Cycles of Norse Mythology: Tales of the Aesir Gods

By Glenn Searfoss

These stories are old, old as the Behmer Wold and seldom in life has there been such a brewing...

Cycles of Norse Mythology captures the passion, cruelty, and heroism of an ancient world. Encompassing Odin’s relentless pursuit of wisdom across the nine worlds, Gullveig’s malicious death at the hands of the Æsir that sparks a brutal war with the Vanir, Thor’s battles against the giants of Jotunheim, the tragedy of Volund, the many devious machinations of Loki, and the inescapable events of Ragnarök, this lyrical re-imagining of the Norse myths presents the gripping adventures of the Norse gods and their foes in a style to delight modern readers of all ages.

A detailed glossary provides a quick reference to the meaning behind names and terms used in the book.

A Source Reference is included for persons who want to delve deeper into the study of Norse mythology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Acorn Books
• Release date: Apr 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789820690

Book preview

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Cycles of

Norse Mythology

Tales of the Æsir Gods

Glenn Searfoss

First published in 2019 by

Acorn Books

www.acornbooks.co.uk

Acorn Books is an imprint of

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

© Copyright 2019 Glenn Searfoss

The right of Glenn Searfoss to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

ISBN of Hardback edition: 9781789820829

ISBN of Paperback edition: 9781789820713

ISBN of ePub edition: 9781789820690

ISBN of PDF edition: 9781789820706

I dedicate this book to my wife, Cynthia, whose constructive criticisms helped drive its scope, and to all our dogs, past and present (Hermes, Bear, Shenoah, Portia, Orchid, Puck, Cruiser, Little Bit, and Buri), whose patient companionship saw me through the project.

Acknowledgements

I gratefully acknowledge the translators, scholars, authors, and artists whose many and varied contributions over the centuries and into the modern day have made the subject of Norse Mythology accessible. Without their efforts and critical interpretations in this field, this book would not have been possible.

A special acknowledgement of the works:

The Agricola and the Germainia by Publis Cornelius Tacitus. Translated by H. Mattingly.

The Danish History by Saxo Grammaticus. Translated by Oliver Elton.

The Heimskringla: A History of Norse Kings by Snorri Sturleson. Translations by Erling Monsen and Samuel Laing.

The Poetic Edda / The Elder Edda by Saemund Sigfusson. Translations by Benjamin Thorpe, Lee M. Hollander, and Carloyne Larrington.

The Prose Edda / The Younger Edda by Snorri Sturleson. Translations by Rasmus B. Anderson, Jesse L. Byock, Jean I. Young, and I. A. Blackwell.

Teutonic Mythology by Jacob Grimm. Translated by James Steven Stallybrass.

Teutonic Mythology – Gods and Goddesses of the Northland by Victor Rydberg. Translation by Rasmus B. Anderson.

Ibn Fadlān’s Journey to Russia: A Tenth-Century Traveler from Baghdad to the Volga River. Translated by Richard Frye.

Cycles of

Norse Mythology

Cycle 1: Prophecy

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In Pursuit of Wisdom

Many paths I traveled, made my road go forth. How the world will be? How the days will be? How to triumph over others? These things I desired to know.

Young I was, fair haired, with smooth cheeks, when first I wandered the long weary ways, eagerly seeking understanding; for wisdom is seldom bound inside four walls. Kin, I visited—those dwelling in far-off lands—that I might profit from their knowledge. The famous son of Bolthor honored my request. He taught me nine spells for free, but I hungered for more.

Now he posited a charge for his wisdom. For the mere price of an eye he offered me a draught from his well that I might see farther, become wiser. Cool was the drink poured from Odrerir that fired my mind with color, inspired my thoughts. Then I began to bloom, to thrive, and to be wise. Word came to me from word, deed came to me from deed; much I came to understand. For a second drink, I found the price he asked too great.

And my wisdom grew.

To test my endurance of mind and body, I hung nine days from the ancient tree. Deprived of food, parched in thirst, I gave myself over to me. With screams on my lips, I drew runes from the depths. Brought to the Æsir the sacred knowledge of how to carve them, how to stain them, and how to work with them.

And my wisdom grew.

Widely I traveled. Much I experienced. Eager to test my power, I challenged wise foes in ancient knowledge, wagered my head in contests of wisdom, and so learned the company kept in far-off halls. The one who knows nothing yet speaks loudly becomes a point of ridicule, a laughing stock when seated among the wise. Cautious, I spoke my knowledge only when needful; otherwise, I remained silent. By such prudence, I preserved my head while others lost theirs.

And my wisdom grew.

In my wanderings, I learned the languages of birds: the wren, the starling, the hawk, the eagle. But the cleverest of all, ravens, the black birds that range across the lands, calling to each other as they wing through the sky, from them I learned the most.

Like men they stand sentries to warn of impending danger. Like men they share knowledge of what they have seen, what they have heard. Like men they feast in the field after a hard-fought battle.

Two I called from the dark flocks circling high above that I might more easily learn from them what happens across the nine worlds. Munin, I called one for the clarity of mind. Hugin, I called the other for the swiftness of thought. Each day they wing across the wide world. Each evening they return to perch on my shoulders and whisper into my ears all they have seen.

And my wisdom grew.

Faring along beaten paths, for fun I hung my clothes on a signpost beside the road. It was reckoned a man by travelers, who dared not approach for fear of the stranger. So, I learned the power of disguise through the wary perceptions of others. Naked, a man is considered naught. The clothes he wears, the actions he takes, the honor he bears, and his conduct among others, are the trappings by which he is perceived, the name by which he becomes known.

And my wisdom grew.

Many roads I traveled into countless lands. Numerous roles I played that I might learn. I became known by various names, some only the winds can pronounce.

Among the gods, I am called Vifud, the wayfarer. Vak is ever alert. Hroptatyr rules as the god over all other gods. Omi heralds the crashing sound of shouted commands. On a whim, Oski grants wishes. Gondlir bears the wand of power. Hâr tells of my one eye. Harbard marks my graybeard. Ud notes my rank.

In assembly, they call me Gagnráth for sage advice given free of guile. Fjolsvith recognizes the wisdom that is mine to share. Thrôr enjoys inciting strife among advisers. At council table, Havi holds the highest seat.

Some Jotun know me as Bolverk, the bale worker, while for others I am Bölverkr, the evildoer.

Mariners, farmers too—for produce must be shipped, call me Ialk, lord of boatloads; Farma-God, the god of cargoes; Kialar, guider of keels; and Farmatýr, the burden god.

Prisoners call me Hapta-God, Hanga-God, and Gallows Lord.

Men know me as Odin, the Alfodur, and Ygg, the terrible one. Ofnir delights in entangling others in a web of words. Sidhott draws attention to my wide-brimmed hat. Sidskegg tells of my broad beard, Bileyg the far sight of my one good eye. Gangleri travels the wide worlds. As Thekk I find welcome in all homes.

In war, I clear the field as Heriar, the leader; Herian, the fighter; and Vidur, the tree of battle. Grímnir, I am called for my battle mask. Hialmberi, the helmet wearer, is found on any field where men contest with weapons. Fimblultyr accounts for my mighty strength that drives foes to their knees.

My delight in battle earned me the names Sigfodur, the war father; Herteit, the war merry; Glapsvid, the maddener; and Báleyg for the flame that burns bright in my eye when the fight is joined—for defeat in battle starts always with the eyes. Hnikar, I hold for my skill with a spear. As Atríth, I charge the field on horseback. Valorous warriors call me, Herfodur, the father of hosts, and Valfodur, father of the slain.

As a seeker of truth, I am Sanngetal. As a speaker of truth, I am Sath. Vegtam clears the way. Fiolnir notes my skill at concealment. Skilfing marks my ability to shake some men awake, while Svafnir lulls others into timeless sleep.

By these and many other names, I accomplished great deeds.

And my wisdom grew.

I listened carefully to the talk of runes, heeded the candid speech of others; good counsel they offer to an open mind capable of discernment. I became careful with words and thoughts, for each have their own power; one long suffers the consequences when either is ill-chosen. So, I learned not to reproach another for what is common among all. Many are made foolish by that mighty desire.

And my wisdom grew.

In my youth, I was quick to give and to forget affronts. As dry straw kindled on a fire flares hot, then dies to a dust of white ash that is carried away by a breath of wind, so, too, flashed my anger. As I grew older I became deliberate in both, measured as red-short iron in the forge: slow to heat, slow to cool, intense in between.

And my wisdom grew.

I sought power that I might direct my fate, to protect my kin and everything we had created. Harsh were the lessons learned. Now my heart is seldom happy. For pain that teaches, falls drop-by-drop on the heart. Endless, remorseless, it erodes shields, eating away reserve until, despite our will, comes the awful grace of wisdom.

To know one’s fate begs caution. The cost of wisdom is more than an eye. Wisdom feeds on that which is within. Innocence falls before its relentless hunger, as does integrity and honor, until all that remains is purpose.

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Hlebard’s Hall

But you just returned, Frigg sniffed, folding her robes about her legs. With a quick flip of an edge she jerked the pleats straight over her knees. Must you leave again so soon?

One eye flared bright over the goblet rim as Odin drained the cup of wine at his side. I must be certain. He upended the cup on the table. She is the only one who can tell me. His tongue flicked to clear wine droplets from his mustache as a sly grin crinkled his brow. And, too, from such a venerable fount, I may gain information to expand my wisdom.

Pouting lips became a hard line as Frigg struggled to conceal the flush of anger that twisted her features. Sometimes, I think you care more for your precious wisdom than you do for me.

Odin fumbled the straps of his boots crisscross about his legs, binding them tight for hard travel. I take advantage of the situation, that is all.

He paused, chewing at the corner of his mustache. Her anger faded as she caught the worry reflected in his eye. "I learned much from the straying mind of Hlebard. Vast knowledge he held, but time and isolation had scattered his wits. Alone, I followed an overgrown trail choked with fir trees that wound to his dim hall huddled beneath a towering shelf of rock. Concealed in deep shadow, I would have passed it by unseen save for a single light wavering through the doorway.

Exhausted from trekking all day, I called out asking for a place to rest. Three times I called out before the etin’s face, lined with the weight of years and nearly the color of the rock beneath which he lived, poked around the doorpost. It was my first glimpse of Hlebard, the ages-old giant in whose mind resides the cluttered history of his race, fragmented memories spanning eons.

I sought to befriend him, but barely had time to give my name as Thekk before he crowed out his own name and beckoned me into his hall. I trudged up the hill, cautiously gauging the entry and the nature of my host. All the while his bird eyes, bright with the madness of seclusion, followed my every step. When I neared, his face split with a wide, snaggletooth grin. I find no shame in admitting that I jumped a bit when he nearly yanked the door off its moorings for me to enter.

I stepped into the gloom of a once-great hall. Wavering flames from the hearth fire struggled against darkness that crowded in from all sides, but it offered enough light to see. Tattered remnants of grand tapestries drooped from the walls, while others, torn from their moorings by the weight of ages, huddled in piles on the floor. Shelves littered with tarnished pots, platters, and intricately wrought cups peeped from dim recesses. A thick layer of dust coated everything except the bench on which he sat and the narrow paths he paced across the floor.

You could see how his world had collapsed by the depth of dust layering the paths within his home. The oldest were only noticeable as light swales amid the centuries of fallen dust. The layers became thinner, the courses deeper along those most often used. There were far too few paths showing the regular shuffle of footprints.

With a sweep of his arm, he cleared a space on the table, shoving unwashed dishes and an assortment of old clothing to the floor. Coughing from the dust that rose to cloud the air, he beckoned me to sit. As I gingerly took a seat, he thrust a mug of ale into my hands, then settled himself on the bench across from me and began talking. We spent the entire evening deep in conversation. There was no contest of knowledge or danger of losing my head. The old giant simply wanted to talk, to revel in the company of a guest.

Starved for companionship, the ancient paid no heed to what he said. The course of our discussions drifted as a river in flood that leaves its channel to flow unchecked in all directions. At times, we followed the same track, at other times, well... I could not tell. Still I gleaned much of worth.

There were moments when his voice raged with angry squeals. It was then I learned from him an uncomfortable truth: the cold, enduring hate of etins who would forever deny our rights, an entire race dedicated to destroying all we have created. Steeped in the wisdom of his people, he recounted the intent of frost to regain the nine worlds and recover the body of Ymir at all costs. Odin hunched over to finish knotting the bindings of his boots. Though garbled amid the ramblings of his mind, his words held dire warnings for our clan. I travel now to assure myself of their truth."

Frigg snatched a thick staff from beside the high seat, its length contorted with serpents and gripping beasts. Runes of power used by giants when the world was young circled it from tip to knob. Then take the staff he gave you. Its carvings offer support for one on a difficult trail. With it in hand, you are certain to return unharmed.

Shaking his grizzled head side to side, Odin gently took the staff from Frigg. The mind of an old man is like the apple tree. Fruit, bud, blossom, and dead leaves of all the years of the past flourish together. Old and new and that gone out of remembrance, all three are there. He ran his fingers along its length, tracing the intricate forms covering its surface. They lingered a moment on the image of Fan, the serpent of eternity whose head formed the knob.

From the doddering old fool, I gained this staff of great power, a parting gift of his ailing mind. It was easy to guide his wandering thoughts to the proprieties of hospitality. As I prepared to leave I reminded him of his duty as host. At my suggestion, we traded staffs. I gave him a limb hacked from a willing yew. He gave me this cherished possession. I consider it a good bargain.

Odin propped the staff against the seat, stood up stretching his back so the joints popped. A staff is only useful to the walking traveler. This trip I ride; it would only get in my way. My sturdy mount, a warm cloak, a trusted blade at my waist, and ready wits are all I need for this journey.

He glanced around. Spying his cloak draped across a nearby bench, he picked it up, swung it around his shoulders, and then knotted the cowl beneath his chin. I take a dark and dangerous road; one I traveled long ago as a mourner to her burial. Planted in the frozen earth, she will not have moved. I will call her from her rest and make her speak. She will tell me what I want to know.

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Journey to Niflhel

Whirls of drifting snow scattered before driving hooves as a powerful man with thick shoulders and scar-gnarled hands, hunched atop a cloud-gray stallion, dodged across a landscape of jagged boulders nestled amid mottled humps of ancient ice. Alone on his mount, he followed the path of the dead far into the depths of darkness, where fires of dwarf-built forges glinted as specks of light and the warmth of the sun was a distant memory.

Already the pair had passed through Helgrind—the great golden gate of the dead. As they thundered across the Gjoll Bridge, Modgud, ward of the bridge, raised a hand to halt their advance. They brushed by her without slowing, their passage rattling the overpass built for the tread of spirits lighter than air.

With agile step, they paralleled the course of a raging river choked with blocks of blade-sharp ice that tumbled from high in the Nidaveller Mountains. The river’s hungry current ate away at the ice gripping the banks. Across its wide expanse there were air holes, fissures, and much open water.

Horse and rider scrambled along the crests of desolate ridges where screaming winds trailed the rumble of collapsing cornices of snow. The ghosts of what will be, haunted the air as the pair crashed their way through the white drifts, straining for each length, while the rider’s breath puffed a stream of soft curses.

The rider drew back on the reins, slowing his mount as the path narrowed to a gash in the face of a rock wall. Glaring into the hollow darkness, he clapped the horse twice on the shoulder. The stallion snorted back at the familiarity. Take it slow my friend. There is no way around. We must go through. The dead may not care about bruised limbs, but I do.

They wound through the corridor of towering rock, each step carefully placed amid rubble clogging the path. Dark skeletons of firs frowned down from the ridges above. The trees, long stripped of their needles by cold incessant winds, seemed to reach out to each other for support, their bare branches clawing the air.

Winds bayed, hunting in packs rushing through the cleft, their steady pressure from behind driving the pair onward. At times, the rider dismounted that they might squeeze around boulders blocking the way. At others, he rode high in the saddle with rock walls nearly brushing his legs. As the pass broadened, they broke into the open, glad to be free of the confining walls.

We’ve made it. Thumping the horse on the neck, he turned a weather eye skyward. Now if this just holds... As he spoke, the low ceiling cracked wide, shaking curtains of sleet from black, overlapped clouds. The mix, caught by driving winds, spattered across the ground, freezing wherever it touched.

Drawing his hood to shield his face from the stinging spray, the traveler leaned forward, shouting into the ear of his mount. We are on a fool’s quest perhaps, but we will finish it. The sooner we are done, the sooner we return to the warmth of home. Nudging the stallion to speed with his heels, the great horse whinnied his agreement. Stretching out into a ground-eating stride, he swept along a wide track to a massive gate of webbed iron that blocked the mountain pass.

At Nagrind, the gate to Niflhel, the rider stood up in his saddle. Open the gate! His harsh command rang along the frosted iron. I, Odin, Alfodur of the Æsir, son of Bor, son of Burl, he born of the rime of Ymir, demand you let me pass. Ice-crusted hinges squealed in protest as the Na-Gates swung wide, allowing horse and rider to cross into the bitter realms of the niflgódur, the twice dead damned by the namaeli.

The weight of darkness grew with each step as the pair turned their steps north along a cold-blighted path that twisted through the ancient funeral grounds of the etin. The horse’s eight hooves thrummed across a plain scattered with burial mounds wreathed in white, their caps blasted clear by fierce winds. Thick as stars in the sky, they covered the steppe, the furthest mounds fading into darkness behind a curtain of swirling snow.

The rider directed his mount toward a fortress hall whose dim walls rose out of the plain. Along the east wall of Eljudnir—the shadowy hall of the dead—where bare ground peeped through thin patches of gray snow, the traveler dismounted at a narrow mound crusted with frost and unmarked, save by time.

Prying a stone loose from the frozen earth, he scratched runes into the hard soil of the mound, mal runes to loosen a lifeless tongue. Using a sharp blade, he drew blood from his forearm, a shallow cut to bleed, but not damage. Fumbling the knife back into its sheath, he used two fingers to daub blood into the shallow grooves.

About the spot, he poured drink offerings: mare’s milk mixed with the labor of bees, a drought of strong ale brewed in the land of summer sun, and cool water drawn from Urd’s well. Over the mound, he sprinkled a handful of barley grown in the sunlit fields of Idavoll. Then three times he called the wise woman from her grave, shouting his commands into the frosty air. Arise you, who know the stories, those ancient and those yet unlived. Arise you, whose wise counsel once guided the lives of etins and gods. Arise you, for whom the past and future are but sides of the same coin, and the present a passing moment.

A misty form crawled from the frozen earth as smoke from a smudged fire struggles into the air. It turned lazily upon itself, became thicker, took on shape, until an old woman, bent and frail, little more than the weight of her bones, wavered before the thick-robed visitor.

She was frightful to look upon. After so many years, little remained of her once full form. Her cheekbones were massed with knots of blackened skin that had dried under the intense frost. Her eyes had receded until only dark sockets remained, empty pits that swallowed all they turned to.

Spectral hands lifted to examine both cheeks, trembled as they caressed a withered brow, and lightly fingered tufts of grizzled gray hair that clung to a skull wrapped with shrunken, ice-burned skin. Tenderly, they stroked a long nose, twisted from the cold.

The hands raised before lightless pits, turned front to back, their blue veins popped, the skin wrinkled as dry wood whose grain rises when left too long in the wind. Bit-by-bit, they wandered down shoulders to pat the wasted body concealed beneath the funeral cloak, its once-full flesh now hollowed by the dry ravaging of cold. A soft sigh escaped parched lips, the sound snatched away by a chill breeze that swirled snow across the frozen ground.

Deep, dark pits, scoured of life, turned to face the cloaked visitor, holding his gaze while withered lips cracked in voice. Who calls me to stand here, a shadow of my former self? Who dares disturb my rest?

The traveler spoke, his gravelly voice pitched for dead ears. I, Odin, Alfodur of the Æsir, have restored your tongue and given form to your litr that I might partake of your wisdom. In life, you knew past and future. In death, you took your knowledge to the grave. I desire this knowledge.

The aged spirit stared back, her hollow eyes echoing the emptiness of the land. "I know you Odin, the ancient sacrifice. You seek wisdom, but, as you well know, wisdom exacts a toll that takes many forms.

The present is a crust of harsh realities, familiar and easy to accept until the crust is shattered, exposing them for all to see. While dredging up the buried past in search of knowledge exposes candid, uncomfortable truths that are often difficult to admit.

Future knowledge is a terrible twin-edged blade. The front stroke is certain, a strong forward thrust that brings relief in knowing what is to come. But the backstroke, that terrifying rebound, brings fear of changing what has become known.

This is the price of my knowledge. Are you willing to pay?"

Odin raised himself to his full height until he towered over the ancient shade. Never have I run from a challenge, he slapped a hand against his chest, or failed to pay a debt once incurred. I have always sought the priceless wisdom of knowledge, regardless the cost to myself. I demand that you declare the stories of gods and etins, those you remember from the first to the last.

The gray head tottered on a thin neck. Very well, you have called me. Wasted arms folded back into long-familiar positions about the spare form. "This time I obey your summons.

I was born the daughter of honorable Jotun in the early days of Ymir’s settlement. Well I remember those who raised me from infant to adult. My gift became apparent at an early age, was nurtured, flowered, and grew strong: to know the past that was, the present that is, to see far ahead events that will be. Much I came to know, a powerful seeress with clear sight. So much swam before my vision that I often wished I were blind.

To know the last, the first cannot be hidden. To look into the seeds of time and say which will grow and which will not, requires a shrewd eye and sharp ear. Listen closely to the memories I recount; I will not speak of them again. For ages past and ages yet to come their weave holds much that is important."

The seeress turned into the blustery winds and stretched out her arms to embrace the world. Attention I ask from all the sacred children of Rig, those living and those not yet born. Hear me as I sing of time and the price of purpose!

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At the Dawn of Time

"At the dawn of time the sun was nowhere seen. No stars marked the heavens. No sky stretched above. No earth spread below to give support. There were no ocean waters to foam or rush. No air to breathe. No heat or cold. No form to grasp. There were no directions to mark the way, only a vast emptiness swelling with promise.

Seeds of purpose filled this void, innumerable in number, bottomless in sum. In eternal motion, carried along by their own weight, they diffused through the vacant space. Quickened by intent, they sped through the emptiness, a strange storm of primal seeds that collided, fell apart, then drew together again in continuous conflict. But as like attracts like so, too, the primal seeds united into large masses. Those drew into greater masses, grew dense enough to separate their members while settling out their weightier parts.

Hot grew one region where the seeds clustered together, moving faster as they drew close. The space filled with raging flames as heat in a forge beats out fire. Muspellsheim was born from this furnace. In this world of blistering red sands, the stench of sulfur fills the heated air, rocks burn, and waters steam.

Cold grew opposite the flame where the seeds clustered together, moving slower as they drew close. In heavy gloom without light, the space chilled from the lack of warmth. Niflheim was born, a dark world of intense cold, seething snow-fed rivers, its sky choked with sleet. A wintry realm devoid of life.

Between the two lay Ginnungagap, where the seeds of purpose traveled wide paths. Here lay the remains of the once-great void, a chaos of empty thought filled with the promise of intent.

The great rivers of Niflheim poured their strength into this silent, vacant realm. Eleven in number, they share a name these venom cold rivers: Elivagar they are called. Here the chill waters of Svol kept pace with the trembling flow of Gunnthra and outran the steady pull of Sylg, whose deep channel swallows all. The noisy waters of Fimbulthul roared challenge against the turbulent stream of Gjoll and muted the ceaseless din of Hrid’s raging snowstorm of cold, white water. As the broad waters of Vid ambled along their way, the waters of Fjorm tumbled in their eager rush to destination, while Ylg swelled from its bed to spread its depth across the void. The flashing waters of Leitpr danced along frozen banks, as the fearsome crush of Slid, choked with sharp-edged blocks of ice, gouged out banks, scouring new channels.

The ragged waves of the Elivagar Rivers broke far from their source, spread their courses deep into the void, freezing to their beds in the bitter cold. Slowly, the great emptiness filled with ice, built up layer-on-layer, as snow fallen on a mountain glacier deposits new beds that increase its thickness.

In Muspellsheim, sparks escaped from deep fissures in the rocks. The radiant embers leapt into the air, spreading their heat to warm the hoarfrost of Ginnungagap and adorn the heavens with stars. In the center of the void swirled mist and hard, whipped rain. Where ice from the frozen rivers met the glowing embers cast out from the fiery world, it was mild as a windless day."

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The Start of Life

"Where warm ember-laden winds met swirling frost, droplets condensed into a thick sludge that settled into the likeness of a man. Born was Ymir, the roarer, the wise giant, ancestor to all giants. Aurgelmir, his descendants call him, the mud bellower.

Young were the years when Ymir made his settlement among the cold tongues of the Elivagar. With outspread arms and booming voice, he named it Utgarda, the outer enclosure. Stretching himself to his full length in the void, the great giant sought to make himself at home. But blistering flames plagued his head, while congealing frosts chilled his bare feet. In sleep, he sweat.

Great beings emerged from his body. From under his left arm grew a male and female; Mimir and Bestla they were called. His feet begot a six-headed son, one foot with the other; Rimgrimner, he was called. From these sprang the clans of giants: one of high birth, one of low, one of life, the other of killing frost and fire. In Utgarda, they spread wide their seed.

The icy rime continued to drip, the liquid congealing until it formed the great cow, Audhumla. She stood in the gentle breeze, lowing out across the great void. From her udders ran four rivers of milk, the seed of life, vital sustenance for the giant and his offspring.

To eat, each day the great cow licked salt from the rough surface of the frozen rivers. She worked her tongue leisurely across the ice, melting it with each pass. On the evening of the first day a man’s hair appeared in the frost. On the evening of the second day the man’s head cleared the surface. On the evening of the third day his body lay free of the ice. Burl was this man: huge, strong, and beautiful to look upon.

He fathered a son, Bor, he called him, who took as wife, Bestla, a daughter of Ymir. Three sons she birthed. The first they named Odin, for as he grew he seemed to be everywhere; Uth others called him. The second they named Vili, tall, white, with a lanky build; Hoenir others called him, the long-legged one. The third they named Ve, for the cleverness of his hands; Lodur others called him, the Flame of the hearth. From these three grew the clan of the Æsir."

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As a branch weighted by the season’s frost dips to touch the ground, the seeress bent to trail her fingers through the snow. The mist of their passage made no mark. She seemed to sag, ready to disappear back into the earth, before pushing herself erect and returning her attention to Odin.

Snow spiraling about the ancient specter lifted a dusting of ice crystals that sparkled in the darkness of her hollow eyes. This is my home. Mani, who counts the years for men, hands me this faded flower, this empty hall of memories recurring from the past and future, laments from long centuries of vigil. In the wanderings of the night, I hear the names of ancestors and descendants recounted in the darkness, great noble warriors sounding the trumpet of battle, the thunder of charging horses grinding enemies underfoot, the cheers of the victorious, the screams of the dying.

Odin scuffed his feet clear of a small drift of snow that had begun to build up against his boots. You say little, he snorted, but allude to much more known, like a river whose eddy currents indicate boulders and deep pools concealed in its depth. How can I come to know these things? Or are there secret keys to understanding of which I know nothing?

The seeress let the emptiness of her gaze settle over Odin until he began to restlessly shift his stance. These are not things to understand. In your eagerness, you think to control. To think is to forget a difference, to control impossible, and so you fail.

Gritting his teeth, Odin fingered the bright-edged blade strapped at his waist in whose burnished edges lived the violence of battle. With effort, he lifted his hand from the pommel. Continue your tales, old woman!

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The Killing of Ymir

"Early in the primal dawn, the sons of Bor sought to direct their fate. With skill, they contested against giants whose numbers outreached their own. Each day, they struggled to control their realm.

It was long ago that the raven of war first shrieked among the three brothers. Harsh words were uttered when fierce-spirited Odin barked grim talk with his kin. ‘Must we forever remain in the shadow of giants? Did not our father’s father emerge from the same rime? Are we not heir to the same temperament as the sons of Frost? Smolder with the same passions as their fiery kin? Hold the same lofty thoughts as their high-browed cousins?

Their numbers swell even as we speak. We must stop this arrogance! If they live, their race will overwhelm all. With nowhere to live, our line will be as nothing. We must strike now or never know the bold conquests of worthy foes. A warm bath we will draw for Ymir’s offspring and bid them sleep forever in its embrace. Let us wash his feet in blood!’

As one, the sons of Bor crowed out their lust for victory. Snatching up axe and blade, the brothers rushed from their hall, goading each other with daring pledges of brave actions to come. Together, they charged the great giant from three sides, the head helping the foot and hand.

Wielding strong, sharp-edged weapons, they sliced into the wall of living flesh, feeling with each blow the tremors wracking Ymir’s great frame. A loud groan escaped Ymir’s lips, rattling the void with its agony, a mournful blast that sounded across the worlds, announcing his end. The giant called out once to his attackers before life parted from his body. ‘Bold you act, impetuous and arrogant. By the deeds of your own hands you color the skein of fate with blood. Know this, if you learn nothing else, your oaths will destroy you, you warlike men.’

The sons of Bor killed the great giant. As he fell, his life’s blood gushed from his body, drowning all the giant race of Frost, save one, Bergelmir. From high atop his gristmill, the wise, mountain-old giant spied the deluge as it rushed down on his settlement. With blood lapping about their knees, Bergelmir snatched up his wife and children, tossed them into the wooden mill box, then dove in behind as the surge swept it free of the mill. In safety, the family spun along the raging red floodtide. Rattled about in their wooden shell, they watched helplessly as the flood rose to drown the land.

Long they drifted amid the crimson waves, huddled together, faces pressed into each other’s shoulders, their rough-hewn vessel battered by pulsing currents, until the floodwaters subsided, and their rude craft came to rest on a high mountain plain.

Staring out across the lands, Bergelmir saw the end of all things and wept. His jaw clenched. Three times he pounded a fist into his palm to quell the tears. Three times he cried out in anguish. Resolved, he turned to his family, giving stern encouragement. ‘Our ending is not yet. We will continue to live. From this vantage, we will make due until our line once more fills the valleys.’

Wasting no time, they settled in as best they could. Tearing apart the mill box, they used its wood to build a shelter. With unbroken kernels, still fresh from the mill box floor they planted a crop that sprouted—grain heads bursting—in the rich blood of Ymir. With each season, they prospered.

Many giants sprouted from the seed of Bergelmir. Spreading out across the lands they gathered their strength under Jotuns, clan leaders eager to exercise their power. Hlér, the listening sea; Fornjótr, the old giant; Geitir; Kári; and Bolthorn, the terrible thorn; Hrimner, the frost; Rimner, the rime maker; Hrimgrimner, the frost mask; Vafthrudner, the way strong; and Thrudgelmer, the strange-headed. These, the first were called.

From them sprang warriors of great renown. There was Rimgrimner, rime helmet, the mighty three-headed clan chief. Utgarda-Loki safeguards the lands of Jotunheim with powerful magics. Hrungnir, the champion with a three-cornered heart of stone, stands defiant against all contenders. The air rings with Skrymer’s proud boasts while Thrymheimr’s deafening challenges echo among the hills. Sokkmimir, the deep thinker, offers strategies that never fail. These and many more were born over the cycle of years to raise up their shields of war.

Giantesses too made their mark. There was Aurboda, whose stormy anger churns the ground to mud. Angrboda, born of misery, delights in creating anguish. Thokk huddles alone in her cave, her gratitude difficult to earn. Fenia and Menia work the mondul of prosperity. For them, the increase of fortune is grist for the mill. Hyrrokkin, the Smokey one shrunk in fire, wise in the ways of seid. Two who rose to prominence among the Æsir: Jarnsaxa, the iron chopper, and Gunnlod, the inviter of war. All mothers of champions. All heroines in their own right.

In snowy reaches spread the hearty Rimethurs, inured to bitter cold. Fimkaldr is the grandfather; Very-Cold he is called. Vinkaldr is the father; Wind-Cold he is called. Vákaldr is his son; Spring-Cold he is called. In the deep reaches of winter dwell Jökull, the ice sickle, and Snær, the snow. With them resides Vindsvaler, the father of winter. Beside him stand Vindloni and Vindsval, brothers whose sharp breeze increases the cold. Hunkering behind them is their father, Vasad, whose bitter damp creeps into already aching bones.

At world’s end perches Hraesvelg, the Corpse Swallower. The huge, eagle-shaped etin sits with arms spread wide. The wind from his beating wings drives storms across the sea.

But as fire rejects cold, so, too, did the cousins of Frost reject the kin of Bergelmir. Safe from the deluge in their burning land where the red tide never reached, the fire giants scoffed at the fate of frost. No aide was given. No succor offered to survivors. The children of Muspell turned back to their hearths, indifferent to the lot of their icy kin.

Amid the fires of Muspellsheim, Surt, the Black One, and the sons of Muspell raised up their flames to ward their land. Here, amid the embers of a continuously dying and reborn world, they bide their time, ready to defend all they consider their own."

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The seeress paused, tilting her head to stare out at the burial mounds swaddled in frost that disappeared into the distance, then turned her sightless pits to the dark sky empty of stars. These, now, are the line of my people.

Odin glanced out at the wind-blasted knolls, nodding his head at the sheer number visible from fleeting glimpses as the curtain of falling snow parted then closed. Most perhaps, but not all. Your kind still haunt the high places where winter snow never fades.

The seeress returned her gaze to the ground. She stood silent as a thick current of snow, pushed by hissing winds, slithered blindly across the ground. Dark sockets tracked the stream of snow as it meandered into the darkness beyond. Bobbing her head with the rhythm of its movement, she again took up the tale.

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"Those born of Ymir’s armpit won free of the deluge. They traveled north along treacherous paths stained by the crimson flood line to settle in Nidaveller, near the navel of the world. Behind the wall rock of Mount Hvergelmir they made their home in a golden hall northeast of the roaring fountain that bears its name.

In this protected silence, Mimir watches over the well of knowledge. On its surface floats the price paid by seekers of wisdom that spices the drink he takes each day. At his side stands his sister, Bestla, who joined with Bor to birth three fair-haired sons, the foundation of the Æsir clan.

Mimir’s seven sons share the hall. Clever, with the skills of their wise father, they control the seven changes of weather which make up the economical year. Gormánudr controls the first month of winter. His hand marks the season change when the first breath of cold races across the lands. Frermánudr manages the second month of winter. He greets the arrival of the first freeze; Frost month, he is called. Hrútmánudr oversees the third month of winter when deep snow settles into the valleys and rivers freeze bank to bank. Enmánudr ushers in the final month of winter when cold loosens its grip and snow begins its retreat from the land.

Sólmánudr governs the start of summer when the lands warm, rousing plants to life; Sun month, he is called. Selmánudr guides the husbanding of livestock when the high mountain fields, freed from their burden of snow, sprout lush grasses to fill the meadows; Pasture month, he is called. Kornskurdarmánudr, the seventh son, directs the harvesting of grain, hay, and slaughtered meat, provisions stored away in preparation for the coming winter; Harvest month, he is called.

Joining them in their golden hall is Svasud, the delightful one, father of summer. Delling, the dayspring, greets his son Dagr, the day, to flood the hall with sunlight. Billing, the twilight, together with Nott, the dark night, shade the close of a grateful day. Naglfari, the fingernail; Fjorgyn, the earth; Narfi, the binder; and the prosperous Aud lend their stability in counsel. Nidjar, Annar, Nat, Norve, and Mane also call this hall home."

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Frowning, Odin raised a hand to wipe the sleet from his eye. You relate names and places as a farmer tallies his geese and goats. He shook the water from his fingers before blotting them dry on his cloak. Of what need is there to know the name of each blade of grass in a field? It is enough to know the field.

Her death mask brightened with a broken smile as the seeress rustled her robe, swirling streams of gray vapor about the frozen mound. In folly, many seek to know of the end of the journey, her voice sighed across the distance, but not the events of the journey itself. Ever hungry for the outcome, their impatience leads them into endless troubles. You ask for knowledge; this I provide. Wisdom is knowing what to do with the knowledge.

She turned her empty sockets from the Alfodur to stare at the grave beneath her feet. She shifted a foot, watching it slide over the frozen earth without making a mark, before tucking it back beneath her misty pall. Events often wrap themselves about places, lending meaning to their names. Their character infuses the rocks, the soil, the trees, even the grasses, everything you would so callously ignore. Such events hold the form for things to come. Without their foundation to build upon, that which is known would be lost, and that which will be, forever unknowable.

Odin scowled, his brow twisting into a dark shelf at the correction. He would gladly have throttled the seeress’ thin neck, were she not but tenuous vapors. Instead, he swallowed hard, gritted his teeth, and bowed his head in acceptance.

The shrouded figure turned to gaze out across the frozen landscape, her dark pits staring at a distant point lost in the gusts of falling snow. For those newly born, everything happens for the first time—a breath, a sight, a joy, a love, a hate. Even ancient stories take on new life when grasped by young ears. For those in whose breast the fire of life burns bright, the glorious stories of past events are an inspiring call to perform great feats of their own ere their day fades into twilight. For those whose song has cracked through disuse, deeds of the past are often forgotten, their memories fading away, as runes carved into batua stones are worn away by the endless passage of wind and rain.

Odin snorted, started to speak, then stopped and jerked his chin at the seeress, a silent command that she continue her recollections. The aged shade drew into herself, then lifted her gaze to the gray sky. I sing now the memory of days when the sons of Bor wove with joy and sorrow a universe that was their own.

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A Time of Creation

"With cheers and curses, the sons of Bor dragged the body of Ymir into the center of Ginnungagap. Using long blades and heavy axes, they dismembered the giant. The air whistled with lusty blows that sent his arms flying off to the sides, his head tumbling to his feet, his legs toppling backwards as his torso crashed down. With the pieces of his body, they filled the void.

From Ymir’s flesh, they formed the earth. Flayed from his corpse, they spread it out beneath their feet to make solid ground over which green plants would grow.

From his blood, they made the sea, cinching it tight around the earth. Its rolling waters, racked with tides and stirred to froth by storms, are dangerous to navigate.

From his backbone, they created mountains, great rocky summits rising high into the sky. The lofty peaks form the natural divide of streams that flow down the slopes to irrigate the plains.

From his broken bones, they raised up sharp crags and steep, rocky cliffs. They made hills of his knuckles. His teeth they fashioned into stones. The remaining, smaller chips they worked into gravel.

Ymir’s skull they raised high over the earth using its great dome to form the sky. They set four sturdy pillars at the corners to ensure its stability: Nordi supports the north; Sudri balances the south; Austri stabilizes the east; Vestri fixes the west.

His brains they tossed into the air to float free amid the home of stars. From them, they crafted the clouds, charged with thoughts of hail and snow, the hope-of-showers that drift endlessly about the world.

When warm rays of the sun shone brightly from the south, Ymir’s dismembered remains, choked with the seed of Adhumbla’s milk, erupted with life. The ground sprouted a living carpet of tangled green herbs. Vines spread over the land, climbing cliffs, their twining greenery shrouding hillsides. Tall grasses stretched their wide blades to embrace the breadth of meadows. Huge firs thrust up from the giant’s chest, their limbs spreading to cloak the mountain slopes.

Wind rushed in from the sea across the land. The air shivered with the rustle of green leaves. Flowing waters gurgled among the new shoots. Warm sunlight streaked the ground, exalting flowers in the meadows, while cool shadows cloaked heather-grown glades sheltered from the wind."

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A chill breeze nipped with special venom at any exposed skin. The harsh crunch of his boots against flinty snow granules whispered in the air as Odin inched forward, ignoring the icy wind that chafed his cheeks. At each word from the seeress, he eagerly nodded his head, a delighted smile crooking his lips.

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"In Nidaveller, they created the World Mill to balance the earth. Amid to roots of Mount Hvergelmir, they built a solid foundation, then anchored the millstones, Eylúdr and Lúdr, fast to the bedrock. Hvergelmir fountain, the roaring kettle, a maelstrom dangerous to ships and death to whales, draws all into the navel of the nine worlds through the eye of the millstones.

Out near the far edge of the nine worlds where the vapors hang thinnest and stars graze the horizon, they pressed nine maidens from the west into hard service to drive the mondul of the World Mill. On the Grotte of Skerry the bodies of giants who had drowned in the great deluge of blood, and others felled later by the sons of Bor, are ground into limb-grist—the loam layered across the world to keep it fertile.

Forever the great mill turns beneath the world spike—the central star. Steadily, inexorably, it rotates the heavens, and regulates the ocean currents that cause the ebb and flood tides. The constant motion stirs up storms that lash the sides of mountains, crumbling cliffs into the sea. Breakers of the ocean attack rocks on the strand. The constant assault grinds them down, depositing meal from the mill along the coastlines."

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The seeress swept her left arm to encompass the mounds shrouded in darkness behind her. And my kin? What of them? What to do with a foe who once hotly contested your dominance?

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"The edge of the frozen sea, where broken sheets of wind-driven ice pile up in serried ranks along the shoreline and heavy snow blankets the headlands, the sons of Bor set aside for the clans of giants to live, the kin of Bergelmir who rebuilt their numbers after the bloody flood.

Jotunheim the brothers called it, but the etins preferred Utgard, in honor of Ymir’s first settlement. It is a chill land wrapped in dark, brooding firs, iron-cold wolf trees that rake stark fingers skyward, ragged mountain valleys where the Yurkul dwell, and wind-swept tundra dusted white with hoar frost. Here, the giants are hemmed in, their land encircled by the great outer sea. Their voices boom across the expanse in a low, grinding howl of frustration."

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The seeress swept her right arm in the opposite direction, back the way Odin had traveled. The dross given away, what to do with the prime?

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"With Ymir’s eyelashes, the sons of Bor built a garth far inland from Jotunheim; a stronghold called Midgard—a fertile land of verdant meadows; fresh, winding streams, meandering rivers; thick stands of beech, fir, and towering oak.

A wall of close-set pillars, sunk deep in pits, arcs across to enclose this lush green land. The formidable colonnade of heavy pointed timbers reaches high into the sky. Hard to climb, impossible to breach, it bars entry to giants.

The river Ifing separates the lands, its wide course is a second, more daunting obstacle set in place by the far-thinking brothers. The deep channels are difficult to ford; the treacherous currents remain free of ice year-round and form a ready snare for war-eager Jotuns bent on conquest."

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Odin puffed out his chest. He thumped it three times with his gloved fist, the booming echoes mixing with the hollow cry of the wind. Together we led great ventures and measured ourselves against the accomplishments of other clans. It is proper that our actions hold a place of prominence in your memories, for ours are the actions that shaped the world. Great were our deeds when we slew the ages-old giant and by our hands created the earth. Great were... were...

The emptiness of the seeress’ gaze bore down, freezing Odin’s boast in his throat, turning his words into a strangled cough.

You bray as one who delights in hearing the sound of your own voice over the counsels of others. She hunched the fog close about her shoulders. You came to hear my words. A wizened finger tapped the side of her head. To grasp their meaning, you must listen.

Odin growled in reply, but before his tongue could form words the seeress raised a hand, palm out, silencing his interruption. Frowning, he settled back on his heels as her voice cut across the winds. Listen.

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"From Ymir’s heart sprang a mighty ash tree that climbed through the center of the worlds. Its branches spread out to brush the vault of the great giant’s skull. Always green, it straddles the nine worlds, its lofty branches embracing the heavens. It is called Yggdrasil for its ancient rider; Mimamirth for its lower branches that spread out over the well of wisdom, while Lorad marks its upper canopy of leaves.

Three roots sustain the tree—spanned far apart across the lands to support its height and burrowed deep into the earth to bear its weight. Beside each root lies a spring that rises from a different world. Their waters offer sustenance to the mighty tree. Beneath the southern root, swans flourish in the well of Urd. Strength and vitality are drawn from warm saps that rise to heal its wounds and shield the tree against bitter cold. Deep in the cold land of Niflheim, the eastern root draws nourishment from the well Mimir guards. Here, Hoddmimir’s wood lies protected beneath the tree, a haven for the first life. On the high plains of the Nadr Mountains, the northern root tree draws raw strength from the Hvergelmir fountain, the swirling torrent that each day spews forth its contents to drench the land.

Yggdrasil, the great ash tree, a living pillar reaching through the center of all, stands unbowed before the ravages of time, solid against the splitting of the earth. Dew runs from branches high in the tree to fall as mist in the valleys below. Its roasted berries give aide to women with difficult births. Such is its power.

Its foliage succors many creatures. Its leaves are fodder for Heidrun, the goat from whose turgid udders flow endless streams of nourishing mead. The great hart, Eikthyrnir, wanders among the limbs nibbling its buds and flowers. The stags Dain, Dvalin, Duneyr, and Durathror browse on leaves from the highest boughs. Are, the mighty eagle perched amid the top-most limbs, scans the horizon for movement. Vedrfolnir, the wind-bleached hawk, sits watchful between his eyes. Ratatosk, the sharp-toothed squirrel races around its trunk, chattering ceaselessly as he carries antagonizing messages between the proud eagle perched above and the tangle of serpents nestled below.

In Niflhel lies Nidhogg, the dark serpent who gnaws at the tree’s northern root. Gravitnir’s sons, Moin and Goin, help with the savage assault. Grafvollud and Grabak huddling between, join Svafnir and Ofnir in biting the roots.

Yggdrasil suffers agonies incomprehensible to men. Bitten from above by stags that nibble its leaves, decayed at the sides by the ravages of time, its roots worried from beneath by the clutch of Nidhogg, each day is a trial of suffering. Always it endures."

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Fighting a growing urge to yawn, Odin sucked a deep breath of frigid air. Gasping at the sudden pain of cold spiking his lungs, he doubled forward, gripping his knees, eyes bulging, as ragged coughs ripped from his chest. Plumes of steam burst from his lips and a ribbon of drool ran from the corner of his mouth to freeze in the chill air.

The seeress paused, waiting patiently amid the buffeting winds, until Odin suppressed the coughing spell and could stand up straight, his breath once more his own. As he dragged a gloved hand across his mouth to wipe away the rime caked on his lips, she took up her story.

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"From the horns of Eikthyrnir, the great hart that paces the branches of the great ash tree, drip the endless tears of Lorad. The precious dew wends its way to the Hvergelmir fountain, the roaring kettle of turbulent waters. With a breath, it inhales, a thunderous maelstrom drawing all waters into the navel of the worlds. With a breath, it expels, a seething cauldron that is the source of all the rivers of the worlds. With steady purpose, the discharge of waters pours across the lands as the rivers wind their tortuous return to the sea.

The calm, cool waters of Svol brace Saekin’s advancing rush. Síth takes the long route home, while the broad, slow-moving flow of Sid meanders its way from the source. The loud roar of Fimbulthul accompanies the placid flow of Fjorm’s chill waters. Gunnthorin trembles within its banks beside the wild rage of Eikin as they wind their way downhill to rejoin the sea. Rin follows Rennandi’s one true course. The wise waters of Víth hold deafening converse with the low growl of Gomul’s ancient flow. Grad eagerly chases the gaping rush of Gopul, Gipul, and the spear-teaming waters of Gervimul as they flow past the lands of the gods.

Vimur joins the snaking flows of Ormpt, Kormpt and the two Kerlaugs that hold Thrudvanger in their watery grip. Treacherous to ford, they wind their way across the plains of strength.

Thyn beats itself to a froth racing Tholl and Holl. Vegsvinn hurries along its long familiar course. Vina offers friendly converse to those who will listen, while the rapids of Thund devour all speech. The milk-white waters of Nyt run stark beside the dark waters of Not. Together these rivers quench the fields of Midgard.

Ylg swells over its banks, washing away the natural levees, to drown the lands with muddy water. The chuckling waters of Leiptr bring delight to those who seek rest on its banks. Van springs ever hopeful from its wolfish source. Gjoll dazzles the ear with its noisy flow. Vid spreads along its generous plain, while the wide waters of Ifing protect the land of men. These rivers flow through Midgard down into Niflheim.

Nonn’s currents eat away its earthen banks, ripping heavy stones from its bed. Hronn crests with waves to challenge the sea. Gunnthra spreads out, ready for battle. Vond bundles its streams into a mighty flow. Sylg swallows any who would dare cross its expanse. Hrid’s raging snowstorm of white water, Strond, Odur, and the venom-cold waters of Slid grind their way through Niflheim."

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A crystal mist drifted through the air, caressing, wrapping everything in a clinging robe of white. Gusting wind drove the frost in needles of fire through heavy woolen weaves to torment the flesh. Snorting a