Greetings Welcome to the FIFTEENTH issue of Thunder, a journal dedicated to the thunder gods of Northern Europe.
This issue has run late, there is no excuse for this, but the editor did enjoy the distraction of partying hard and readying the latest Harry Potter. We would also welcome the first submissions from Wulf and Caer. Well done to them both for getting their fingers out!
Dragon and Thorskegga have just survived their first year of being handfast without falling out. Their arguments are still a make believe game encouraged to pass the time at supermarket checkouts. Having reached the grand 'paper' anniversary Thorskegga took up paper cutting to produce a suitable gift.
This is not a very difficult art form. You take a sheet of A2 paper, (available from any art shop) fold it in half, draw your design in pencil and cut it out with a craft knife. You need a design that is semetrical or very nearly so, and a large amount of detail can be worked in. Cut the inside areas first to minimise damage to the design as you are cutting.
The wolf ship design is to go with this issue's story Swansflight from Hlidskalf.
Before I begin, I should make the point that this is a highly individual viewpoint of Woden, and in no way do I either intend to demean others' views of him, or to impart the view that he is uniquely of more consequence than any other god / goddess in the Northern Tradition.
I use the Anglo-Saxon / Germanic name form intentionally, as Woden comes over as a very different character from the Norse Odin although they share many characteristics. To me, Woden embodies the nature of a true shaman, and for that reason I have great difficulties in associating him with the more familiar Odin, which builds on a lordly warrior / leader figure with paradoxically unleaderlike modes of behaviour.
There are very few shamanic leaders of tribes or peoples in history. They tend to be present in an advisory role, more often working 'in the shadows' steering, or weaving out of sight. Prime examples of this are the Celtic British Merlin or the Irish Druid Cathbad. One comparatively recent Shamanic leader was Tatanka Yotanka, or Sitting Bull, of the Oqlala Sioux tribe in North America. Contrary to popular belief he was not a tribal chief, but a Medicine Man or Shaman, who united many Native American tribes who were inspired by his visions of a new beginning for his people.
It could well be that Woden rose to prominence among the Northern deities in similar circumstances. With the Heathen ways very much on defence against a new religion which had the technical advantage of being directed from a central point, it seems likely that heathens would have tried to fight fire with fire, possessing their own pierced god who had hung on a tree, impaled, and worked magic. It is hard to see how else a shadowy shaman mocked for the practice of seith magic, disfigured by the loss of an eye and often mentioned as doubtful battle ally would be a prime choice. While his Shamanic image has been veneered with the grandeur of the Great Hall and other trappings of a Warrior god, the Shamanic credentials still remain.
Woden's wolves and ravens are clearly 'totem' animals or fetches, perhaps even an aspect of himself. Both creatures have strong traditions as spirit messengers and inhabit the wild regions, bordering on human settlements. This, too, is the preferred territory of the shaman; crossing the barriers between civilisation and wilderness - Midgard and the other worlds. The wolves and ravens are clearly more than the battlefield scavengers as which they are often represented. Woden's choice of weapon is also clearly shamanic.
The spear, while a primary weapon has never held the mystique of the sword, although named spears were evident among the heathen Anglo-Saxons. The sword was the great warrior's or lord's weapon of choice and symbol of status. A battle-based or 'lordly' god would surely be seen with sword rather than spear, especially given that the long iron swords of the Germanic tribes gave a significant advantage over the short Roman or brittle Celtic blades. Woden's spear 'Gungnir' is clearly a Shaman's weapon rather then a warriors. Planted in the ground, it represents Yggdrasil, or the Irminsul. On Woden's travels it serves as a stave, and on the World Tree according to tradition, it is used to pierce his own body. Shamanic visions through pain induced by self piercing are well documented in may tribal cultures.
It seems quite possible that the battle-god aspect of Woden came about as a result of some blending of the original Woden and the god Tiw or Tir. Interestingly, the Anglo-Saxon weekdays show a clear definition between Tiw's Day and Woden's Day which suggests that the Woden of the Jutish and Saxon settlers of England could well have been a very different figure form the Odin of Ragnarok, particularly considering that Tiw's Day mirrors the Roman Mar's Day and Woden's Day, that of Mercury - a very unwarlike god. The frequent mention of Woden as a wanderer or traveller is a further shamanic indicator and to be blunt, I can't see him sat on his backside glued to a mighty throne, even for a moment.
The High Seat given mention in the text seems to me more a reference to the practice of far-seeing, an allusion perhaps to the Eagle atop the World Tree. Woden's connection with shape shifting is copiously mentioned in many texts (although not exclusive to him) and the use of bird form for seeing from afar is a shamanic technique common to many tribal European and Amercian cultures.
I can't say that my conclusion of Woden as the Shaman-God will sit well with all who read this, as it is my own conclusion drawn from personal experience. I can, however say that I have met Woden twice, and each time I felt myself in the presence of the Shaman God of the Anglo-Saxons.
The play based on traditional English folk plays was performed by Thorshof/Midgard's Web at the Beltane Bash in London this year. Mummers plays use very little costume and are easy to learn and perform. The style is easy to adapt and new characters can be added. The characters required for this version are as follows:
Dragon (with snapping head and cloak of tatters)
Thunder (with hammer)
Preistess (with ale bowl)
Farmer (wearing smock and holding a whip)
Fool (with bladder on stick or equivelant)
Molly (man dressed as a woman with broom)
Freya (with lots of necklaces)
Loki (as himself)
Goats (horned if possible with drums)
Intro:
Goodfolk all if you wish to see
Our mummer's heathen comedy
We're Midgard's Web, a merry band
Kin from all across the land.
From Chilterns, Midlands, London town.
And other counties up and down,
Our green kingdom bound by water
Ruled by Woden's great granddaughter.
The ancient wording we have sought
To grace this play that we have wrought
So please forgive our tale of glory
Perhaps becomes a corny story.
Molly:
In comes I, Molly the fair
A vital duty I do bear
I'll sweep around with my broom
To give the players ample room.
(Molly sweeps the performance area, and should chase any of the audience away if they come to close).
Farmer:
In comes I, the farmer's man
An honest thrifty Englishman
When I plough the earth so brown
I turn my acres upside down
Straight I go from end to end
I scarcely make a balk or bend
And to my horses I attend
As they go marching round the end
And then I cry with the whip's crack
'Nobby, Dobbin, gee whoa back'.
Priestess:
In comes I, priestess of Thunder
Fearless friend to heaven's wonder
I bring my god a gift of ale (raising bowl)
Blessed be the May wassail
Fool:
In comes I to say my bit.
With my big head and little wit.
My head is large and my wit is small,
I can act the fool's part as well as you all.
Farmer,Priestess, Fool:
We've sowed our seed, our hoarded grain
We've much to lose or much to gain
Let Thunder send us fertile rain.
And ward us with his might and main.
Dragon:
In comes I, Dragon fierce and strong
With flames so bright and talons long.
I'll trample your fields and never tire.
And crisp your cattle with my fire.
Priestess:
That beast cannot be left to roam
We'll starve without our harvest home
We must deny the beast his plunder
Hurry we must call on Thunder!
Priest, Farmer & Fool
(chanting, slowly getting louder with drumming):
Come, Thunder come!
(Priest and farmers encourage audience to join in. Meanwhile dragon can chase the fool and Molly).
Loki
In comes I, Loki the cunning
Cease your clangour, Thunder's coming.
You cannot hear above your prattle,
That goat's hooves crash and kettles rattle?
(Thunder enters from outside, preferably from behind the audience, holding reins of the Goats. The goats beat drums cymbals or cauldrons to imitate thunder).
Thunder:
In comes I, mighty Thunder, my hammer in my hand
If any harm my people, I will bid them stand.
I'll strike them, I'll slay them, I'll burn them with fire,
Who brings to you such troubles dire?
Farmer:
Our sorry tale can soon be told
We suffer from a Dragon bold
By his breath our fields are burning
But now methinks our luck is turning.
Thunder:
Battle to battle to you I'll give
To see which one of us will live.
Dragon:
Battle to battle we fight this day
To see who on this ground shall lay.
(Pantomine battle takes place, Dragon wins, Thunder is killed. Evil normally cheats in mummers plays and wins by distraction.)
Loki
Oh cruel, cruel Dragon what have you done?
You have taken the life of Earth's dear son.
(Shouted) Healer! Is there a healer in the house?
Freya
In comes I, Freya the goddess bright
To save friend Thunder from his plight
Have no fear for magic's mistress
Can save you from this day's distress.
Preistess:
You can cure him?
Freya
I can.
Priestess:
What can you cure?
Freya:
The itch and stitch the scurvy and the gout The pains within and the pains without.
Loki:
Without what?
Everyone:
The itch and stitch the scurvy and the gout The pains within and the pains without.
(Freya works magic, scatters sequins perhaps, maybe an alcoholic addition would not go amiss. If alcohol used several other characters will play dead too to get a share.)
Freya:
I healed his wound and cleansed his blood
And gave him mead that's done him good.
Now I've rid you of your pain
Rise up Thunder and fight again!
(Thunder and Dragon fight, Thunder wins, Dragon is killed.)
Priestess:
The fearsome Dragon is no more
Thanks to Freya and mighty Thor.
Winter passes as the seasons turn
And now the summer sun may burn.
Yule just gone, as folk gathered at Arnstede for Mothers' Night, Thorskegga Thorn arrived at the door with a huge 'platter', shrouded in black plastic, tucked beneath her arm. Such cargo is not unusual for Skeggs and, with luggage bestowed, I gave it no further mind. Later, with feast in full swing, this object was dropped in my lap and revealed as a gift which dropped my jaw to the floor. She had crafted a shield, round with a silver boss, covered with red suede and painted with tales of the gods: to the west is Sif, with flowing braid, and Loki ready with shears; to the south, gleaming Freya, four dwarfs around her; to the east is Thor, his feet through the boat, his hammer flying to the stricken head of Jormungand; and to the north is Frey, drawn in his wain by Gullinbursti, leading the slain by Beli to Folkvang. This gift left me stunned and amazed, but I managed, just about, to cough out a few verses upon it as the poets of old would do.
This gift recalled the painted shield given by Thorleif the Wise of Hordaland, a Norse chieftain in the 9th Century, to the skald, Thiodolf of Hvinir. In thanks, Thiodolf composed a poem, his "Haustlong", praising Thorleif, the gift and the gods shown upon it. I felt obliged to repay the gift with a like poem, composed, if I could do it, in the same metre.
"Haustlong" is quoted in Snorri's "Edda" (in two fragments), but I had been studying a recent edition prepared by Richard North and published by Hisalik Press (1874312206, 1997). This revealed that the poem was in stanzas of four lines each, with each line split into two half-lines. So far, so good - I am used to this from the Old English metre; likewise the alliterative pattern (or 'head-rhyme') of two stresses in the first half-line (the 'props') beginning with the same sound as the first stress of the second half (the 'chief-stave'). What was new to me was the use of three stresses (or staves) in each half-line, rather than two in the Old English, and that each half-line typically has six syllables. What's more, each line has internal rhyme - the last stave of the second line rhymes with one of the other two staves.
An example: With Dain's wand as weapon, Wain-god has the giant slain. The staves of the first half line are 'Dain's', 'wand', and 'weapon'; of the second, 'Wain', 'giant', and 'slain'. The chief stave is 'Wain', head-rhyming with the props, 'wand' and 'weapon'. The internal rhyme is between 'slain', and 'wain'. This is the form I determined to follow to make this verse. It did not come easy and it did not come quick. Not until Eostre was I able to recite this verse to a gathered folk and repay the gift. But I did it - my first verse in a skaldic metre (well almost - see below). I made verses to tell each of the stories shown, verses to honour Thiodolf and Thorleif, and verses to praise Thorskegga and, to a degree as a poet's right, myself as skald. I based the tales on versions retold in "Skegga's Edda". Thiodolf's poem was named "Harvest-Long", for the length of time taken to compose it. Mine was shaped through the months of the lengthening days and so has been named "Lenctenlong".
(I have since learned that the verse form is named "drottkvaett' and is a common skaldic metre. It has in fact two internal rhymes. The one I had spotted, in the second half-line, is termed 'athalhending' and is a 'perfect' rhyme of vowel sound and following consonants (e.g. 'wain' and 'slain', 'hall' and 'falling'); the other (which I'd missed) is in the first half-line, termed 'skothending', an 'imperfect' rhyme of consonants only (e.g. 'skald' and 'bold'). I have no skothendings in the first half-lines and my athalhendings are sometimes less than perfect. My defence is that I was guessing somewhat at the sounds of a language I am no scholar in. Also, Thiodolf himself seems not to have used skothending in all of his lines. Besides, I didn't want a poem called "Yearlong".)
Now we are a long way from being Dark Age lords, warriors, sea-kings and poets, but in remembering and re-enacting the deeds (or crafts or way of life, etc.) of those who have gone before, we recognise their worth, show them respect and honour their legacy. That Thorskegga should evoke their memory to praise me is truly an immense honour. I thank her, the Gods, and Thiodolf of Hvinir.
In Hordaland, the harvest long as hay was gathered in the wain,
ThiodolfR honed his thanks to ThorleifR; he raised that lord,
a bridge of words. Bragi! bright Valhalla's skald,
bestow your mead on Math to make his verse no worse.
For has Thorskegga Thorn, like Thorleif, a battle-board
given as gift: a shield with gold and stories told
of deed-famous disir and daring way-farers.
Striven have I for staves to stand as worthy thanks.
Early comes the harvest home to the hall of Thor, falling
sheafs of shim'ring strands (Shears in the hands of Fenrir's
father snik and snak!) as the snotra of Bilskirnir gloats -
troubles need bring treasures: trade for a crop of braids.
Lofty reaper's lacking the lady's store of foresight:
thinks he to thoroughly vex the Thunderer's sense of fun!
But his health shall stand as hostage for hair, with gold repaired,
and boons for the Gods and bounty, else bones unknit, and groans.
Down among the Dark-alfs, Donar to flee, has gone
the loose-tongued long-one; laughing at dwarven craft,
a gadfly galling their pride, (Gild may yet a shield
provide!) till forge and fire flare for hammer and hair.
The Saga of Thrudheim speaks summons the Gods to come
and weigh the worth of treasures won by Farbauti's son.
Loki's wagered head is lost, his lips are tightly stitched,
for the mighty hammer, Mjolnir and a mane of golden grain.
See I too a goddess gain, glad in necklace (reckless ploy,
to pledge her troth), plights her body one night
to each of four earthworms. Arms agleaming, her charms
shall buy Brisingamen in beds of stunted runts!
Broad in their needs and bruising, unbridled in a rutting wild,
Dark alfs delve the Vanadis. She draws from each a glory
never known in Dwarfhome, till Nordri's kin begin
a long and loving galdor to lay on tears of Freyja.
"This dis shall dazzle the eye, desire in all arising;
her heart shall harden armies, her hall shall guest the fallen;
her hands shall proffer healing, hale from battle and bale;
her steps shall foster flowers, fields rich harvest yield."
Out upon the ocean's rim, Earth's son is also one
to walk this wheel of Hild: in western seas he tests
his fishing line: his feet firm braced against the wyrm,
his hook baited with bull, the boast given his host,
Hymir, hard-rock dweller, to hurt the World-girdler!
Churns the bloody channel the child of Loki, wildly
seeking the sea-way's depths, sore in tooth and maw.
The hard-biting hook and line is hauled by swan-road's trawler!
Timbers of the boat are burst, breached by Thunder's feet!
Hymir's heart is in his pants, hues the rope in two!
World-wyrm flounders in the flood, flies Mjolnir 'tween the eyes
of sore-headed serpent splits that thought-house to bits!
Hymir is food for fishes, falling to Aegir's hall
at Atli's urging. Now, the heirs of Heimdal fare
o'er leagues with lifting steeds to lands beyond Jormungandr,
have e'en moored in the meres of Mundilfari's son.
Last on this lid to tell: a lord, the boast of Njord,
brought by Golden-bristles. (Brokk and Eitri put flight
into jogging hog's hooves!) Heartsore Ingi-FreyR sings
a mournful galder, to guide the ghosts of a giant's spite.
With Dain's wand as weapon, Wain-god has the joten slain.
His flesh now feeds the earth of farmers he worked to harm;
cattle and grain are given, gear to keep them the year,
but none may numb the grieving, naught can mend the slaughter.
Such scenes have been painted on circle finely worked.
Thorskegga Thorn has made it, Thunder's dis a wonder!
These staves must stand as thanks, strophes of worthship and troth
praising the girl and her gods, for goodly leather and wood.
Thiodolf of Hvinir was a skald who believed in the Gods and he honoured them in his verses. To read his words is to hear a man alive to heathen belief in a time when that belief needed no name. While Snorri quotes his verse in his "Edda", the full realisation of this was hidden from me by his Christian apologies, as well as the unwieldy and fragmented presentation of the verse. Richard North's edition of the "Haustlong of Thiodolfr of Hvinir", while it cannot reproduce the intricate verse form, has brought his voice clearly to my ear and my heart.
It is a poem filled with wit and insight, and with affection for the Gods. Kennings, the near-riddles used to describe as well as name things, reveal details of the Gods, and comment on the situations they find themselves in. I'd like to bring a few to your attention.
Ty-framra is used to describe the Gods - "Tyr-famous". But why call Gods 'as famous as Gods'? Perhaps he means to bring to mind Tyr, the Sky God, hence 'as known as the sky'. They are also "tellers of tales", hence the Gods pass their stories to us, much as they do in Gylfaginning. Also they are "haptr" - bonds, fetters - a puzzler if you think of fetters as shackles, but suggestive if you consider bonds of friendship, of loyalty, of love.
Loki is made much of in the first tale, of the kidnapping of Idune. Some kennings will be familiar: "Farbauti's boy", "Wolf's father", "Thief of the Brising Girdle" & "Raven God's friend". Others are less so: "child of the bird of prey" (reference to him in falcon form? or to his parentage?) and "rouser of tales" (to his role in instigating many of the myths?). Surprisingly, he is also described as "djuphugathr" ('deep-counselled'), an epithet more usually given to Thor. He is also "Thor's confidant".
Loki is also called "Hoenir's friend" and the "courage-tester of Hoenir". Hoenir is with Loki and Odin when they meet Thiazi, and on another occasion, Otter. Apparently, little is known of him. Snorri describes him as "Odin's table-mate", as the "Swift-As, the long foot, the dung-king". He is one of the hostages given to the Vanir, who are quickly disappointed in his reputed wisdom, when he answers always "Let others decide". His name is said to mean 'cockerel' and North reads a comic mismatch between this cockerel and the eagle, Thiazi, at Hoenir's expense. He suggests that Loki's attempt to dispatch the larger bird is born out of concern for his friend.
Idune is also mentioned in terms dealing with the renewal of life: Harvest-Gefn, Nourishing-Gefn, the glorious joy-increasing maid of the gods, the one who knows the old-age medicine of the gods; also lady of the brook of the well-spring's acre. She is also playmate of the gods, revealing perhaps a sexual component - evoking new energy from the spent and tired. North translates her name as "to yield again", echoing Thiodolf's pun on her name - the Eddy-wave - with its implication of a returning cycle.
Ingvi-Freyr is mentioned in a surprising way - the Aesir are called "kin of Ingvi-Freyr", and it is he, enraged as though he has lost a lover, who forces Loki to retrieve Idune. He threatens, with repetitive, chant-like verse, and a magic wand (a spear of the tree of venoms), to trick Loki out of his mind (just as Skirnir, his servant, threatens Gerd with madness in Skirnismal).
The whole episode is told with gentle ribbing of the gods (e.g. of Odin for not seeing through Thiazi's disguise), and an affection and sympathy for Loki in his plight (whilst hinting at the darker deeds in Loki's future, whom all the gods glare at.) Thiazi is portrayed as immense, wolfish, greedy, cunning, hard and barren, and ultimately ill-fated.
The second part of the poem concerns Thor's holmgang with Hrungnir. Here Thiodolf's passion really shows. It is clear from his language, the kennings used, that Hrungnir never stood a chance. Thor is unstoppable. The verse shakes as violently as the earth and sky at Thor's approach. Thor has many kennings to describe him of which my favourite is 'jotun's dread'. Others are 'Jord's son', Meili's blood-kinsman, Ullr's Father-in-law, hof-diety of the easy-riding chariot, and Baldr's bosom-brother. But each change of kenning, following one upon the other, cannot hide the fact that Hrungnir "knew his killer" was coming. Even Mjollnir is given mention, in a devastatingly funny kenning at the moment of Hrungnir's death: the hammer is the "hard confidant of the troll's snout."
Thiodolf shows great skill in the placement of his kennings - sometimes recalling moments of the mythology which echo his story: Groa is called the nursing-Gefion, drawing the whetstone from Thor's brow, just as Gefion drew Zealand out of Sweden. Loki is called the cargo of Sigyn's arms, just as he is being carried away by Thiazi, and Lofty (i.e. Loptr) as he dangles aloft, stretched near to tearing. Also, about to steal Idune back to the gods, he is "the thief of the gods' Brising Girdle". Hrungnir is the "king of ravine bottoms", just as he is falling dead to the ground. It is like hearing the deeds and events of Wyrd echo in the present moment.
This closer study of this man's work humbles me. I ask in Lenctenlong for my verse to be no worse. There's a long way to go before I can claim that it is. It also teaches me that we owe these poets and sayers of stories so much more than the tales and verses themselves. Without these men and women we would have no Troth, no religion to revive. After all, Snorri set out not to preserve the heathen beliefs of his forebears, but to keep alive their skaldic and poetic traditions. I say that it is to poetry, and the love of poetry, that the new heathen owes for the hoard of lore and wisdom we are lucky enough to have inherited. My toast is to the scops and skalds, and the gods, theirs and mine.
A fictional tale based on the Eddas and Sagas
Svanhild urged Hrolf and Thordis, her youngest children, deep into the trees behind the long house. Weeping and terrified they obeyed without question, and Svanhild ran back to defend the holding with her husband and eldest son.
Twenty men climbed up from the beach towards Hall's isolated farmstead, their wolf headed ship barely visible through the mist on the shingle below. The Hall's fishing boat and the meadow hayrick were already burning from their passing. The family's stand was hopeless, but pride refused to allow the pirates to destroy the farm and goods which ensured their survival over the long winter. Svanhild grabbed her heavy washing beater from the threshold and stood beside the menfolk. The pirate leader advanced, he wore a cloak of wolf pelts fastened with gold, his clothes were fine but soiled and crumpled from a long voyage at sea. He measured the defenders with obvious contempt, and raised his battle axe to sweep them away.
The fight lasted moments, young and unskilled in battled, Erik fell to the raiders with barely a blow exchanged. Hall fought like a bear and took many wounds before falling, but was overwhelmed by the raider's numbers. Svanhild screamed in tortured anguish, tears blurring her vision, and lashed out with her beater. A raider raised his sword to block her wild swing, jarring her arm, the blade had bitten deeply into the wood and she struggled to free it. She took a blow to the back of her head from the flat of a raider's sword. She fell forward half stunned. The raiders rolled her over and hands rough from sailing and weapon-work pinned her down. The wolf pelted leader stood over her, grinning as he hauled up her shift. Svanhild screamed again in pain and rage as he entered her, 'Thor curse you.' she gasped.
The leader spat at her as he pulled away, 'I don't think so.' He grinned as he revealed a silver hammer amulet hidden beneath his cloak. 'I have nothing to fear from Thor.'
Svanhild stared at him through the haze of her injuries. 'My family have counted Thor as a friend for countless generations, our ancestors will insist our plight is heard, and justice found. He will hear me.'
The man frowned, drew his sword and set the point against her chest. 'He won't hear you now.' he said as he pushed against the blade.
……………..
The woman sobbed, her hands clenched in anguish and pain of her loss. Gradually she became aware that she was no longer lying in her own blood at the farm, she was in a large hall lit by torches. Confused, her vision blurred by running tears, she lifted her hands into sight, they shimmered before her, as insubstantial as moonlight.
'I'm dead.' she whispered.
'Yes.' a voice replied.
Svanhild looked up at the speaker, she stood below a massive high seat with towering pillars the thickness of the largest tree trunks. A noble looking lord and lady sat above her, the lady's face beautiful and framed by gleaming golden hair. The man who had spoken regarded her with obvious concern, his long red hair cast a fiery glow in the dimly lit hall. She smiled in understanding 'Thor.'
The god nodded. 'You have suffered much, too much to enjoy the peaceful existence of your family's hall in Hela's realm. We both felt,' he thunderer gestured towards his wife 'that you would be eager to avenge your loss and protect you children. That is why you are here.'
Svanhild thought of her children alone at the isolated farm and fresh tears flowed 'Please, I would like that very much.'
'As you are, as a spirit, you could achieve little on Middle Earth. I can give you the strength to bring justice for your family, but there is a price. Once your task is complete your spirit will be bound to mine, you will be distant from your family both living and dead.'
The woman considered. 'Did the raiders discover Hrolf and Thordis?'
'No.'
'Then I must return, they will not survive with what the raiders would have left them.'
Thor smiled encouragement, 'Very well. I will give you my strength and knowledge to speed your task. I give you three days, return here when all is done. I will not interfere unless you misuse the power I am lending you.' He beckoned indicating that she should sit beside him on the high seat, she did so, feeling most uncomfortable, for she barely felt the gold inlaid oak of the high seat where it touched her shimmering form. The god grasped her shoulder 'Good luck.' he said.
…………
Svanhild stood on the beach below Hall's farm, gentle waves washed against her feet, slowly flattening the scar the raiders ship had left in the shingle. She stood watching the sea with new understanding. Now she knew it's depths and felt the forces that caused the tide to rise.
Her smile faded as rising anger and force of purpose distracted her musing and she turned to face her devastated home. A vision of tumbled walls and smouldering rafters was blurred by fresh tears. She ran up the rough sea grass above the shingle, startling ravens into the air, the bloody remains of her husband and son lay abandoned beside her own corpse. Several hours had passed since the raiders had left and the wargod's birds had feed well. More distressing than the ruined forms of her family was the realisation that young Hrolf and Thordis had clearly come to investigate the carnage the raiders had left. There was no sign of them now, but the blood stained ground bore the clear prints of Thordis's tiny feet and the white gown of Svanhild's corpse had been clenched by small hands wet with blood.
With an aching heart Svanhild followed the tracks the children had left. A good half mile from the farm, Svanhild saw them, Hrolf sat with his head bowed and his back turned to the ruin of his home, Thordis lay sobbing in his arms. Although eager to comfort them, Svanhild wondered at the wisdom of appearing before them, Hrolf and Thordis were coming to terms with the death of their family, and showing herself to them would only force a second parting when the three days had passed. Her most pressing task was to secure the childrens' future, find them a new home and guardian. They could not remain at this ruined farm. A new life would require silver if they were not to be given a life of servitude. Svanhild had a little, hidden deep beneath the hearth in the farmstead, but not enough.
The sun blazed down from its zenith, reminding Svanhild that her children had not eaten all day, and however filled with grief they would soon feel hungry. Spurred to action she ran back to the smouldering farmstead. The raiders had needed supplies, all the food stores had been taken, down to the last swine and the last salted fish. Heaving heavy broken beams away from the hearth she dug into the packed soil and retrieved her leather bag of silver and poured out the contents into her lap, a few silver coins from England and strange eastern lands glittered among fragments of arm rings and harness mounts. Svanhild needed a market to get her children's food, the nearest town of any size was a hundred miles away. She considered possibilities, Thor's knowledge came to her easily. She grinned indulgently, closed her eyes and concentrated hard.
The thick smell of city life told her of the magic's success before she opened her eyes. Birka! she smiled in wonder I always wanted to come here. She stepped out of the alley into one of the main streets. The city bustled with people of all kinds, from the slaves to the wealthy merchants and warlords. Almost dreamily Svanhild followed the crowd along a row of traders houses and booths all displaying wares of every description. Being used to the quiet life of an isolated farm the noise overwhelmed her, oxen bellowed from market pens, a blacksmith laboured nearby and traders shouted to draw attention to their wares. A merchant selling ships supplies drew her attention, she exchanged half an ounce of her silver for dried meat, fish, fruit, hard bread and travellers cakes rich with fat and honey. Her purchase attracted unwelcome attention, a rough looking farmhand grabbed her arm, his breath stunk of ale 'Can I help you missy?'.
'No, thank you.' Svanhild replied, she realised that she must look quite a sight, bare foot in her shift, her hair still lose about her shoulders with a pouch full of silver.
'Where's yer man?' his hand was still clamped about her arm. 'My husband is dead, now please let me go.'
'Awl, come with me I'll look after you.' His left hand snaked around her grasping her breast. Svanhild dropped her food sack, spun round and kneed the man in the groin, the man was thrown across the street and crashed into an animal pen landing in several weeks worth of dung and straw. Svanhild hurried away as passers-by jeered and laughed at the drunkard's plight as her groaned and struggled to escape the grime.
Svanhild bought blankets of thick wool and a tent of the kind a warrior chief would take on a land campaign, it was large but supported by two poles and ground stakes rather than the bulky frame of the ship tents. She hugged her purchases and turned into a narrow alleyway between two of the long traders houses. She concentrated on a well hidden glade she knew well near the farm and willed herself there. Svanhild admired the peaceful settling with its gurgling stream of fresh water and set up the tent in a spot sheltered from the prevailing wind. She stowed the blankets and food inside, then considered how to bring the two children to the glade without raising their hopes that she still lived. Svanhild remembered her bronze brooch which little Thordis had always admired, and remembered her promise that her daughter could have it for a wedding gift when she was older. The brooch was lost, taken by the raiders. Angrily Svanhild chanted a spell, cupping her hands before her, metal dust filled her palms drawn from the earth beneath her, the metal flared white hot and cooled into a perfect replica of the lost trinket. She tossed the brooch high it the air and leapt after it, as she did so taking on the form of her namesake, the swan. She caught the brooch in her beak and searched for the children in the landscape below.
Hrolf had led his sister to the river and had persuaded her to drink, concern for Thordis made him try to put his grief aside. He knew that they needed shelter and food before evening, the thought of the shattered farmstead, with all the comforts it once offered either stolen or destroyed brought fresh tears to his eyes. They were alone, even his father's fishing boat was burned, Hrolf knew all too well the chances of them surviving the coming winter. Lost in misery he scarcely noticed the swan landing in the river with powerful wings beating the water, but when the bird glided straight towards them her pulled his sister out of its path. The swan dropped a shining object from its beak on the bank where they had been sitting and pushed away into the river. Thordis broke free from her brothers grasp and picked it up, 'Hrolf! Its mother's brooch, its mothers brooch!' The swan laboured back into the air and circled around them calling.
'I think its mother's spirit,' said Hrolf in a whispered voice 'I think we should follow her.' Thordis clung tightly to his hand clutching the brooch to her chest. The swan continued to circle calling occasionally to indicate the path. The children walked slowly across the pasture land while the swan patiently lead them to the hidden glade. Hrolf saw the tent and led Thordis carefully across the stones of the stream, the little valley was familiar from happier days when they had played while their mother had collected wild plants for cooking. The swan called again and flew out of sight.
Svanhild returned to the ruins of the farmhouse and spent several hours digging and piling earth for a burial mound for her family. She had chosen the top of the headland by the sea, beside the cairn where the family had left their offerings. She pressed the bag of silver into her husband's cold dead fingers and heaped the soil high. Wearied from the day's traumas, Svanhild slept that night beside the mound.
……………
A new day brought new vigour to Svanhild. Satisfied of her children's safety she turned her attention to the raiders, now that she could concentrate on revenge another's anger joined her own. Surprised Svanhild delved into her new memories for the source of the sense of outrage. Only a few months ago a boy scarcely older than Hrolf had died at the hands of the raider who had taken her elder son's life. The boy had been captured in Dublin and taken to the raiders' village as a slave. His owner had been brutal and the lad had died from his master's blows. The boy, like her, was a spirit held by Thor.
Svanhild drew on the boy's recollections of the raider's home and the layout of the chief's hall. Thor's knowledge placed the village in the labyrinth of the Northland fjords. Now she had names for her enemies, the chieftain was Ketil and her son's slayer was Brand. We'll get Brand first she reassured the boys spirit, and a warmth in her mind acknowledged her decision.
The now familiar spell took Svanhild to the steep wooded cliffs overlooking the fjord and Ketil's settlement. Brand's modest house perched on a narrow ledge nearby beside a stream which tumbled down the near vertical slopes to the water below. Two ships were moored at the wharf, a small warship and a deeper bellied trading vessel, the wolf ship was not yet moored. Svanhild smiled, she had crossed the ocean three times while Ketil struggled back to his harbour. She looked up the valley and saw his ship approaching in the distance, people shouted below to announce the chief's homecoming. Judging that she had at least an hour before Ketil and his men returned, Svanhild walked towards Brand's house. The stream dropped noisily to a circular pool beside the house, a young dishevelled slave girl was busy beating clothes on a flat stone. Svanhild wandered over to speak to her, the girl's hair had been hacked mercilessly short and a riveted iron collar hung heavy on her neck. Where her skin showed it was grey with old bruises and scars. When Svanhild greeted her she leapt up in terror.
Svanhild spoke to the girl but she was unresponsive and locked in her own world of fear and pain. Svanhild offered to help her with the washing but the child pushed the older woman's hands away and shook her head. 'Please' she whispered 'He hurts me when I have no work.' Filled with concern but unable to comfort the child Svanhild sat aside in the trees beside the waterfall, keeping watch for Brand's return.
The sun goddess was high in the sky, spilling light even to the lower pastures beside the fjord. Brand trudged up the steep path, his spear and shield slung on his back. He was heavily built with a short beard and long flaxen hair held down with a grimy braid, his clothing was mired and crumpled from the long sea journey. He threw his weapons down at his threshold and finding the house empty scowled and stamped around to the stream 'Bitch!' he shouted 'Where are you?' The girl scampered towards him. Brand gave her an evil smile 'Been days at sea little bitch, show me what you have got for me. Quickly bitch or I'll hang you first, hang you 'til you piss yourself.' To Svanhild's horror the girl raised the front of her grubby gown. The girl was shaking in fear. The boy's anger exploded in her mind. Sickened, Svanhild realised that the boy had suffered a similar fate. What did he mean by' hang' Svanhild thought to her unseen companion. The boys memories flashed passed and Svanhild saw through the eyes of a terrified child. Brand held her feet and dragged her over the rough stones to the cliff edge, the cliff where she had watched the harbour below, which she knew was a sheer drop of several hundred feet to the shingled shore. Brand grasped her right ankle in both hands and dangled her helplessly, if he released her she would die, laughing Brand shook her, mocking her plight.
Svanhild stepped from the trees, 'Let her be Brand, I have business with you.'
Brand spun angrily 'Go away!' He stared at the Svanhild, although still dressed in her shift she was clearly no slave, as her long hair and confident manner attested. He did not recognise her as any women of the Ketil's village.
'Who are you?' he asked.
'You and your fellows raided my farm yesterday and killed my family as you killed me. Have you forgotten already.'
'You are no dead woman. Stop playing games, who are you?'
'I called Thor's curse down on Ketil, remember? It frightened him. He killed me so I couldn't make any more offerings. Do you remember now?'
Brand paled, backing away from her. Svanhild followed him 'You killed my son, and now you are going to pay his bloodprice, with you own worthless life.'
Svanhild dragged the struggling Brand along the cliff path, she grasped his grimy shirt below the armpits and swung him over the edge. Brand screamed in terror and mouthed obscenities. 'Patience, patience.' Svandis scolded, holding the heavily built man easily at arms length, 'You haven't even pissed yourself yet.'
'Put me down!' Brand shrieked 'You, you…. filthy whore!'
Svanhild lowered him suddenly and hauled him level again. Brand shrieked and sobbed, liquid darkened his britches as he lost control. She glared at him 'Can you give me any reason why I shouldn't kill you?' Brand responded with a stream of abuse and Svanhild let go.
She felt the presence of the boy in her mind glow in warm satisfaction and fade away. She tried to direct her thoughts to him again but he was gone. She realised that she had only felt him when she had been thinking of Brand, and now the child's spirit was at peace.
Svanhild turned her attention to the slave girl who was staring at her in awe and some trepidation. She beckoned the girl to her, grasped her slave collar and broke it away. Leading the girl to the spring Svanhild stripped her of her tattered gown and scrubbed her with the lye water the girl had been using for her washing. Dried and clothed in one of Brands best clean shirts with her stubby hair combed, the girl had started to lose her terrified shyness. 'Has he gone?' she whispered.
'Yes'. Svanhild replied 'He has gone.' The girl grabbed a broom and brushed the floor, every inch of it, and sent the modest dust out the door with vigorous sweeps. Svanhild laughed 'And now even his footprints are gone'. She asked the child about where she had come from. Slowly her story tumbled out. The girls name was Asgerd, her father was a Viking turned farmer who had taken land in England. The child had no idea where her home had been.
Svanhild also asked the girl about Ketil. Asgerd had had little contact with the chief, but knew that he had a wife and four children. 'He's a good man, not like master.' She stated with childish simplicity. Svanhild sighed, hurt by the child's approval of her enemy. She had no wish to destroy another household, however much Ketil had harmed her. However he seemed to have enough wealth to pay a generous sum to her children, if she could persuade him to part with it.
By now Svanhild had a hearty appetite and she shared Brand's food stores with the child. After their feast Asgerd smiled at her and the woman was delighted at the girl's higher spirits. Svanhild beamed back, 'I need to work a magic spell.' she explained. 'Will you stay with me and make sure no one disturbs me?' Wide eyed the girl nodded. Svanhild sat upright on the bed, closed her eyes and searched for Ketil. Remembering the shabby finery of the chief Svanhild was surprised to discover the man now freshly bathed and immaculately dressed. He was in a comfortable private room, behind his ale hall, bouncing a boy of about four summers on his knee. Behind him a flaxen haired woman with gold thread flashing in her headress looked on fondly with a younger child in her own arms. One by one, Svanhild searched the thoughts of each of the family, seeking for some sign of the violence that Ketil had shown at her farm. Frustrated at this picture of a loving and generous father she touched the minds of the warriors and servants going about their tasks, the women fetching water and grinding flour in the yard outside and the fishermen mending nets at the wharfside. After three hours of digging through the villagers' memories Svandis began to feel the strain of her endeavour, she opened her eyes to Brand's house with a mild headache. She realised that the best time to speak to Ketil would be at night, when she could be sure of speaking to him alone. Before then she must rest, for she would need all her wits about her to deal with the raider chief. Svanhild spoke briefly to Asgerd to reassure the child, and lay down on Brand's sleeping bench to the welcome relief of sleep on her weary mind. The child sat at the bed end alert and watchful, loyal to her new found mistress.
…..
In the silence of the night, four hours before dawn, Svanhild stole into Ketil's hall. She wove a spell around the retainers sleeping on the benches and beside the warm embers of the hearth fires, to ensure they would not wake. Walking carefully to the door defining the chief's private quarters, she extended the charm to Ketil's family, leaving only Ketil himself unaffected. She opened the door with no attempt at silence, a further fire glowed within with a pile of fresh timber on the hearth stones, she threw on the fresh fuel and stirred the embers into life. Flames licked upwards illuminating the room, Ketil woke at the noise and sudden brightness. He stared, 'What are you doing here woman.'
Svanhild ignored him and stepping closer to the chief's carved bed, his wife slept beside him and a gently snoring child lay at their feet. A candle bracket was hammered into the wall above the bed, Svanhild held her hand cupped around the wick and it burst into flame. Ketil watched her silently, she waited while the candle flame grew brighter, then turned to face him. 'Do you remember me?' she asked.
'I remember the woman you look like.' he answered 'What witchery is this?'
'Hardly witchery, Thor heard me as I said he would, he allowed me to return.' Ketil regarded her in silence so she continued 'I want to know why you destroyed my family and my home.'
'Because I had the strength to do it. You had food my men needed, I took it.'
'So your strength gave you the right?'
'Yes.'
Svanhild smiled dangerously 'But what if Thor gave me the power to kill you? Would that mean I was entitled to take your life?'
'That is hardly relevant.' he scoffed 'A farmer's wife is not much of a threat to a skilled warrior, living or dead.'
Still smiling Svanhild removed an amulet that she wore hidden beneath her shift, like Ketil's silver pendant it was a miniature Thor's hammer, but hers was made of iron. She tossed it idly from hand to hand. 'You shouldn't underestimate a woman who can come back from the dead. And my question is very relevant, I have the strength to snap you like a twig.'
'Hah,' Ketil laughed 'you are all words woman. Prove it.'
'Then catch.' Svanhild threw her amulet towards him. Ketil reached out a hand to catch it and yelled in surprise as his arm thudded to the bed covers. Using both hands, and with some difficulty he managed to raise the amulet to his chest and stared at it, why would such a tiny pendant weigh more than twenty pounds, and what kind of woman could wear it with so little concern? The answer dawned slowly and it terrified him. He passed it back carefully and looked into the woman's eyes, there was a fire within them which confirmed his fears.
'Your own ethics allow me to take your life, as you know I can.' Svanhild stated.
'Yes.' Ketil whispered.
'But that is not my way. You may deserve death but your wife and family would suffer the loss greatly. I require a different price.'
'Anything.'
'You must have a new figure head carved for your ship, the head of a swan. My name on Middle Earth was Svanhild, let this serve to remind you of our meeting. Once your ship is refitted you will return to my farm.' Ketil gasped as images of Hrolf and Thordis filled his mind. 'Your raid left two children as orphans, they fear the wolf ship but the symbol of the swan they will trust. You must bring them here and raise them as if they were your own children. Thor will look on your family with favour if you treat them well.'
'I will do as you ask, I swear it.'
'Would you do something further for me?'
'Of course.'
'Your man Brand incurred my wrath and no longer has need of a mistress, can you find a place for young Asgerd in your household, as a free woman and not a slave.' Ketil frowned, through repugnant in his personal habits, Brand had been a brave warrior. But he was hardly surprised that Svanhild had not taken to the rogue. He nodded agreement. Svanhild met his eyes 'Thor will hold you to your promise.'
'Tell him I will keep it.'
…….
Svanhild willed herself back to Thor's hall. Sif, the golden goddess sat alone on the high seat, her eyes had been closed in contemplation but she opened then and smiled to acknowledge Svanhild's appearance. 'Greetings lady,' said Svanhild 'I have done what was needed on Middle Earth. But I am anxious to see my husband and son safe to Hela's realm. I wondered if Thor would mind if I used his Hlidskialf, is he here?'
Sif laughed, shaking her head in mirth 'Thor is with you, part of you, as you are part of him. That is how you are able to travel in Middle Earth as a living being and not the spirit that you were. If you do anything against his wishes he will be quick to let you know.' Sif stepped down from the high seat, grasped Svanhild by the hand and led her up to the oak platform with its four massive pillars.
Svanhild frowned, considering 'Do you mind if I seek out my husband?' the implications suddenly became clear 'Would Thor mind?'
Sif squeezed her hand. 'Don't worry about that. For today you are Svanhild. Go to the halls of the dead and find your husband. Remember Thor's warning, tomorrow you will be distant from your family, make the most of the time you have.'
Svanhild settled back onto the soft furs of the high seat, reaching out a hand to the darkest of the four pillars, a timber from the underworld. Her spirit traced a path through Middle Earth and down below through the living rock to the cavern of the dragon Corpse Devourer. Here a long road lead to death goddess's kingdom, a bridge of shining gold marked the boundary to Hela's world. Svanhild's spirit travelled fast over the miles and soon the underworld lay spread out before her, a great plain of grass and trees glowed beneath a bright sky with no sun, and stirred by a breeze that was not of heaven or Middle Earth. Turfed halls were scattered all around, mirroring both the halls and the grave mounds in the land of men above. In the distance Hela's tower dominated the plain.
Svanhild decided to greet the goddess and ask her assistance in locating Hall. Her spirit sped over the emerald lawns and she soon located Hela, Loki's daughter leant over a stone balcony watching her subjects playing in the gardens below. The goddess was naked and the strange light of her realm enhanced her wild beauty. Svanhild hailed her.
'Greetings uncle.' Hela replied.
'No lady, I am Svanhild. I hoped you could help me find my husband.'
'Really?' Hela's thoughts were filled with amusement 'Then show yourself, I would see this miraculous transformation.'
Svanhild appeared on the balcony, the timber floor smooth beneath her bare feet. Hela observed her with interest, 'Yes I can see Svanhild, but farmers wives walk the long road from Middle Earth, very few in all the nine worlds enter my tower so brazenly without invitation. When you spoke to me from your Hlidskialf I knew who you really were, Noisy One.'
'Yes.' Svanhild sighed, 'It is Thor's power that enables me to speak to you and travel from Asgard to your realm. But it is Svanhild the farmer's wife that seeks her husband. Will you help me?'
'My apologies' Hela relented 'It is in my nature to tease, as your friend knows well. I will take you to your husband.' The queen howled loudly, and a large grey wolf paced into the chamber, it was the size of a small horse. 'Come Svanhild.' She said leaping astride the beast. Svanhild climbed up behind Loki's daughter and linked her arms around the goddess's waist. The wolf leapt over the balcony and down to the gardens below with an effortless grace. On the wolf's back they travelled quickly through the trees, meadows and halls of the underworld. The strange dwellings were large, resembling small hills with carved wooden gables and doors. The spirits of the dead walked and played in the gardens and meadows. Many were as naked as their goddess.
Hela guided the wolf to the mound they were seeking. 'You will find your husband within.' Svanhild thanked the goddess, dismounted and walked between the pillars of the doorway, she smiled noting that they were carved and painted with swans. A hundred folk were scattered around the benches, but its size made it appear almost empty. She spotted Hall cradling an ale horn and hurried over to join him. Her son Erik tumbled on the floor with a half dressed girl, he recognised his mother and stared in surprise. Hall lowered his horn in shock, slowly recovered his wits and ran forward to embrace his wife.
Through tears of joy and frustration Svanhild told her loved ones how she had returned to care for Hrolf and Thordis, and her experience in Ketil's village. She held her husband tightly 'I have so little time with you.'
Hall grinned 'Then let's make the most of this day.'
……………
After the sun goddesses had chased the night away, Thor sat on his Hlidskjalf, with Sif in his arms. They watched the oceans of Middle Earth. The warship cut its way through the waves, a brisk wind blew straight along Ketil's chosen course and he smiled at a sky that blessed the voyage so clearly. His recently blistered hands held the steering oar as the chief searched for landmarks in the blue - grey haze of approaching land. Ketil's own handiwork, a rearing swan's head with a hammer amulet carved among the daggered feathers of its neck, surged towards the ruins of Hall's farmstead. The thundergod smiled, the swan maiden had done well.,
9th September 2000 - Planning meeting for the Pagan Halloween opening ceremony / Giant Building. 14th October 2000 - Midgard Web meeting at Bricklayers Arms - various activities and talks.
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