The Norse Myths Page 13
ETERNAL CONFLICT IN ORKNEY
In Chapter 2 we learned that Freyja brought about the Hjaðningavíg, the endless battle that will rage until ragnarök. This is how that battle came to be. Heðinn, the prince of Sarkland, met a woman in a forest clearing one day. She called herself Göndul (a well-known valkyrie name). Göndul encouraged Heðinn to visit King Högni and try his skills against him, to see who was the stronger. Högni was happy to take part in the contest, involving swimming, shooting, fighting and riding, and the two men turned out to be so evenly matched that they swore oaths of brotherhood to one another. Heðinn was still young; Högni was somewhat older and had a daughter called Hildr. Göndul appeared to Heðinn again, conceding that the two men were equals, except that Högni had a splendid queen, and Heðinn had none. To Heðinn’s reply that he could marry Hildr if he asked for her, Göndul argued that he would do better to abduct Hildr and murder her mother. Then Högni would have no queen at all, while Heðinn would have proved his mettle in taking Hildr by force. Forgetting the oaths he had sworn, Heðinn acted on this plan. Högni returned home to find his wife dead and his daughter kidnapped, and he set out in pursuit, tracking Heðinn to the island of Hoy in Orkney. No mediation was possible, given the extent of Heðinn’s crime, and so the two sides fell to fighting. Every night Hildr revived the slain, and every day battle was joined again, and so it will continue until ragnarök.
Scene perhaps representing the Hjaðningavíg. A sea-borne attack force meets a land-army, while a female figure stands between them. Lärbro Stora Hammars I picture-stone, Gotland.
Göndul the supernatural troublemaker is likely a form of Freyja; we are told that she owns half the dead in one poem, and in the late version of the story she was forced to begin the conflict in order to recover the Brisinga men neck-ring from Óðinn. In other versions, Hildr is herself a valkyrie, and there’s no need for Göndul to egg Heðinn on to his treachery. In what’s probably the oldest version, Hildr was ready to mediate between her father and her lover, but Högni had one of those troublesome swords (probably also dwarf-forged, judging by its name, Dáinsleif, ‘Dáinn’s heirloom’) which must always kill once unsheathed: thus battle could not be averted. Hildr loved both men so much that she could not bear for one to kill the other, hence her constantly restoring them to life to resume their eternal conflict.
Unlike the Völsungs, with their obsession with treasure and vengeance, these heroes pursue glory through travel and conquest of territory, through loyal service to a lord, and, quite often, by being smart and strategic. And clearly, as her father observes, the Viking girl Hervör is not like most other women, or men either, in her courage in claiming her patrimony from the dead. Nevertheless, all the heroes whose tales have been recounted in the last two chapters could be confident in finding their way to Valhöll after death, to join the Einherjar, the heroic dead who will fight on the side of the gods at ragnarök. Indeed the Hjaðningavíg seems set up for just such recruitment purposes, though it’s confounded by Hildr’s capacity to regenerate the fallen. In the final chapter we will see how ragnarök comes about – and learn what follows it.
ÓÐINN’S SEARCH FOR WISDOM
As we know, Óðinn sacrificed his eye in Mímir’s Well in order to gain knowledge of the future. Yet he still, obsessively, seeks out those who might be able to tell him more. The Seeress’s Prophecy recounts a seeress’s response to being questioned by Óðinn about past and future. Much of what follows in this chapter is drawn from her account. But Óðinn also visits the giant Vafþrúðnir; despite Frigg’s warning him against the adventure, Óðinn sets out boldly and enters the giant’s hall:
Greetings, Vafþrúðnir! Now I have come into the hall
to see you in person;
this I want to know first, whether you are wise
or very wise, giant!
VAFÞRÚÐNIR’S SAYINGS, V. 6
Vafþrúðnir rises to the challenge, recognizing the invitation to participate in a wisdom contest, and he sets the stakes: ‘we shall wager our heads in the hall, / guest, on our wisdom’ (v. 19). God and giant exchange arcane lore, about the distant past, the history of the gods, and about the future: the events of ragnarök. Wisdom contests are complex undertakings, for the idea is as much to catch out the opponent as to learn from him or her, and both contenders must know enough to discern whether the other party is lying. At the end of this contest, Óðinn seems to have heard enough about ragnarök and what comes after it, and he concludes with his favourite unanswerable question:
Much have I travelled, much have I tried out,
much have I tested the Powers;
what did Óðinn say into his son’s ear
before he mounted the pyre?
VAFÞRÚÐNIR’S SAYINGS, V. 54
And with this question Vafþrúðnir knows that the game is up, for only Óðinn can know the answer. The poem ends with this admission; we assume that Vafþrúðnir must surrender his head, though whether Óðinn takes it may be another matter.
Why does Óðinn embark on this quest for wisdom, risking his own neck to verify the information that he has? One likely reason is a compulsive need to check – and double-check – whether fate is really ineluctable. Is there any possibility that one of the universe’s many wise beings knows of a different narrative about the future? Must Óðinn meet the wolf and be devoured by him? Must the world plunge headlong, engulfed in flames, before vanishing under the sea? As we know, and as the god repeatedly hears from those he questions, ragnarök will indeed come one day. The signs of the world’s destruction are already beginning to manifest themselves, for Óðinn’s clever question shows that one of the portents of the end has already occurred; Baldr, best and brightest of the gods, is dead.
THE DEATH OF BALDR
We have not heard much about Baldr so far, and that’s primarily because little more is narrated about him than the events surrounding his death. Snorri assures us that he is radiantly handsome (so much so that a flower, baldrsbrá, a kind of camomile, is named after his eyelashes). Clever, wise, kindly, married to Nanna, Baldr is loved by everyone.
One day, however, he begins to have ominous dreams and, after their usual consultation, the gods resolve to ask every created thing to swear an oath not to harm him. In one poem, Baldrs Draumar (Baldr’s Dreams), Óðinn himself, like any anxious father, saddles up his mount Sleipnir and sets out for Hel’s kingdom to find out the truth of the matter. But on the edge of Hel’s kingdom, he meets a blood-stained pup (a young hell-hound perhaps) and instead of pressing forward to Hel’s hall, he decides to awaken a dead seeress whose grave lies nearby. As in his other dialogues with the wise, Óðinn dissembles his identity. The grumpy seeress confirms her questioner’s fears:
For whom are the benches decked with arm-rings,
is the dais so fairly strewn with gold? […]
Here mead stands, brewed for Baldr,
clear liquor; a shield hangs above,
the Æsir are in dread anticipation.
Reluctantly I told you, now I’ll be silent.
BALDR’S DREAMS, VV. 6–7
Óðinn rides Sleipnir to visit Hel, past a bloody-chested pup. W. G. Collingwood (1908).
The seeress imparts further details to Óðinn until he brings the conversation to an end by posing another mysterious question – apparently a riddle about waves. This is enough to reveal his identity and the seeress refuses to converse further.
Baldr seems then to be doomed. In Snorri’s account it’s Frigg, the god’s energetic mother, who works her way through creation, taking the oaths of everything to refuse to harm her son. ‘Fire and water, iron and all kinds of metal, stones, the earth, wood, sickness, animals, birds, poison, serpents’ – all swear to do him no harm. What then could bring about the god’s death? Frigg had not bothered with the lowly mistletoe, for it seemed to her too young and tender, and she lets slip this information to an inquisitive woman who visits her in her hall, Fensalir. That was her mistake, for the woman was Lo
ki in disguise, and he makes good use of this information.
Meanwhile, the gods are amusing themselves mightily at their meeting-place. Baldr stands in the middle and the others hurl missiles at him. All their weapons bounce harmlessly off him – a temptation to complacency, perhaps. Standing sadly at the edge of the group is Höðr, Baldr’s brother, who is blind, and who can’t take part in the game. But here is a friendly voice in his ear, asking if he wants a go; a slender dart is slipped into his hand and the speaker guides his aim so that it hits its mark (see page 40). Baldr falls; a great wail goes up from all the gods and Loki slips away in the hubbub. The mistletoe dart has brought down the best of the gods. Óðinn is doubly grief-stricken; not only is his son dead, but he knows that this death is a clear portent of ragnarök.
Frigg promises all her favour to anyone who will ride to Hel to negotiate Baldr’s return, and a man called Hermóðr leaps on Sleipnir and sets off. Baldr’s funeral is prepared; his body is taken to the shore and placed on his ship. But the ship will not slide down the rollers into the sea until a giantess called Hyrrokin appears, riding a wolf with serpents for reins. Hyrrokin launches the ship with a single push, so mighty that sparks fly and all the lands quake; despite this service she narrowly escapes being obliterated by Þórr. Nanna dies of grief at this and her body is laid beside Baldr’s on the pyre. Flames engulf the two bodies, witnessed by all kinds of beings who have gathered to do Baldr honour. An unfortunate dwarf, Litr, gets under Þórr’s feet as he steps forward to consecrate the pyre and is straight away kicked into it.
The death of Baldr. Christoffer William Eckersberg (1817).
Viking Ship-Burials
High-born men and women were often buried in ships in the Viking Age, symbolizing perhaps the journey the dead had to make to the Other World. The Oseberg ship, described in the Introduction, is only one such archaeological find. In Britain, the seventh-century Anglo-Saxon king buried at Sutton Hoo was also interred on a ship (though nothing has survived of it but its rivets), proving that this was not exclusively a Viking-Age custom. In the ninth century, an Arab traveller, Ibn Fadlan, encountered some Viking Rus warriors on the Volga. Their chieftain had just died and Ibn Fadlan gives a detailed account of the funeral rites. There is no space to describe them in full here, but at the culmination of the ceremony the chieftain’s ship, on which his corpse is lying, is set ablaze with a flaming torch, borne by the dead man’s next of kin. He circles the ship stark naked and walking backwards, covering his anus with one hand. And, says Ibn Fadlan, so much wood was piled round the ship and such a brisk wind sprang up that within an hour, ship, chieftain and all were consumed to ashes.
A Viking funeral-ship is set ablaze and pushed out to sea. Frank Dicksee (1893).
Hermóðr bravely made his way down to Hel, and found its ruler not entirely unsympathetic to the gods’ request. Baldr and Nanna were already present in the hall, Baldr sitting in the high seat no less. Hel stipulated that Baldr might return to the world of the living if all things were to weep for him, and Hermóðr headed back with the news. The Æsir quickly mobilized on hearing Hel’s conditions and messengers were sent out all over the world. They met with great success, persuading everything to weep for Baldr – even metals (the origin of condensation, Snorri tells us). But in a cave they found a giantess called, ironically, Þökk (Thanks). When asked to weep for Baldr she retorted:
Þökk will weep
dry tears
for Baldr’s funeral.
Living nor dead
I get no joy of any man’s son:
let Hel hold what she has.
THE TRICKING OF GYLFI, CH. 49
The Rape of Rindr
Óðinn knows that Baldr’s avenger must be born of Rindr, a human princess. Impregnating her is not altogether a straightforward task. Rindr resists the ugly old god’s advances; though he insinuates himself into her father’s household, where he operates as a very successful general, his first attempt at a kiss gets him only a slap across the face. Next, he becomes a metal-worker and brings Rindr beautifully made bracelets; this is no more effective and another slap follows. Finally he bewitches her, using runes to send her mad. Then, disguising himself as an old woman, Óðinn pretends to be a healer. He prescribes a horribly bitter drink, one so vile that Rindr must be tied to the bed so that she can’t refuse to swallow it. And, left alone with the patient, the apparent healer rapes the unhappy girl. The other gods, so this story (related by Saxo Grammaticus) tells us, were so horrified by this behaviour that Óðinn was sent into exile. Rindr, however, became pregnant and gave birth to Váli.
And it is strongly suspected that this uncooperative giantess was none other than Loki.
The aftermath of Baldr’s death was twofold. Óðinn had learned from the dead seeress that only one man could avenge Baldr, and that he was not yet born.
Little Váli was indeed prodigious; like Helgi, he was ready to fight at one night old, says The Seeress’s Prophecy :
He never washed his hands
nor combed his hair
until he brought Baldr’s adversary
to the funeral pyre.
THE SEERESS’S PROPHECY, V. 33
But it is the poor blind brother, Höðr, ‘the slayer by hand’ – not Loki, ‘the slayer by plan’, the one behind the murder – whom Váli kills. For Loki’s fate is written differently.
Why must Baldr die? He’s often been compared with other gods who perish through some horrible accident or conspiracy. Ancient Near Eastern figures such as the Egyptian Osiris, or Attis, the beloved of Cybele, also die; the context of their myths suggests that this occurs in a seasonal cycle and resurrection comes with the spring. Isis succeeds in reconstituting Osiris, her brother/lover, as the Nile rises again every year to fertilize the land, and Attis too is reborn annually. But Baldr’s resurrection (at least for now) fails. A fertility dimension to the myth seems unlikely, therefore.
Baldr may be a sacrifice; certainly being pierced by a missile is congruent with sacrifice to Óðinn. Yet no benefit seems to accrue from Baldr’s death; if he is a sacrifice, it seems a pointless one (unlike Óðinn’s own sacrifice of himself to gain the secret of the runes). The myth speaks to the horror of conflict within kin-groups; vengeance cannot be achieved by killing the perpetrator, for Váli’s vengeance on Höðr simply eliminates yet another of Óðinn’s sons. Who should take vengeance for Höðr? In this respect, Óðinn is fortunate in that he can sire new sons, replacing those who die. But, as the myth acknowledges, sons are not so interchangeable; Váli cannot truly take Baldr’s place.
THE BINDING OF LOKI
Snorri follows his account of the failure to weep Baldr out of Hel with the gods’ swift pursuit, capture and binding of Loki. In the poetic tradition, Loki’s binding is consequent on his final rupture with his fellow-gods. Remember the feast at Ægir’s hall – the one that required Hymir’s extra-enormous cauldron? All the gods and goddesses were there, except for Þórr who was away as usual smiting giants in the east, and Loki, who was persona non grata. Yet he presents himself coolly at the hall and demands to be assigned a seat and given a drink. Bragi, the god of poetry, is ready to refuse him, but, once Loki invokes the blood-brother relationship between himself and Óðinn, and reminds the god that he had sworn never to drink unless Loki were offered drink too, Óðinn decrees that the ‘Father of the Wolf’ must be admitted.
In the poem Loki’s Quarrel which relates this tale, Loki now proceeds systematically to insult each of the gods in turn. The pattern is quite uniform; Loki insults god A, god A replies, Loki responds, and god B speaks up in A’s defence, only to draw Loki’s bad-mouthing down upon himself. The gods are subjected to a range of calumnies: Óðinn has performed seiðr (see Chapter 2) and is an oath-breaker; other gods are cowards or have been disgraced in some way. Njörðr is accused of letting Hymir’s daughters (giantesses, here probably symbolizing rivers) piss in his mouth, as the rivers run into the sea, and of having fathered his children on his sister.
The goddesses are charged with sexual promiscuity, often with having had sex with Loki himself, or, like Skaði, they are reminded of Loki’s role in their kinsman’s death. Frigg is taunted with the loss of Baldr, and Freyja with having slept with every man within the hall – including her own brother. Even Sif, Þórr’s wife, is charged with having slept with Loki, and we wonder just how it was that Loki was able to steal Sif’s wonderful golden hair. Finally Þórr arrives and with his habitual bellowing and threats puts a stop to Loki’s barbs – notwithstanding some telling remarks about Þórr’s behaviour in the Skrýmir adventure (see Chapter 3). And then Loki leaves:
but for you alone I shall go out
for I know that you do strike.
LOKI’S QUARREL, V. 64, LL. 4–6
A strangely horned Loki, bound after his capture by Þórr, on the eighth-century Kirkby Stephen stone, Cumbria.
That may be a crack about the master-builder and the oath-breaking that inaugurated Ásgarðr’s new walls; maybe it’s a rueful recognition of the risks involved in annoying Þórr. As far as we can tell from other sources, most of what Loki says is true, though he puts a disreputable gloss on Týr’s sacrifice of his hand, and Freyr’s willingness to give Skírnir his sword in order to win Gerðr. Loki’s Quarrel is a very funny poem, but its humour is charged with horror, both at Loki’s shamelessness and at the revelations about the gods. Is the poem a serious critique of the pagan deities – perhaps composed by a Christian who wants to reveal them as hypocrites and cowards? Or is the poem the work of someone who was secure in his belief, who wanted to show that the gods are indeed different from us – and that their fulfilment of their divine functions cannot be comprehended within human ethical frameworks? Very likely Loki’s Quarrel was understood differently at different times in its existence; much depends on the nuance imparted by the performer. But it’s not hard to feel by the end of it that perhaps the world will be better off without this rabble.