The Lay of Beli


Thorskegga Thorn and Math Jones

First-light falling

Meets frith in the Vanhall:

Of ash and elm

The Elf-Home is wrought,

All loaded with leaves,

Lively and shimmerlike,

Dripping a drink

Of dew on the grass.


Seated in sunshine,

The sun of NjorðR,

Crafty in spell-lore,

Cunning in thought,

Casts his sight

Across the worlds,

Æþel - Van Freyr,

All-Givers waden.


Sees he, the Van-God,

Slaughter's harvest:

Freyja is flying

Through fields of spear-play

Choked with foemen;

She chooses her fallen,

As cat's claws rake

The cloud-home above.


Full grows his heart

Her fairness to gaze on,

His belioved aloft

Alongside the Sun.

In Sessrumir, the mead

Will be supped this Eve

By the hardest of heroes

In horns of gold.


A rumble and clatter

Rattles the Vanhall,

The wheels of his wagon

Webbed in silver,

Bridle a-jingling,

Bristles a-gleaming,

Scowls Gullinbursti,

And Skirnir, the steersman:


'Hard is the word

from hearths of the Russ!'

Says heart-fast Skirnir.

'Homes are ablaze!

Your friends must flee

from a fiend hight Beli,

An ill-meaning Etin

From outside the Mid-Yard.


Wroth now and keen,

Is the rider of helmets.

The skilled in the shield-clash

By Skirnir climbs.

His wagon of wood,

He wheels in a trice;

His bristled boar

He breaks to a trot.


Glows Gullinbursti,

Golden and stout,

In the light of the sun

As aloft he climbs.

Little legs pounding,

Long Snout Pointing,

The boar draws his foodfriend

Boldly to Russland.


FreyR brings his wain

To Fiorgyn's bosum,

To the folded earth

And the fields ablaze.

Clear through the waste

Goes the call of the Æþel-Van:

'Hear me, Beli

Your harvest must end!'


Over the treetops

The eyes of the Iotun

Gaze at the Gift-Tyr,

As the guts of cow

And dregs of blood

Drip from his maw.

Higher than the hills,

Stands the harrier of men.


Beli bellows with

Baleful laughter:

'A mood-mighty calf

Calls me to fight?

So high & heartstrong,

His head he will play for...

What name shall be writ

In runes on his stone?'


'NjorðR is my father,

Noatun's loaf-ward.

To Horn, I am husband,

And Hnoss is my bairn,

Byggvir and Beyla

Are bearers in my alehall.

Friend I am to Skirnir,

And FreyR is my name!'


'What shall I fear

From a freshling Van.

No luck can he look for...'

Laughs the ill-bringer.

Baring his blade,

The bale worker grins:

'Go! Fetch you weapon

To make good your boast!'


'You gloat at my youth,'

The Glad-God answers.

'I deem you a nitwit

To doom me by age!

Nor want I a weapon

To work my wrath

On your bullhead brow,

Bedmate of sheep!'


The Þorn-Þurs answers,

'You threaten unmanlike,

Weaving with wifmen

Your witchcraft and spells!

Iron on iron -

This is the Etin's way

To mete out and settle

All matters of worth!'


'How is this worthy?'

Horn's love asks,

Arms open wide

Over Earth's deep scars.

'Iron is for ploughing

The holy earth and reaping,

For these muddy folk

Who hold me their friend.


'Go from these fields

Bring gold in fee

To weigh out their loss.

Your way then take

To your frosty home,

Or fare forever

From lands of the living,

Most loathed Bellower!'


Truce then is tried

By the true-hearted warlord,

With the foeman of Folde.

The fell-dweller's sword,

Is balefully swung

Bites deep into earth -

Tearing the turf

By the toes of Fro-Ing.


In his hand holding

The horn of the deer-king

Spells of the Vanir

Are spoken by the Fro:

Wise words of might

O-er wand of the rutting-clash:

Stiff with strength,

He stabs at his foe.


FreyR sends fire,

A flare of lightning!

Beli is burst,

And bellows no more!

Trees come tumbling,

Toppled by the þurs.

Fiorgyn shudders

When he falls to her grasp.


Called from their hiding

By kind-hearted Skirnir,

Care-worn and fearful,

The keepers of the land

Gather to mourn.

Great is their sorrow:

The harvest waster

Means hunger for all.


A galdR begins

Gerd's betrothed:

A song for the soil,

Their sorrow to ease.

Growth comes quickly.

Green from the black furrows -

Grim faces are gladdened

By goldening corn.


Ing takes up

The etin's sword

A hundred hands

Of heavy iron -

He breaks the blade

The bruised the All-giver.

The freer of fetters calls

The folk to Thing.


Your herds lie slain,

Your houses rent,

But help and healing

May be had from the blade:

The iron will buy

Many oxen and horses

To bring home the harvest

And hallow the Blot.'


The wyn-god climbs

On his wain beside Skirnir.

The folk, new-gladdened,

Follow on his way,

Sig-songs and Thank-songs

They sing for NjorðR's boy -

Long will they love

The Lord Ing-FreyR.


Galdr sings FreyR

For the ghosts of the fallen

To follow behind

On his faring home.

He draws in his wagon

The dead by the etin

To the Folk-Field of Vanadis,

Fair under Heaven.