*

(Loki’s Flight to Jötunheim by W. G. Collingwood)

*

*

I.

*

To plots, and tragic days, panic, dismay,

A woeful age, winter for Aesir’s weal

And Asgard’s brightness, riot of the bad,

Unholy scenes, and noble place defiled,

This skald shall turn his lines, which for some while

Must sing in doleful tones, telling sad tale

The trickster pens, not I: his deeds these words,

His malice all their genius.

 

                                                         Dark the thought,

Vengeful the impulse e’er beats in that breast

Of clan-lord of the outcasts: glum, unloved,

Untaken by high circle of the gods,

Both Lok himself and family: sons condemned

To prisonment and anguish, loneliness

Of margin-worlds – ’neath seascape, one; on isle,

The other; and his daughter ’neath the earth,

A restless queen of shadows. Niflhel

All frosty glows so cold in Loki’s heart,

Aye freezing harder: spires of ice rise up,

And bridges of unending spite and ire

Soar high away to blizzard-wastes where sight’s

All choked, and eyes might nothing understand:

A world beneath, the kingdom of his child,

And kingdom too within him.

 

                                                               Of a morn

His mischief ’gins to work – some plot’s afoot,

Some seeds of wicked deeds. Cock crows atop

Valhalla’s dawn-drenched roof, sun-dappled shields,

As lusty Sol sets off; and Thor he wakes,

Much trusting hammer to take up in hand…

But trusty weapon’s not beside his bed,

Nor under bed – nor somewhere on the floor –

In chest of drawers, in closet, or in trunk,

Nor anywhere in corridor – and soon

The word is sent ’mongst all the yawning gods

To search and ransack for that missing maul

With all their might, ere e’en their breakfast take,

If by some chance it flew all by itself

To some odd corner. Couches are o’erturned,

The kitchens rifled through, and frantic thralls

Check ’neath the tables, ’mong the pots and pans,

In nooks and crevices. Servants and gods

Alike search high and low, but nowhere’s found

That absent gavel; and now Thor grips tight

Poor Loki’s collar, lifting him aloft

In presence of his peers in midmost hall,

And saith: “Where hast thou hidden it, oh worm?

Thou must be culprit, sure! Gold hair of Sif,

My wife’s fair tresses, was a spoil thou took’st:

A jealous theft, her beauty plundering

For envy thou hadst no such consort fair –

And now thou’st plundered weapon! lightning bolt

And giants’ scourge! for jotun-blood of thine

E’er urges treason ’gainst us, and resents

The vaster force of gods! Well? What plead’st thou?

Hast courage to admit thy cousin-crews

Collude with thee to steal my force what sways

The destiny of worlds?”

 

                                                   And anxious Lok

Pats Thor on shoulder, babbling, stumbling o’er

His panicked answer: “Thor! My nephew sweet!

Sweet nephew, son of god who shares my blood,

Thou dost me wrong! Why, sure thou mightst suspect

The thief of golden curls – that’s not to blame –

To be expected! – but with somber oath

Pledged by that shore where dragon chews the damned –

Chews those who cross their word, or spouse, or slay

The innocent, and writhe with venom’s sting –

I say I have no guilt: some other took

Thy awful hammer! One that ventured in

By window or by door some hour last night,

A sneaky shape, some shadow that did slip

All sense of watchman, and thy weapon seized

With silence of a dream, with utter stealth

Of magic passage…

 

                                            “Know I of a thurse,

Now that I come to ponder, who, when I

Did live amongst my former family,

Griped often of thy power. No Mjolnir then

Thou hadst, yet still thy force he coveted,

Wond’ring how might he snatch it, for it seemed

Unearthly (though the Earth is mother thine),

Some product of a charm or talisman

Or amulet – some object he might steal,

Ensuring victory in scrap and feud;

And often, I remember, did he grouse

No gimmick owned he that might match thy power.

Thrym was his name; in Thrymheim still he lives,

A jealous bloke, who’s ever muttering

(I’d wager): Thor! Oh Thor! Thy strength I’ll match,

And e’en surpass, once hammer thine is mine:

That stone that flattens fylkings in a blow,

And shall deliver Asgard to my hands!

Oh, doubt me not! I tremble e’en as you,

All ye about me, friends germane and kin,

My family dear, so loved! Quick, let me go,

Good nephew – Freyja, show me where thou keep’st

Thy costume lending falcon’s speed to wight

(For shoes of mine I’ve lost somewhere at home),

And I must fly, I must! to see if sleeps

That evil captain of a mountain clan,

Snoring away in idle dreams of wrath,

Frustrated still, still weaponless and weak –

Or if fell banners gather gangs of goons

From districts close and far of giant-land

As hand holds high dread hammer, drawing thurse

And ogre to his horde, preparing march

’Gainst castle ours – oh, pray it not be so!”

*

* * *

*

So clad in pinioned suit fair goddess lent,

The Sly One slips from window, dropping down

Through crystal air of Asgard, ’til he swoops

Not far from earth, and sweeps up into clouds

Towards mountain-top, where Glasir’s rooted fast:

A tree of red-gold leaves, that flashing plant

That never sheds one plate through every age,

Bright as a heap of stars, or dragon’s hoard

Of coins close-packed in some crevasse or cave,

Not one left stray by wyrm, a greedy guard;

And ’midst its branches, giggling, Loki’s claws

Clutch hammer that he hid in midst of night,

That devastating striker; and he flaps

With anxious flutter, eager that no eyes

Loyal to Aesir spot his treach’rous load!

Lok gathers speed, to east his course is bent;

The plains race ’neath him, yellow, orange, and green,

The fjords and forests, temples, shrines, and ships:

A little toy-world seeming, thick with beasts

Like pets for gods and great ones; and the towns

Of elves and men, creations small and cute.

The seas flash, and the sun and moon exchange

Their shining duty three times ere the crests

Of Thrymheim’s greatest rocks break distance-mist:

And now a world of titans Lok flits o’er,

A land made up of black earth and white limbs,

White limbs like ridges, bodies like the mounds

White clad of winter. Terrible the sun

Burns in this world, the sky a furnace-flame,

Though frigid lie the dells and haunts of wolves

And all high reaches – snows forever whirl

Like some strong tumult in the heart of air,

And baleful wolf-packs sound their direful throats,

Cold horns that sound some doom. The greatest mound

Lok spies in distance, and he knows who ’tis:

So speeds he madly towards that snoring lump –

High o’er he hovers, and he hollers: “Thrym!

Oh Thrym, oh giant-brother, wake and rise!

Why slumberest thou like mountain all thy days

When Asgard’s mansion open stands, a prize

To make us lords of more than thou canst think:

Those halls’ two-tiered dominion: upper realms

And lower all our kingdom… and, what’s more

Of value to thee: Freyja! toothsome maid

I know thou’st long longed after! Up, I bid.

See what my falcon claws disclose to thee!”

 

And with rough rumbling stirs that mountain-thurse,

Dismayed to be awake – some idiot

His dream-world dashing, swevens sweet undone –

But looks above, and eyes what seems a bird

Gripping stout block, and hears those blandishments,

Which bafflement excite. “ ’Tis Loki, coz!”

The bird continues. “Loki, who did trick

The Asgard gods to think I’m one of them,

Securing fake fraternity; but now

Affirm I kinship-bond with all our race

By Ymir’s eyebrows penned. See what I bear,

Oh king of harshest stretch of Jotunheim:

No less than Thor’s own hammer!”

 

                                                                          And at this

The giant lunges, swinging hand to grip

The flying Sly One – but Lok flutters high

Just out of reach! Now Thrym with huff and growl

Stands full upright, and stretches, leaps, and grasps,

Grunting and puffing – feathered rascal dips

And rises, keeping always just beyond

Those flailing fingers! Meanwhile thund’rous jumps

Arouse the hills, that snoring ettin-folk,

Who with great grousing at the earthquakes’ shocks

Around their chieftain gather.

 

                                                               “Drop thy boon

Oh Laufey’s son, thou teasing wingèd one!”

Snarls giant-lord, and ceases futile leaps.

“Why bringest thou such thing, but not release?

With arm so great, I’ll lift that tool what weighs

Thee down so heavily, and beat the gate

Of Valhall open for these hearty lads,

Their war-lust long delayed – and Freyja take

As captive bride, while Aesir all are slain!

Drop hammer, ’tis too hefty for thee, Lok!

Vicegerent shall I make thee for thy aid:

Second in Asgard, reigning in my stead

While further feuds I press… Why dost withhold?

What wishest thou?”

 

                                             And Loki, much amused

At having baited bruiser like a bear,

Replies: “Think’st thou I’d offer up such gift

And not demand the prime seat for myself?

True, it needs strong arm and many thanes

To batter Valgrind, and seize lofty fort –

But other clans, I’m sure, would not reserve

Kingship o’er god-land, once that realm is ta’en,

For their own ruler: bold presumption, thine,

Thou should’st be monarch! Ampler gratitude

Thy rivals, I should ween, would quick display

Upon presentment of such awesome force,

This key to Valhall’s lock! Vicegerent thou,

Oh Thrym – else stone’s not thine. Freyja I’ll grant

To wed thee, and gods’ blood shall feed those blooms

That dress her garland on thy marriage-day!

Give promise, Thrym, and swear by jotun-trust

That Loki shall in Asgard ever rule

Until the end of ages – and I’ll toss

My gift down to thy hand.”

 

                                                         The jotun burns

With envious outrage – but his lust for her

Who three times from Ygg’s hearth-fire ran uncharred,

Who touches mortal maids with beauty’s grace

To kindle in their menfolk cordial hearts,

Compels his swift compliance, lest the thief

Flap off, and favor other jotun-king.

“Oh take this pledge,” Thrym pleads: “Thou’lt have thy crown,

And no rebellion ever shall I rouse

To oust thee from great seat or spill thee straight

In Valhall’s gutter – now grant hammer, bird,

Thou flitty falcon!”

 

                                         And Lok’s talons ope;

And might of Thor sinks down through airy reach –

’Til vast hand seizes shaft, and wields that stone

Shining so wondrously ’cross evil wastes.

*

* * *

*

To midday meal the Aesir have sat down,

When straight a squawking shrills outside their hall:

“Oh panic! Sound alarms! Friends, let me in!”

The doors swing wide, and Loki flaps among

The tables, sweeping goblets, plates, and knives

With clatter to the floor; and all start up,

Much dreading what they’ll hear.

 

                                                                      “ ’Tis as I feared!”

Saith Loki, settling ’midst the household wild;

And all press close, each clutching neighbor’s arm –

Their wide eyes wait his words. Lok moans and frets:

“Cruel Thrym holds lightning-weapon! and e’en now

His hosts, uproarious armies, march this way,

Intent on brute destruction! Aye, some sprite

Light as a dream’s weight, stealthy as a thought,

Valhalla must’ve burgled, as I guessed,

Great weapon nabbing… Hark! Some thunder groans

O’er distant lands, the clamor of the east,

And clouds of black growl closer … List, friends, list:

Hear ye th’approaching power? So soft it is,

Just ’neath the ear… But ever doth it grow,

That steady thump of doom, that pulse of dread…

I say, ’tis ruin’s step, our family’s end!

Oh, panic!”

 

                          And the hubbub soars once more,

This time to higher pitch, and spears are gripped,

And shields; Thor his older maul he hefts

While stern commands of Odin ’gin resound –

But Loki, slipping suit, his feath’ry crest

Trading for wonted mane of rolling gold,

Leaps up on table, and again requests

A silent audience: “ ’Tis all in vain,

Ye know as well as I, this girding on,

For none withstands Thor’s hammer, not e’en him

Who held it once, but now’s bereft of it!

Oh, true, the Asgard-walls might brook no breach –

But not so Valgrind, vulnerable to blows,

As e’en the strongest doors are… Cousins, list!

I have a plan, if ye would wish to hear,

To save our hides – but first, haste we outside,

Unto the oxen herd: You’ll learn anon

What I’ve in mind.”

 

                                         And wond’ring and surprised

At such suggestion, Aesir like a flock

Of docile lambs now follow Lok through door,

Out towards the leas so lavish, flower and grass,

Much anxious, though with hope in trickster’s scheme…

To fields of corn that bend in summer’s wind,

Past reaper, peasant fellow, mowing hay:

And Sly One steals his sickle. To a pond

He hastes, and finds of oxen twice-twelve tongues

Lapping the water, thirsty summer bulls

All in a line.

 

                          With flick of wrist, the scythe

Lok launches – and now twenty-four heads splash

Upon the shallow water! Blood pollutes

That crystal Asgard pool.

 

                                                     “Those carcasses

We’ll bury, and the heads I’ll stuff down pond

To sink to bottom – welling gore shall stain

That water so, that Thrym, when he arrives,

I might convince ’tis bloodied by ye gods,

Whom I myself did slay: a traitor, I,

Who, at invasion’s news, did switch his love,

Wishing good graces of this land’s new lord,

Preferment seeking, office and applause,

And bonds with giant-kin restoring sure.

He’ll search ye out – Freyja to seize as bride,

The rest to slay – but never shall he find;

For off to Midgard now you all must hie

If you’re to save your lives! Wend deep and far

Into those forests dark all creatures fear

So low beneath the sky – meantime, among

Thrym’s band I’ll bide a space, waiting a time

His hammer might I filch – then float again

O’er mid-earth’s woods, above remotest tracts,

Calling and list’ning for your glad response:

And thus shall stone, and home, be won again!

But now, avaunt! Aroint ye! To the bridge

And down to man’s domain, my dearest kin!

And for your roof make oaks and elms and pines;

And shelter where no evil eyes might spy,

’Til I come searching for ye – lose no time!”

 

And not one word the gods return to him,

Quick-thinking blond-maned thurse, but leave through gate

With utter haste, each god and demi-sprite:

All-Father and his Frigga, Sif and Thor,

Idunn and Bragi, Heimdall, Gerd and Frey,

The damsel Freyja, Baldur, Hermod, Hod,

And Tyr, and Ull, and all relations eke,

All wives and brothers, children, cousins, kin,

All servants, peasants, croppers, peons, serfs,

Each lady’s maid, each dis who does some work,

Each little being who loves the light and good

(Save fairies of deep wolds of Idavoll) –

And rushing march they make down bright-hued bridge,

Down levels, floors and ceilings of grand clouds,

Down regions wide of water-vapor hills

Towards lowly ground, where man for bread and meat

Strains daily; and they see, far off to east,

An eerie darkness gather: canopy

Of storms advancing o’er a spreading host.

*

*

II.

*

At lightning stroke the doors so thick are ripped,

Those doors of Valgrind, hammer-busted, blown

Wide-open, and the throng that Thrym commands

Like river through a broken dam doth pour:

A throng of thurses, mob of maniacs,

Bedight with armor some, with others none –

A mess of graith, and weapons what they scrounged:

Axes and hammers, clubs and mountain-rocks,

Black plucked-up trees, batons and cudgels rough,

Hoes, mattocks, knives, and swords, halberds and spears,

And shining mass of shields like dragon’s scales.

Like glinting wyrm o’er rainbow-bridge they crawl;

Their chief, at head, towards stairs of Valhall veers.

Those brawlers reach the porch, and into hall

Come ready for the stour – but no one find:

Not Odin with his lance, nor sons with swords,

But only Loki, sitting up on high,

Upon that great throne erstwhile occupied

By father of the worlds.

 

                                                 “My subjects – hail!”

The smiling Sly One speaks. “Asgard is won!

And I, your lord, already have assumed

My honored place… Why, each of ye are dumb –

Dumbstruck, and silent! Well might yonder ye

No Aesir-band doth greet you; much amazed

Am I myself by what I have to tell!

A lie you’ll deem it, but I’ll prove it true:

All Asgard-folk are vanquished by my hand!

Who knew these arms, these scrawny arms, did hold

More power than all gods’ might? When once they saw

Thy coming, Thrym, they traitor took me for,

The one who stole Thor’s maul (and were not wrong);

And all did close around me with grim points

Of blade and pike – but nothing did me daunt

Such awful odds: I one by one dislodged

Those weapons from gods’ fists, and turned upon

My persecutors, slicing heads and hearts,

Sparing not youth nor woman, either, Thrym!

The blood I mopped, as thou wast batt’ring in

The gate outside, and ere then bodies I

Threw down to Midgard – heads, in drinking pond.

Ye look askance, but all’s the honest tale!

Oh scowl not! Follow me to ruddy lake

Which bubbles with the blood of folks I slew!”

 

So Thrym and all his giants go with Lok,

And captain looks o’er rust-red frothing pool

While trickster hides his worry; then an arm

The jotun plunges, fishing for those heads

Lok claims rest on the bottom – swishes round

So vig’rously his hand, and then he saith:

“My fingers feel the tops of hairy heads!

Oh true thy boast, new lord of Asgard’s throne!

All Aesir-heads here rest in sleep of war,

And gone’s the race of him licked out of salt!

Acclaim him king, ye jötnar: Sire of Wolf

Now drapes his banner from Valhalla’s roof!

But oh, this triumph’s mixed with bitterness

(For poor Thrym, at the least), since Freyja dear,

Oh beauteous Freyja, rests in Niflheim!

Thou slew’st her too, oh fell and fearsome liege;

And head so sweet sleeps ’neath that gory sludge –

That head I’d hoped might wear a marriage-crown,

And later, crown for wife of under-king!

I must have leave to weep – weep in this pool –

And mingle salty softness with her blood.”

 

But Loki, moved and touched, in kind tones saith:

“Oh Thrym, good next-to-emperor, take heart,

For one fine bit of news did I forget,

Not thinking on how Freyja’s by thee loved:

Of all my slaughter, she alone escaped!

Escaped with all her maids, and fled away –

On high I saw this – down towards tracts obscure,

Among the byways shady, spinneys thick,

Beyond man’s towns, beyond where I might see…

To some spot so remote, remote is not

Enough a word – yon acre yonderest:

Perhaps where winds begin, or one of four

Supporting dwarfs one meets. Yup, that’s the place

Thy would-be leman lives in… If thou wish’st

To seek her, thou hast blessing of a king,

And might pursue, however long it takes.”

 

And Thrym much joyed, much heartened, hails his lord,

And bids his thanes pledge fealty to Lok,

True giant, branch of Ymir’s trunk the best;

And each thurse-arm now’s lifted to acclaim

Farbauti’s son.

 

                                 So Thrym proceeds in haste

Sergeants to gather, horses to prepare,

Inquiring closely of observant king

Precisely where Frey’s sister disappeared

Amid the vast world’s sweep; and, led astray,

With maul in hand, that thunderhead so strong,

Soon thurse rides out, down causeway clopping fast

With mickle meiny ’hind him galloping –

And forest enters where maid doesn’t hide;

And Sly One, grinning e’er his naughty grin,

Takes Ygg’s great throne, o’er Asgard to preside.

*

* * *

*

So misrule grasps its scepter: spoil and theft

The high hall seize, tussles and pillage fierce,

A giants’ holiday. Disorder is

The order of the hour: ransack and rob

Each jotun doth; great stores are gobbled up,

All gold and ouches stuffed in greedy sacks,

The kitchens picked of knives and brassy pans,

And goat and cow ripped open, sucked of meat.

How withers wonted glow of happy land!

The forests pine; the flowers waste away,

Turning their faces from a scene so cruel,

The rape of Valhall. Fairies of the woods

Lament and cry, and utterly might sink

To lower plain, were not their dear gods safe –

Their revels give they up, dance lay aside;

And each hides under toadstool, leaf, and tuft

Amid the hubbub.

 

                                       Meantime in the halls

Carousal’s never ending: feasts and flames,

Duels and dangers, jousts on piggyback

And riots rule the household. Sooty black

The walls turn – bonfires blaze amidst the floor;

And battles rage, a war of flying food:

Legumes and cheese wheels, radishes and roots,

A lettuce-onslaught: Vegetables are lobbed,

Pots serve for helmets – Lok himself partakes

In swordplay tournaments and fencing bouts,

With poker thrusting, one hand ’hind his back,

Across the tables sparring – and he drubs

Each challenger, for all believe they fight

The vanquisher of Aesir! Never bored,

Ne’er tiring of his winning, Lok exults,

And many a jig performs to clapping hands,

The viands kicking off the table-tops –

Or taunts his subjects from his throne superb,

A bright-haired force atop his awesome seat…

And with fine guerdons copious he keeps

All Thrym’s thanes faithful.

 

                                                         Now and then a thought

He spares for children three, confined in realms

So distant, and resolves them to reclaim

From tortures in the wilderness, and bring

Their fierceness to his mead-hall… but the pains

Of loosing them seem much: an endless task

Of seeking out, and somehow rending chains –

So Lok turns e’er to wines and meats again,

Toasting his offspring’s health.

 

                                                                 And years spill on,

Nine years of mess, a palace languishing

In ettins’ anarchy: the cobwebs wax;

The floorboards grasp the shoe, sticky with mead;

And stink takes rule, then grows its wide domain,

E’er more oppressive. So sleeps through his days

That manager of muddle, all his crew

Passed out, blotto and boozy… ’til a sound

Of boot-falls and of grumbling’s on the porch,

And doors burst wide: From nap Lok snaps awake,

Then straightens sharply, white his bulging eyes,

Wond’ring why looks so dour that mighty thurse

From search returned.

 

                                       “Oh cousin Thrym, thou’rt back!”

Saith King of Valhall. “Welcome, worthy friend –

Thy retinue as well, wide-roaming group!

And bring’st thou back, coz, paragon of maids

From such hard looking? Well she hid, I trow,

If yes, if no, for long thou’st been away…

Come quaff from horn, and tell me all about!”

And nervous grin sits fixed on Loki’s face,

E’er growing nervouser, as Thrym him takes

Up by lapels, and dangles him above

A slack-jawed court.

 

                               “Thou lied’st, thou twerp, thou rogue!”

Mad ettin roars. “What tracts have I not traced,

Or have my thanes not, in that hemisphere

Where Freyja fled, thou said’st – but she’s not there!

No Freyja, naught but wilderness and waste!

Thou killed’st her with the other gods, I’m sure,

Then wished me gone, a rival to thy reign,

Sent off with vain hope, scouring empty wilds!

Why ought I not wield might thou gav’st to me,

And practice smithing on thy head, oh liege?”

 

And trickster sputters: “Thrym, thou blam’st awry!

Blame sons of Bor, that such huge world they made,

So full of nooks, and holes, and spots to hide!

Or blame primordial giant, that he sucked

Audhumla’s teats so much, to swell so big!

With mine own peepers saw I how she fled,

And where, shipbuilder’s daughter, dame so scared:

That same way where with thanes thou disappeared’st

Nine years ago… You know, perhaps she sped

On hearing horse-hoofs’ clops – or maybe fled

High up a tree?”

 

                                   “Why don’t you search yourself

If such be so?” Thrym shouts, and lets him down,

That little wight beneath such hulking bloke;

And spearpoints crowd around his gulping throat,

Lending persuasion. “Into suit again,

Thou fibbing fabler!” Thrym saith. “Fly again

With falcon speed, and find her, if thou canst –

And if thou cannot, steer thou not again

Within the walls enclosing splendor-plain!

With Freyja pass through gate, or not at all –

And when there’s marriage, thou’lt be king again.”

*

*

III.

*

So o’er the mid-world Loki glumly soars,

A wearied bird indeed – his pinions ache,

And voice is hoarse from calling down to woods:

“Oh Aesir, I return; shout where ye are!

Your loyal Lok is back, good friends in need!

From Thrym at last I’ve ’scaped; how lucky I

Have still my head! Send smoke, or yell to me –

How shall I find ye in these mazy wolds?”

And so a hundred wildernesses pass

Beneath his swishing feathers – rocks, moraines,

The crumbling glaciers, clumps barbaric, dense

With savage copses, mountains nearing cope

Of twinkling nighttime… ’til, one dawn of gold,

Beneath the cloudscapes, arrow from a hill

With firs all shrouded, leaps towards Loki’s path

And pierces wing! The trickster squawks and gasps,

Flutt’ring to save his life – but lower veers,

Turning in spirals, certain he shall crash,

Looking for soft spot, seeing none at all,

Rotating round and round as whimpers he –

’Til into thorny thistle-bush he drops,

And croaks in pain.

 

                                         Steps, voices soon he hears…

By neck he’s yanked up by two brawny mitts,

Ten fingers round his windpipe, and he meets

The face of Fjorgyn’s son! “Oh, nephew Thor!”

Bruised pipsqueak speaks. “How good is thy embrace

After such torments, locked up by the knave

What stole thy hammer!”

 

                                                     “Nine years been away?”

The wrath-god bellows. “Nine years, and thy tricks

No path found from thy cell – no chink, no ruse

To play upon the guard? And where is it,

My lightning-weapon, promised when we left,

This household, down the ruby rainbow-path

On thy advice? We ought’ve stayed and fought,

Not sheltered in far wood – coneys which ran

To nook-nests under roots once rain approached

And harmless mewl of thunder! I should think

Thou stol’st and gav’st my hammer after all;

And Thrym’s found out thy double-dealing game

But lately, and has cast thee out the walls –

And now thou seek’st we Aesir, only hope

Thou hast to regain Valhall!”

 

                                                            All around

Lok views the Aesir-crew: Ull with his bow

(The bow that felled him), lords and ladies, dames

And shining children, all that noble clan

By treason his in exile – Frigga queen,

And Ygg so lordly stern, severe and drab,

His hat by rains much weathered. Lok explains:

“Oh doubt me not, my sweet ones, emes so dear!

Thrym knew the pool a ruse right off, and shut

Poor me in Valhall’s oubliette, e’er dark

As winter’s solstice – countless hours I sat

In cell of utter shadow, ’til at last

Strong rains did carve wee runnel ’twixt some bricks

Through which the sun shone; and in shape of wasp

Thence I escaped! In Thrym’s room then I searched

For Mjolnir, but ’twas hid, and nowhere else

My waspy self might find it… so to suit

Of bird I turned, in Freyja’s closet stashed –

Transformed to falcon, and now here I am!

’Tis all the truth, believe me! Oh, what cause

For arrow? How it stings me! Let me go!

Let go – and I shall tell what further plans

Have I, though we’ve no hammer, how to gain

Our place in hall familial once again!”

 

And Thor, though doubtful, sees how Odin bids

Him loosen grip – and Loki spills from bush,

Wheezing and panting, wincing from his wounds,

Then gathers up, and begs all gather round

To hear his counsel, stratagem so sly.

*

* * *

*

Far off on path, the guard spies jolting wain

From sentry-tower, a wagon on its way,

By nag slow-pulled… one driver, and one sits

Behind him, dressed in white. Between moraines

It’s moving, turtle-slow.

 

                                                  Now towards the slope

So bare and broad it steers, those rising hills

And mountain-stretches that Valhall approach;

And o’er the sinuous road it ambles on,

Towards Valgrind set.

 

                                              The sentinel espies

What seems a bride in back… and who doth drive

That rugged wain, but Lok himself, who flew

But days ago to find what Thrym could not?

“Oh raise the gate!” the giant from his tower

Cries to his peers beneath. “The exiled one

Returns with what redeems him! And to Thrym

Set off with happy news: his Freyja’s here,

A veiled sweetheart, hid until that hour

When hammer hallows union!”

 

                                                                  Word runs through

Excited Valhall – crowds throng Loki’s wain,

Him praising who was thought unloyal wretch;

And Thrym, o’erjoyed, puts on of pelts his best,

And combs his hair, and washes most his face,

And bids delightsome lass be decked with flowers:

A garland for her temples, daisy-chains

On wrists and collar. Now work quick the chefs

To slaughter, roast, and carve, and stir and bake,

To fry and brew and slice, and dress each dish,

While sewers set the plates; and every thurse

Brings gifts for Thrym, which by the throne are placed.

And Loki has his seat not far from king,

While on the benches giant-folk squeeze tight.

The bride is by the groom, with head still hid:

A flowing lacy garment veils the face.

Now salmon’s served, and oxen, ale, and cakes,

Which giants eat with relish – though none beats

The bride in quantity consigned to gut!

Each stomach’s stuffed, each ale-cask now supped dry;

And happy music’s thrummed, and cornets sound

As holy hammer from a chest is brought:

Great frightful Mjolnir, that makes all to shrink,

Though Thor thought nowhere near.

 

                                                                     On knees is placed

That awesome weapon, knees of precious bride,

To bless the womb, and favored life provide

To future bairns. Now carols short are sung;

And all, expectant, watch the bridegroom lift

Bride’s veil for a kiss…

 

                                                 A gasp all round,

For bristly beard of red has been revealed…

And eyes that glare, and some displeasure hint.

Now blanches Thrym – his puck’ring lips turn down;

And horror thrills through hall as hammer’s gripped –

And plys its work on skull, which blasts to bits!

“What ho! Alarm! Take weapons!” giants shriek

As more ’gin drop beneath that streaking stone,

While valiant Lok below the benches creeps

To wait out wasting of his former friends.

The killer bride’s gone maniac and grim,

Blotching his dress with squirts and splats of blood;

And blood ebbs round poor Lok, clings to his sleeves,

And tight he tucks, squinching to hear each crack

Of giants’ bones or booming of bright clang

When hammer punches shield or crumples flat

A useless helmet. Hall is all a storm,

A throng of lances shatt’ring, as when rage

Of tempest’s breath a barren forest breaks:

The brittle groves laid waste, the trunks all crushed,

Each standing thing left flattened. Howls and yawps

Soon lessen; boots are clomping ’cross the floor

While yet the thunder blares.

 

                                                             Lok lifts and views

A swarming rout, a yowling crowd disgorged

From porch, and all five hundred forty doors

Of Aesir’s stately place. O’er Idavoll

They race, Lok sees from threshold, tossing high

Encumbering equipment, shields and swords;

And Fjorgyn’s son hounds many, chasing bands

Straight out the gate – a bottleneck where fall

So many wights ’neath thunder-weapon’s scream:

Another mound of corpses, giants’ grave,

Threshold of slaughter, grisly monument –

And all the rest ’fore flying lightning-power

Scram frantic down the hills, and towards the plain.

*

* * *

*

Some later day, once fairies have returned

To sunlit paths, and wood-sprites without care

Of on a giant stumbling, traipse through holts,

And hall’s been purified, the sacred home

Of god-race once again, Lok wanders long

Through wilderness of Asgard – far beyond

The walls the mason and his draught-horse built,

Among some scenes sublime of ruined crags

And splintered pines and firs, all under sun

Hot, dizzy-making. In the afternoon

A blast drives from the north, a chilling wind,

Along with drops, and rolling clouds… and sound

That seems to speak like voice of one who sprang

From womb of Loki’s wife.

 

                                                        The queen of hell

These words whispers to father: “When, oh sire?

When shall I with my siblings rise again

To march against great hall we lost through fraud –

Fraud of All-Father, who his palace keeps

Against its rightful dwellers? Nine years held’st

The mansion thou, and still thou stirredest not

To tear our prison bars: the wimpled seas,

The rocks o’er Niflheim, and Gleipnir’s grip!

Shall ever loneliness and shackling fate

Drop off us? Succor, father! Or at least

Tell whether freedom bides in plans of Norns.”

 

And Loki smiles, and saith to passing winds:

“It waits the end of ages: countless runs

Of golden chariot, and silver one,

The gnashing fangs behind, wild skies ahead –

And summers near to endless, falls of snow

To match each season hot, while all doth age,

Doth gather fate within it. Bide, and hate,

Ye three – bide in your soundless space of dreams.

Like sword unbloodied bide – like sleeping gods

Awaiting horns, awaiting roosters’ calls:

The end of hope, the end of bright stars’ gleam.”

*

*