread

Of gods and children reaching these far shores:

The trickster, hammer-prince, Roskva, and lad

Thialfi, who’ve all traveled with that thurse

Skrymir a short while (slobbish vagabond

Seen round these parts, whom none doth care for much).

But let’s speak not of shiftless villain… talk

Instead of why ye’ve walked from heaven’s manse,

And children these from mid-world – no, don’t say,

’Twas told me through the rumors of the birds,

Winged gabblers, who keep not a secret hid

What travels to their ears. I know you seek,

Oh lightning-master, sinew-strength to prove

Against my company, and all the rest

In various games to challenge knights of mine.

It’s sport ye seek, all kinds, those contests keen

What occupy retainers festal nights!

Is’t true?… I’ll take thy silence that it is!

Let Thor, and his, choose brave events this eve –

Indeed, we never suffer guests to lodge

In Utgard without testing of their skills!”

*

Now closer crowds the throng, and Thor spins round,

His mouth agape, for ne’er would he have guessed

King’s meiny prove so numerous, or tall.

’Twas truth Skrymir pronounced, that even he

Might make a dwarf among that jotun-crew!

Jugglers and jongleurs merry play have ceased,

Combatants left off duels with wooden swords,

And wenches bearing jugs press round as well,

Joining to gawk at minute visitors.

Now chuckles, gibes, guffaws pour down like hail

On four wee beings; as small as children’s dolls

Seem they at ettins’ feet. Frost-giants exhale

Blue frosty blasts, blowing their mead crisp-cold

In rimy horns, while sons of Muspell light

Their pipes with nostril-fire, and mountain trolls

Of many heads share banter, ribald jests.

Each face of theirs is flecked with horrid warts,

Sprouting with hairs each one, pimples with tufts,

Moles, boils, and blackheads, blemishes and wens,

So hideous! Roskva must hide her eyes,

And quick retreats behind the storm-god’s legs.

Poor Thor’s amazed, and lost to any speech,

But Loki takes up words, for words ne’er fail

A chief who wise directs them: “Oh ye brutes,

Grand race of Ymir, whom Bergelmir saved

From wat’ry swift extinction, and who quake

The earth, and nerves of mankind, with your steps:

I have a challenge for you! Being thurse

By my descent as well, though I reside

Now in the gods’ realm, something I possess

Of knack for eating – or at least my peers

In Valhall tell me such. The spoon and fork

Are bosom-fellows to my tongue, and meet

That friends of theirs quite oft! At suppertime

I’ll clean my plate ere most gods nosh a bite;

And second portion, third, and fourth quick fly

To maw of mine, that no satiety

Can hope to know. Bring forth a gobbler, then –

Some champion of chewing! None devours, 

I’d wager flesh and soul, swifter than I!”

*

And king slight-smirks at boasting of that chap,

And calls: “Oh Logi! Show thyself right quick!

My vassals, bring a trencher piled with meats:

We’ll see whose mouth’s more wide!” Logi, soot-black,

Flame-pupiled, sure a frightful wight to view,

Seizes one seat at nearby table-side,

Burning with lust to dine. Loki’s across,

The meal’s between them. Jötnar gab and leer,

Joyful for contest. At the troll-king’s word,

What feeding starts! All lips and teeth, those two:

All smacking, gnawing, munching. Soon lies bare

Of meat that trencher – mouths in center meet.

Loki his share of fat and flesh hath crammed

In’s gullet – but not only meat’s been ta’en 

By Logi, but the bones, and half that plate

Of hardened bread!

 

                                        “Why, sure the victor proves

Our eating-master!” Thurses raise a roar

At lord’s acclaim; glum Loki squints his eyes,

Glancing askance at rival. “Now, what skill

Might squire who serves the Thunderer display?”

Troll-chieftain asks. Thialfi stretches tall,

Perching on toe-tips, clenching firm his fists,

And strides forth, claiming: “In my land, all swore

They’d ne’er beheld a runner fleet as I

Did race at games on holidays of May,

When boys from hamlets far and near should meet

To chase for winner’s garland. Name a giant

You think is swift – I trow I shall outstrip

With ease whom you select.”

 

                                                           “From supper course

To racing-course we turn!” the hall-lord laughs.

“To courtyard all repair! Our Hugi, sure,

Is bloke whom squire shall sprint with. Bring your horns,

My thanes, we’ll drink while cheering!” Out the doors

The horde doth pour – they dawdle on the weeds

In stronghold’s lee; and all allow a course,

An open ring through crowd’s midst. Boy and troll

Take places near the monarch. “At my sign,

Take off like stags that fear the wolf!” he saith.

Now signal! – both run swift! – Thor cheers his charge,

Roskva her brother; but the giants swell

With pride for Hugi, who soon takes the lead,

And fast pulls far ahead… By race’s end,

Thialfi’s only finished half that track,

While winner’s shaking hands. Thor’s fuming mad,

Dead sure some trick’s afoot.

 

                                                           “Oh King of Trolls,”

He shouteth, “not most daunting of thy guests

Hath court of thine yet tried! Sprinting’s not much

Compared with vig’rous feats of muscle-power

To awe the sight; and not much doth impress

Like knocking back of barrels doth, as though

Those casks were tumblers, swigging through the night,

Draining much mead in infinite space of gut,

Supping an ocean! Back to hall, say I –

Bring out your tuns and kegs; deep reservoirs 

Of ale I’ll sup up easy!”

 

                                               Fingers snap –

Utgarda-Loki summons thanes indoors,

Then takes his throne, and calls: “Cup-bearer, bring

That horn we pass around on sacred feasts,

Exhausting not its volume, though for hours

The vessel’s passed from hand to hand, and lips

Sip at its contents all the candle-night!

Methinks the chap who in one draught can chug

That horn’s truly a drinker – and no bloke

In hall of mine requires three attempts.

Let Son of Earth prove quaffing-skill he boasts!”

*

The vessel’s brought – Thor peers within. Far more 

Of mead, it seems, he’s gulped many an eve

In Valhall or Bilskirnir than is here,

Though siker ’tis a long horn he’s been giv’n.

His pride draws brim to lips, much more than thirst;

And god’s gorge pulses with each draught he swills.

What ocean-swigs he swallows! Neither breath

Nor pause he needs, and nigh three hours pass

Ere blue-cheeked asa gasps, puts horn away,

Coughs, spurts, and sputters… Why, what cheat is this?

Jötnar gloat loud, and level of the mead

Hath hardly dipped! “You drank a lake, right sure,”

Saith gracious king, “but none are much impressed!

Oh come, keep hearty spirit – shalt in two

Draughts triumph thou? We all much wish to know!”

And Thor so grim, suspectful, sets to teeth

That brim again, suspiring ere he sups

The brew so rich and large; and two hours more

Slurps he with all the slurping-strength he knows,

Pouring in paunch such reservoirs would seem

T’exceed all pools and ponds and lochs and sloughs

And most the seas allwhere… But oh, hard thing,

So hard t’admit, that Thor hath failed again,

And mead looks yet but small reduced from full!

He storms inside him, god does, thinking must

Work plot, some spell, to shame him in the sport.

From every quarter sound the thurses’ sneers,

While chief exclaims: “Why, Thor, what piddling sips

Thou pour’dest down thy gorge! You’d best ingest

The rest with no more breaths, lest you do prove

The shabbiest tippler Utgard’s ever known!”

And giants cackle stronger; Thor’s cheeks shine,

His teeth grind like the rocks when shudd’ring land

Bestirs itself with fierceness. Deep inhales 

That angsty god, drawing most the air

Within the castle, that the cresset-fires

Flicker and gutter – now Thor sets again

T’imbibing: Falls and torrents! Grand cascades

He empties in his basin-gut, which boils

Like cauldron with that grand and gathering sea

Of bubbly brew. Drink on, oh worthy god –

Thy thralls hurrah thine effort, Lok as well!

Now night’s lived most its life when Thor must breathe

And eft put horn aside.

 

                                               Why’s not expired

That proffered portion? Chortling, slapping backs,

The trolls erupt once more at god’s expense –

Such hooting! Thor sees still nigh half the mead’s

Holed up in vessel. Smarmy troll-lord grins;

His thanes wipe tears from eyes.

 

                                                                   Quite wrathful now

The force of Earth’s son gathers. Rages he:

“To Hel’s home with your horn, ye warty wights!

Amazed I’d be if any of my kin

Called such draughts trifling! But to worthiest sports:

Such brawn-deeds as shall prove my strength to you!

I reckon Asa-Thor will meet with ease

Whatever muscle-feat your lord suggests!”

*

King pulls his beard, and with mischievous look

He ponders proper challenge. “Children here,”

Speaks he, “are wont, at evenings, playing games,

To raise my cat from floor: a little deed

That all amuses… Yes, about thy speed

Such test should be. Say, cat – present thyself!”

And at his words, a feline creepeth out

From ’neath the throne; she meows, and shakes her spine,

Stretches her feet, and licks each inch of fur, 

Sleepy as always. Jötnar have a laugh;

Sif’s husband grumbles. Rolling up his sleeves,

Thor stoops beneath that mouser – thrice as great

As bear of Midgard looms she; now he heaves

With feet firm braced, straining that whiskered one

To raise, against her belly lifting up.

And much upset, the creature shrills a squeak,

Arching her back (as when a storm doth arch

Colors inherent in its show’ring drops),

And hovering high, deprives the asa of

Much purchase on her paunch – Thor just one paw

To lift hath managed.

 

                                            Down she’s let again,

And scampers fast away. “Why, thunder-prince,”

Saith king, “I ought had guessed ’twas too great task

For one so little!”

 

                                   “Keep on with thy taunts!”

Howls Thor. “My ire it feeds! Choose thou a wight –

I’ll wrestle him to knots, such that he’ll not

Free self without some help!”

 

                                                             Thanes rag again

On fulminating god – king calms the crowd,

Enjoining sweetness. “Come! We’ll let our guest

Try one last game,” insists the ettin-lord,

“Ere we to beds retire… But not a bloke,

Oh lightning-deity, must thou accept

As sparring partner – rather, wrinkled dame:

Let Elli show herself, my foster-mother!

Full many hath she thrown stronger than Thor.”

*

And now grimalkin other plods her way

To hall’s midst – hobbling, bowed with years untold,

Far wrinkled out of bloom, long-withered flower –

Frail-looking as some trunk hollow and dry,

Worm-eaten, brittle, tilting from the wind’s

Nigh-constant pressure; and Thor cannot think

How he might lose such contest. Hag with grin

Greets her opponent (horrible, grotesque!) –

And king bids adversaries stances take;

Then swings his fist, to bid the mismatched pair

Confront in struggling grip…

 

                                                            How can it be?

Thor knows at first hold that he shan’t succeed,

But hardly might believe it! Never thurse

In all encounters his in grappling sport

Seemed strong or steady as that awful crone!

Pull, grasp, and strangle – nothing dame arrests,

Nor halts that steady forcing of god’s frame

Down towards the floor of vanquishment. Resist,

Oh champion of Midgard-folk and gods!

Resist, and counter-push, and summon power

For honor of the races of bright worlds –

The beauteous and noble, those whom Life

Doth love and bless, and who sweet homage pay

To Life with good they do, while yet alive.

*

But oh, the end’s foretold! and Thor must bow

One knee to ground at last. Then king proclaims:

“A swell sport was, a game we’re glad we viewed,

But now the snoring reverie we miss:

Full eve of contests needs a night of rest.

Oh, soon shall know the prowess of my folk

All nine worlds’ peoples… Thanes, snuff out the lights!”

*

*

III.

*

Thor wakes, so tragic-minded and so dour,

Escaping dreams that harped upon his flops,

Reprising victories of crone and cat –

Nightmares that mocked him with a mocking laugh.

And Loki and the children soon as well

Stir ’midst those giants, jötnar snoring on,

Save king – who peeks one eye ope while the four

Do breakfast hastily and gather packs.

And giant-lord soon rises, bids good morn,

And walks with guests from castle, silently 

Through door and courtyard, out the iron gate

And into verdure shining ’neath the gold

Spillage of dawn’s eruption.

 

                                                          “I must say,”

Thor hard admits, “You’ve proved the greatness, king,

Of thy retainers at all sorts of sports,

And equally hath shown my paltry power,

In no wise leaving doubts, debate, excuse.

Somewhat I thought a spell refilled that horn

While I was drinking it – but magic what

Might nullify my strength to lift a cat,

Or throw a wench? I’m sure such shameful fame

As I have earned, e’en now advances swift,

And honor of thy knights accompanies

Such sadly truthful rumor… Oh, alas, 

Knowing no more the world shall fear that god

Who drives two goats – of which one now is lame,

Just like his reputation!”

 

                                                   King smiles broad,

And nothing saith, letting the quiet morn

Hang languid, pleasant, gathering its light,

’Til in a grovy tunnel, ’neath cold shade

Some distance from his stronghold, he replies

To woe-words of that god: “Now back I hie,

Back to my castle, perch secure, supreme,

And leave ye to your rovings… yet before,

Do let me tell you, Thunderer, the truth

Of all what’s happened since to Giant Land

Thou cam’st…”

 

                                And Thor doth wonder, Loki laughs,

And king proceeds: “Now thou’rt outside my walls –

And we are safe, myself and all my kind!

Thy coming here did nearly spell our end,

Oh master of the maul! Utgard did quail,

Hearing how Thor with hammer did invade:

That Thor who countless ettins hath deprived

Of longer lifespan in such bloody ways…

But I, a wizard of the giant race –

Foresighted most, much magic-minded, wise –

Hath fooled thee once and twice, and thrice to boot!

As Skrymir snored I near thy company 

In drowsy field! My bag was tied with wires

No god might break – and ere were bashed my brains

Early that morning, tract of land I moved

By magic means, translating hill and dale

So that they interposed betwixt my head

And hammer thine! That valley all ye found

Right next the woods, was dent huge Mjolnir struck!”

*

And now ire rises in the lightning-prince

As king continues: “Ha! No less were tricked

Thy fellow and thy hireling: Loki ate

Right swiftly, but no wight alive can eat

As fast as Wildfire – which Logi was! –

For scourge of branches never feels his gut

Might hold no more… And little lad who raced

With giant, did in truth with Thought contend,

Which not a soul outpaces.

 

                                                        “Thor – the mead

Thou drank’st (amusing sight, such trouble thine!)

Was ocean’s breadth and depth – the other end

Of horn in briny drink was stationèd,

And therefore bottomless did prove that brew.

Thou mayest view a tide humbler than low

When next the sea thou seest! And cat, in fact,

Was not a tiny beast, but Jormungand,

That sailor-swallowing serpent who a hoop

Makes of himself, circling Midgard’s girth,

Nibbling his tail – the firmament was touched

With scaly spine, when feline thou didst lift!

Such feat I’d ne’er have credited, had not

Mine eyeballs swore its truth!”

*

                                                               Mjolnir is gripped

Tightly by god, as thurse confesses on:

“Not ancient woman, but Old Age was dame –

That Elli, which no being, e’en one divine,

Can ’til the very last resist; none wins

Against such whelming, all-o’erpowering force.

But Thor, nothing of shame’s in how thou fought’st:

Such match did prove thee strongest of all souls –

Unyielding, like the roots of stoutest oak!

Thy lust to live’s nearest to Death in might

Of all the lusts that grasp upon this earth.”

*

And at all this, wee Roskva claps her hands,

Delighting how the magus shows his tricks;

Thialfi thrills, and Lok trembles with glee

To think how they’ve been snookered… But the veins

In Thor’s eyes twitch.

 

                                            “Now am I off, good folks,”

Illusion-master saith, “and should ye four

Return to Giant Land – especially

Thou wrathful god – I’ll draw such veil again,

Screen of deception, hocus-pocus, guile,

Across your peepers… Health, almighty Thor!

Adieu, slow-witted god!”

 

                                                    Storm-prince grows vexed

Beyond restraint; he heaves Mjolnir aloft,

Swings down at giant! – but there’s no one there…

And Utgard Castle’s vanished into air.

**

*

(illustration by Frederick Richardson)

*