|
In vain he hoped for her return, but she came not; her image only remained fixed in his soul, filling it with the pangs of hopeless love. He no more joined the merry feasts in Odin’s joyous hall, nor did he mingle with the other gods in their familiar talk; he sought solitude, and was ever gloomy and morose. His father Niörder grieved to see his son’s sad listless manner, and wondered what was the cause of it. He entreated Skirnir, Freyer’s faithful servant, wisely to search out the source of his master’s gnawing grief. So Skirnir went to his lord: “Tell me, O mighty ruler of nations, what I fain would know, why thou thus lonesome and full of sadness dost ever linger in the spacious hall?” Freyer answered: “Thou art young in years and in experience; how then couldst thou fathom my grief? The sun shines every day on happy people, but his light can bring no joy to the sad at heart.” Yet Skirnir did not cease in his efforts. He reminded Freyer of their happy boyhood, of their merry games, and of the time when they had never had a secret from each other. Freyer was touched by his devotion and told him of his undying love and of its hopelessness. “Give me,” said Skirnir, “thy good horse to bear me through my journey; give me thy trusty sword that fights of its own accord against the Frost-giant’s power, and I will woo the maiden for thee. I foresee that my mission will be successful.” Soon afterwards Skirnir leaped into the saddle, the good sword at his side. “Up,” he cried, “haste thee, Red horse, on thy way over the steep mountain, for darkness approaches, that time which brings help and comfort to the Jotuns. But we shall make our journey safely if only we can escape the clutches of the giant.” |
|
The good horse galloped swiftly over hill and dale, as the eagle flies over the tops of the tall pines; and Skirnir soon perceived the wide demesne of the Frost-giant. A high hedge, guarded by fierce dogs, surrounded the bower of the beautiful maiden, and within was a circle of flames that shot all round the building. At one side was leaning the herdsman who watched over the stately herd of cattle. Skirnir turned to him and asked him how he was to pass the dogs and the fire, and so reach the hall of the noble maiden. “Art thou already dead?” asked the herdsman; "or dost thou feel death in thy heart? No living man is permitted to enter the dwelling.” “Boldness befits a traveller better than fear. The days of my life are all numbered, and no one can shorten them against the will of the Norns.” With these words Skirnir drove his spurs into his horse, which thundered over the fierce dogs, the high hedge and the flames, making the whole grange tremble to its foundations. Gerda was sitting in her hall, and asked her women in startled tones why Gymirsgard was quaking so strangely. One of her maidens informed her that a man, who had just ridden up to the door, demanded admittance. Gerda bade her bring the man into her presence, and ordered that sweet mead should be given her guest, although she had a foreboding that he brought unwelcome tidings, or was perhaps the murderer of her brother Beli. When the stranger had drunk of the mead offered him, she asked, — “Art thou an Elf, or an Ase, or one of the wise Wanes, that thou, mad, rider that thou art, hast dared to force thy way through Wafurlogi and thus enter our halls?” “I am no Elf, nor yet am I an Ase, nor do I belong to the race |
|
of wise Wanes,” replied the stranger. “I bring thee eleven apples of pure gold as a bridal gift, in order that thou mayst own that there is none so dear to thee as Freyer, who yearns for thy love in return.” But she answered: “I will not take thy golden apples, nor shall bonds of union ever link my fate to that of thy master, Freyer. “Then I, will add the golden ring that the Dwarfs made,” he continued; "that ring from which eight new ones drop each ninth night.” “Gymir’s daughter needs no golden rings,” she replied; "her father’s treasures are enough for her.” “Look, proud maiden,” he cried in anger, “look at the shining sword in my right hand; with it will I strike if thou dost still refuse him.” “Neither will I submit to force,” she answered unabashed, “nor will I accept the love of any man; and I know that Gymir is armed and ready to punish thy daring.” Then Skirnir rose from his seat in wrath, and replied to her in these words “Maiden, seest thou this sword in my hand? With it I shall slay the old Jotun, thy father, if he dares offer me battle. But thee I shall conquer by means of my magic wand. Hearken to the words which I trace in runic staves:
|
|
Skirnir ceased and took his knife to cut the runes from the magic wand on which they were carved. Gerda cried shudderingly: “Turn away the fulfilment of thy curse, O hero! Take from my hand this icy cup filled with old mead! I never thought that it had been my lot to love one of the Ases’ race. Listen to the words I speak most grudgingly, —
Overjoyed at his success, Skirnir mounted his horse, and hastened to tell his master the good news.
|
|
Hark! he heard voices calling to him; he thought it was his sister and his step-mother. “Hark ye, young Swendal,” they said; "fling not thy ball at me; fling it rather at the fair maiden whom thou dost love. Nor shalt thou longer have peace or sleep, until thou hast released the blooming girl, lying oppressed by heavy grief.” No sooner had he heard the words than he donned his fur-cloak, and entered the chamber where the court was assembled. He told them he would go into the mountains to ask his mother what he was to do, that he might free the grieving maiden They praised his errand, and he set out, and reached the mountain where his mother had been slumbering peacefully for many a year. As he entered, the walls and marble boulders burst asunder, the earth opened, and a voice cried out “Who is it that wakens the weary sleeper? Can I not rest in peace beneath the dark ground?” “Mother,” he answered, “it is thy son that comes to seek thy counsel, as they told me that no longer should I have peace or sleep until I should release the blooming maiden who has suffered thraldom this many a long day.” Thereupon the voice spake,— “Take, then, thy mother’s last gifts, young Swendal, and set out that thou mayst find that which thy heart is yearning for.” And suddenly there lay before him a sword, and without there neighed a noble steed. It was the sword that ever carries victory with it, and the stallion that gallops over land and sea, and never wearies ! Young Swendal girt the sword around his waist, mounted the steed, and rode away over the vast ocean, through green woodlands beyond, until he reached the castle where the maiden was imprisoned and endured her bitter fate. |
|
He begged admittance of the surly keeper that sat outside the gate, promising him courtly honours when he should be king. The keeper replied morosely that the gate was of steel and the walls of solid marble, and inside a fierce lion and a grim bear kept watch, to tear to pieces any intruding stranger, unless it were young Swendal. When the rider heard these words, his heart gladdened, and, setting deep the spurs into his noble steed, he leaped right into the court-yard. The ferocious beasts crouched humbly at his feet, and the lime-tree with its golden leaves bent to the ground before him for he was the long-awaited master. The longing maiden heard the tinkling of the rider’s spurs, and awoke from her death-like slumber. Her heart was filled with the thought of her bold redeemer; she ran to the gate and sank into the arms of young Swendal. Through the shady forest once strode a powerful young huntsman. His eyes beamed with the fire of his soul, and his strong manly frame was clad in a light hunting dress, decked with eagle’s feathers; his broad, trusty sword clanked in its sheath as he went, and in his right hand he bore a spear. Several attendants followed him, and two large greyhounds sprang round him with mighty bounds. Suddenly they stopped, threw back their heads and began barking loudly, then disappeared in the dense bushes hard by. A loud, fearful roar came out from where the hounds had entered the underwood, and the bushes creaked and groaned, as though trampled under the foot of some enormous giant, and a |
|
monstrous wild ox of untold proportions rushed out, chasing the hounds. As soon as it reached the open space where the huntsman and his followers stood, it lowered its monstrous head, and, catching one of the dogs round the neck in its rounded horns, hurled it high into the sky. But at the same moment the huntsman’s spear hissed through the air, and entered deep into the ox’s fleshy neck. The monster turned fiercely towards its new opponent, but the huntsman did not budge from his place. All would have thought him lost, so unequal did the chances seem, so terrible did the giant ox appear. Calm and collected, the bold youth awaited the onslaught of the monster, then seized it by the horns, and, straining his whole strength into his shoulders, with superhuman power, overthrew it on its back. Before it could rise again the huntsman’s foot pressed heavily upon its throat, and soon his trusty sword put an end to the battle, a stifled roar telling that the life flame of the monstrous ox had at length gone out. The huntsman’s followers had not shared in the fight, for they knew their master and his mighty strength, and had no fear for the result. They now went silently to their work, took off the wild ox’s skin from his steaming carcase, and bore it to their master’s castle. He, however, laid himself down under the shade of an oak-tree close by, and sank into a deep reverie. A rustling sound in the neighbouring ferns woke him from his dreams, and, when he looked up, the tall figure of a woman stood before him, encircled by an unearthly shimmering light. A snowy, trailing garment, bound by a golden girdle, draped her wondrous limbs; her flaxen locks shone through the transparent web that covered her head, and rich golden ornaments decked her neck and shoulders. The young noble gazed in wonderment at his unknown visitor; |
|
he knew not whether he was awake or whether he still slept, or whether the figure was but a creation of his own unconscious mind. But the more he looked at it the clearer did it become. It did not vanish; it was full of life. “Hero of the Wolsings,” Freya began, and her voice sounded not of the earth, but rang clear as a silver bell: “offspring of the Wolsing race, why dost thou discolour thy blade with mere ox blood? Rather should it be tinged with the dragon’s blood, he that lurks in Asgard’s holy groves, and drains the mind and marrow of mankind with eager jaws. Dost thou not hear his coils rattle? dost thou not see the ramparts he has erected? Go thou, brave youth, and slay with thy strong arm the bane of Asgard that defies the holy gods. Wodan ensures thee victory. A life ended in glory is a life lived long enough.” The noble youth hearkened to her words in silent rapture, for she gave utterance to what he had long craved to accomplish. He looked up to the eagle as it hovered above his head on out-spread wings; but turning his eyes again to the vision of the fair woman, to! she had vanished out of sight! No longer did he doubt, Freya herself or one of her maidens had brought to him great Wodan’s behest. He forthwith sped through the wood to the Meeting of the Wise Men, and related all that he had heard and seen, and the task that had been set him. The men struck their shields in token of approval, and the quiet wood resounded again with the clash. The crowd dispersed; each man returned to his native hamlet, and gathered together all the youths fit for war. In the third night they assembled, and, led by the youthful hero, fell upon the host of the Roman intruders, who were defeated in a bloody struggle that lasted three days. Thus was the Roman dragon, the bane of Asgard, slain, and the people delivered by the hero, Arminius. |
|
Redbeard. In all his warlike strength he strove against the king; but the battle went against him, and he sought shelter on a lonely isle. Helga was his love; but her father, the king’s chief warrior and his faithful vassal, despised the poor houseless outcast. Rerir, full of longing to behold once more his loved Helga, built a small, strong boat, and boldly landed near the castle where she dwelt with her father. She stood upon the beach, wistfully looking over the bounding billows, which suddenly tossed at her feet a tiny craft; Rerir leapt upon the shore, and stood by her side. Tearfully she told him how her cruel father was about to force her into a marriage with a noble of the court, yet vowed to him that none but he should ever have her love.
Trembling, yet half-willing, she refused to go with him. Rerir, full of grief and deadly pale, sank broken-hearted to her feet, entreating her again in passionate words. No longer could she bear to look upon the anguish that she gave her loved one, no longer could she withstand his glowing words that spake of rapture shared by each
|
|
Freya always bears the radiant necklace Brisingamen, the sparkling jewels of the heavens, the gaily-coloured flowers of spring, when regarded as the goddess of nature and ruler of the world, or as Mother Earth. When the skalds dethroned her from her lofty height, humanizing her nature and her attributes, the myth arose which told how the necklace was gained. Four skilful dwarfs made it, according to the legend, in their underground smithy, and worked into it the most costly jewels that the earth produced, so that it glanced and glittered like the sun herself.* But Freya chanced to see it, and her eyes were almost blinded at its wondrous splendour. In exchange for it the dwarfs asked nothing but her grace, which she extended to them, and thus gained the necklace. The goddess of beauty and love was described as a maiden in |
|
and sees a stranger coming in the distance. He approaches, and seeks admittance. The watchman cries — “This is no place for beggars; seek thou the damp and foggy highway, and begone.” To which the wanderer makes answer — “What monster art thou, that guards the entrance; of what race canst thou be, who refusest hospitality to the weary traveller?” “Fiölswider is my name, in that I am wise in cautious counsel. Therefore canst thou not enter this castle.” The wanderer cast a longing look towards the castle-window, and replied — “Unwillingly do I turn my eyes away, having once seen what I seek. Here, where a glowing belt girds golden halls, could I find peace.” Then the watchman demands of him his name and race, and hears that he is Windkald (wind-cold), son of Warkald (spring-cold). The stranger asks who is the owner of the castle, and is informed that it belongs to Menglada; he asks what is the girdle that surrounds the castle like a wall of flame, and whether there is no way to tame the grim wolf-dogs that sit on guard; he asks, too, of the mountain on which the castle stands, of the nine maidens who sit before Menglada’s knee, and whether no man can enter the golden hall and go to her. To all his questions he receives enigmatical replies, but to the last the watchman says that none can ever cross the threshold but young Swipdager, the expected bridegroom. Thereupon he cries out — “Throw open the gates, make way for the expected one! Swipdager has arrived, and seeks admittance!” The watchman hastens to the hall of Menglada, and tells her that a man has come who calls himself Swipdager, whom the wolf- |
|
dogs have joyfully greeted, before whom the castle gates have flung themselves wide open. “May shining ravens tear out thine eyes if thou hast lied to me that my long awaited lover has at last returned!” cries the maiden joyously, and hurries towards the entrance. As soon as her eyes alight upon the stranger, she knows him as her lover, and flings her arms around him. “Whither hast thou been? whence hast thou come? what art thou called out there?” He tells her that he has come upon the wind-cold (Windkald) way, that the unalterable word of the Norns had taken him thither and borne him thence. And she responded — “Welcome art thou back again! my wish is fulfilled. Long have I sat on the high hill, looking for thee by day, looking for thee by night. All that I longed for has at length come to pass, for thou art here again at my side.” |
|
WALKYRIES CONDUCTING THE FALLEN HEROES TO WALHALLA |
|
|
|