Now Njord had plenty of problems of his own, what with a wife who wouldn’t live with him, but his son’s behavior worried him. So he sent Frey’s servant Skirnir to find out what was wrong.
Frey told Skirnir of his love, and of his fear that marriage between the two would never be approved of because the giants held no love for any Aesir, especially not their enemy Frey. Still, overwhelmed by his passion, he bade Skirnir fetch the girl.
But Skirnir needed help. He asked Frey to lend him his magic sword that could fight on its own, protecting whomever wielded it. And he asked for Frey’s horse that could find its way through the dark and wasn’t hurt by flames. Frey gave these treasures … ultimately a foolish decision, but a god in love is as much a fool as anyone.
Skirnir rode that horse as hard as he could. He convinced the ferryman to take them across the river into Jotunheim. By now it was the pitch of night, but that horse galloped on—for he could find his way through the dark. Then they came to a curtain of fire, but that horse galloped on—for he wasn’t hurt by flames. The next morning they arrived at last.
Fierce dogs guarded Gerd’s hall. They barked and growled. When Gerd heard the commotion, she told her servant to welcome the visitor, though her mouth went sour and her ears buzzed eerily.
And so Skirnir was brought before Gerd, who was dressed all in white. He offered her 11 apples from Idunn’s tree to marry Frey. “Think of your beauty lasting and lasting.”
Frey fell in love with the beautiful giantess, Gerd. He sent his servant, Skirnir, to fetch her. Skirnir offered her 11 of Idunn’s apples if she’d marry Frey. But the promise of eternal youth wasn’t enough to convince her.
But not even the promise of everlasting youth could persuade Gerd to marry the giants’ lethal enemy.
Skirnir held out the ring Draupnir that the dwarf Brokk had given to Odin. How it came to be in Skirnir’s hands was anyone’s guess. “This ring drops eight others just as beautiful every ninth night.”
But who needed wealth? Gerd’s father, Gymir, had a hall full of jewels.
Playing the nice guy was getting Skirnir nowhere; Skirnir unsheathed Frey’s sword. “Your choice: beheading or marriage?”
But Gerd said her father would fight Frey and win.
Skirnir got furious at Gerd for refusing to marry Frey. He threatened her with loneliness for all the rest of time. His words scared her. But they didn’t convince her. It was his magic staff that finally made her love Frey, not any promises or threats.
Skirnir now raised his own staff, which had magic untold. Gerd gaped at it, spellbound, as Skirnir spoke. “If you don’t marry Frey, you will never marry anyone. You will sit alone in your hall, bleak, feeling nothing against your skin ever but sleet and cutting wind. You will fly into unaccountable rages and you will weep for days on end. You will crawl like the lowliest of creatures through the halls of the frost giants, having no sense of why you do it and no ability to stop yourself. You will scream with the need of a husband, and never, never attract anyone to your side. Everything you drink will taste like waste, but you’ll drink it all the same, for you’ll never slake your thirst. It’s your choice, Gerd. No joy, all pain—or a marriage to Frey.”
Gerd listened closely through the venomous words. She trembled. The threat meant she would lose everything she valued in her womanhood; she would never attract a husband, never have children. Her fertility would be forever thwarted. Still, she was firm in her refusal.
Until she looked up at that magic staff. It loomed above her. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. Now she spoke slowly. She said, “I never would have believed that I could love a god.” Skirnir’s offers of presents hadn’t worked. Skirnir’s threats of violence hadn’t worked. But simply by looking at that magic staff, somehow Gerd had changed. She loved Frey. Why? How? But the answers didn’t matter. She loved him. And so she promised to be his wife nine days hence.
When Skirnir came back with the good news, Frey thought he couldn’t survive the wait of nine days. But he did, of course, wed the maid.
What he didn’t realize was that he couldn’t survive the loss of his magic sword, for Skirnir didn’t bring it back from Jotunheim. That sword would have been useful to Frey in the final battle, Ragnarok. Perhaps he could have won against the fire giant Surt instead of dying hideously. Perhaps if he had wooed Gerd himself rather than letting Skirnir steal her through dishonorable means, he might have won the girl and kept his sword.
But perhaps not. Fate is fate, after all. And given what he did to Gerd, maybe Frey got the end he deserved.
Frigg, Odin’s wife, adored her two sons. Hod, known for being blind, was always willing to help. Balder, known for being handsome, was peaceful. Both were sweet-tempered, perhaps because they were loved so much.
DEATH BY BLUNDER
Frigg was Odin’s wife, and she took her role as head goddess seriously. As she saw it, it wasn’t a husband that a wife needed to attend to. Her own husband was headstrong and bullish and, well, she couldn’t really influence him much even if she tried. Odin was convinced that women were fickle creatures, and simpleminded, as well. The fairer his words were to Frigg, the more she knew his thoughts were false. He trusted no one, which made him untrustworthy himself. So Frigg didn’t waste energy and time on Odin. Instead, she focused on what a woman could do that a man couldn’t—childbearing. Frigg helped all women in childbirth. She bid laboring women to lie on a bed of grasses that had yellow flowers whose pungent scent quickly killed the fleas that ran up and down their bodies. The women relaxed into a half swoon; birth was far more palatable this way, especially because of Frigg’s voice: She spoke to them of motherly love. She became goddess of love, but not the romantic stimulation that Freyja evoked, rather the all-encompassing devotion that one has for another throughout life. Frigg knew everything there was to know about that kind of love, for that’s how she loved her children, the gods Balder and Hod. She adored them. She raised them in her hall, Fensalir, and showered them with kisses.
Perhaps that’s why these gods were so unique. Hod was completely blind and tremendously strong. He held back from the others, always listening, ready to oblige. He became god of the darkness that settled in winter, and that was fine with him. Winter was long and powerful, and quiet, like him. And winter always came back—in the end, winter prevailed. Like motherly love.
Frigg’s Grass
Bedstraw, Galium verum
Galium verum, commonly known as yellow bedstraw, grows throughout Europe and Asia. In medieval times it was used to stuff mattresses, since its odor kills fleas. Its yellow flowers were used to coagulate milk in making cheese. Its roots made red dye; its flowers, yellow. Its leaves made a mild sedative. And in Denmark it is used even today in the alcoholic drink bjæsk. Perhaps this was Frigg’s grass that she used to help birthing mothers with—Frigg, the saddest mother ever.
Balder was almost the opposite of Hod; he was light and airy. And unlike most other Aesir gods, he didn’t shout or stomp around. He didn’t go violent at the slightest provocation. He was thoughtful, gentle. Ultimately, he was wise, but in a different way from his father, Odin. Instead of knowing all and understanding every fact with his intellect, he intuited the cosmos. He empathized with every living thing and then beyond, with every tree and rock, with every breeze and grain of sand and droplet of dew. Balder was an anomaly in that cosmos; without any inkling of the treachery of others, he was doomed—a bird without wings.
So when Balder reported having bad dreams to his mother, when he said he woke from dreams about ghostly skulls with the stench of his own death in his mouth, Frigg wasn’t surprised. Her son was too pure for this reality, this cosmos. Besides, she’d been waiting for this moment. Like Odin she saw much of the future—imperfectly, to be sure—but definitely. She didn’t speak of it. What was the point of telling others about things they couldn’t change? The anticipation would only make them suffer and, probably, reduce them to ditherers, for helplessness undoes a soul. So, no, she di
dn’t blink twice at Balder’s news.
But Frigg was the head goddess. She was Queen of Asgard. She was the only one besides Odin who was allowed to climb up onto the high seat Hlidskjalf and view the entire cosmos. Frigg was not about to stand by and do nothing. Dread had sharpened her teeth and eyes and fingertips.
Balder had nightmares that he would die. So his mother, Frigg, wife of Odin, flew through the cosmos, exacting promises from everything she passed that they would do Balder no harm.
Oh, she held her tongue for a while, to allow Odin time to do his thing. Odin was Allfather, after all. He needed to assume control. Odin called an assembly to discuss the possible portents of Balder’s nightmares. Then he rode his eight-legged steed, Sleipnir, down to Niflheim and conferred there with a prophetess, a certain sibyl, who told him everything that would come to pass. It was all for nothing, of course, because Odin already knew the future. But as a father, he must have hoped against hope that he was wrong for once. He must have ground his teeth down to the pulp, gnashing out that hope. He came back and shook his shaggy head sadly at Frigg.
So Frigg was now free to go into action. She flew through the cosmos, for she had a flying cloak just as Freyja did, and extracted a promise from fire, water, metals, stones, trees, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and serpents that they would do Balder no harm. No one, nothing refused her request. And thus Balder seemed invulnerable.
But to test that, someone threw a pebble at him. Balder didn’t feel it. Someone else threw a stick. No reaction. Ha! The gods found this turn of events delightful. It soon became good sport to stab Balder or, at the very least, cast stones at him, only to see the handsome god stand there unhurt and smiling.
Loki hated this. Balder was getting all the attention. So he disguised himself as an old woman and visited Frigg. He complained about the poor man who was being stoned, as though he didn’t know the whole story of Balder’s invulnerability. When Frigg explained that man was her son and this was no stoning, this was just sport that could come to no bad end because of the cosmos’ promise, the disguised Loki asked if by chance there was any element that had not sworn to do Balder no harm. Frigg should have been on the alert. She should have suspected an ulterior motive, even from this unimposing and doddering woman. But somehow, she didn’t. She answered forthrightly: One little mistletoe was too young for Frigg to ask a favor of.
Loki pulled up that mistletoe and made darts from it.
Then the trickster pulled the worst trick of his life, the worst trick of the cosmos. He got Hod to join in the game of throwing things at Balder—something Hod had never done before; it made no sense for a blind one to throw things. But Loki guided Hod’s hand. And, of course, in that hand he put the mistletoe darts. Hod threw; alas, he unwittingly killed his own dear brother. The whole of Asgard was bereft. Frigg asked who would dare go down to Hel and offer her a ransom to let Balder come back. Another of Odin’s sons, Hermod, volunteered. He mounted Odin’s steed Sleipnir and traveled nine nights down into the realm of Hel to beg Balder’s release, for the whole cosmos loved him.
Hod was the blind brother of Balder. Loki tricked him into throwing a mistletoe dart at Balder—and Loki guided blind Hod’s hand. The dart killed poor Balder.
Hel said that so long as the whole cosmos wept for Balder, she would let him free. But if anyone refused to weep, Balder would belong to Hel till the final battle.
So now the Aesir sent messengers throughout the cosmos asking everyone to weep Balder out of Hel. And everyone did. Everyone except the giantess Thokk, who some say was Loki in disguise. That was enough to seal Balder’s fate.
Odin looked around for revenge. Frigg couldn’t meet his eyes—Hod was her son, too, after all. She stayed hidden behind her curtain of tears. So Odin took the giantess Rindr as his wife and that very day she gave birth to the god Vali, who grew to adulthood before the night fell and slew the hapless Hod. Now there were 12 major gods, but, alas, two of them were doomed to Hel.
And so Balder stayed in Hel, awaiting the battle Ragnarok, when he’d be set free, alongside his brother Hod, whose head lay heavy in his own hands. And Odin dreamed of Balder, his gleaming boy; every time the benches in Odin’s hall creaked, he hoped it was the sound of Balder returning. And Frigg, wretched Frigg, she cried for Balder, she cried for Hod, she cried for everyone.
Nothing would ever be right with this cosmos again.
Hel agreed that if everyone in the cosmos cried for Balder, she would set him free. And everyone did—they wailed in misery—everyone except the giantess Thokk. That was enough to ruin it; Balder could not escape Hel.
The Aesir held a banquet so sumptuous that ale poured into cups without anyone holding the flask. The servants who had prepared all this received praise, most unfortunately, for them and for envious Loki, as well.
THE GODS TAKE VENGEANCE
Loki, oh, Loki, Loki, Loki—he just couldn’t keep himself from wicked deeds. By tricking Hod into killing Balder, he had caused everyone to grieve. Yet somehow he wound up at a banquet of the Aesir. After all, Loki and Odin were blood brothers, and, truth be told, many had benefited from Loki’s deceptions in the past.
This particular banquet was more sumptuous than any other; ale poured into guests’ cups without even a servant to hold the flask and the hall was lit by gold rather than flaming tapers. Everyone remarked upon the skills of the two servants who had prepared the banquet: Eldir and Fimafeng. Their work was nothing short of magic. That was enough for Loki; he couldn’t bear hearing anyone else praised. So he killed Fimafeng. Just like that. Right there, on sacred ground.
The Aesir drove Loki out into the forest. But Loki came back to the hall, railing against all of them. And Odin was forced to allow him to stay, because of the oath he had once made to always share his drink with Loki. Loki wasn’t content just to drink, however. He needed to injure, and so he spewed pain from his lips. He said the goddesses were without virtue, they were trolls in disguise—Idunn and Gefjon and Frigg and Freyja. He accused each god, as well, one after the other, of cowardice—Frey and Tyr and Heimdall and even Odin. His ugly words bit like barbs until Thor arrived and threatened to smash Loki with the hammer Mjolnir. Still, Loki spat a final insult before racing away on his long legs into the mountains.
Poisonous Snakes
Common European adder
Poisonous snakes are a formidable foe in Norse myths, yet there are but three kinds of snakes in Norway, and only one venomous: the common European adder. Thick and short, it grows longest in Scandinavia: just under three feet. Its head is flat, with a raised snout and large eyes. It can be dark brown or have a dorsal pattern in yellow. A bite can be lethal, especially to children, but it usually causes only pain … immediate, intense, and sometimes enduring for a year.
There he built a house with four doors, so that he could look out in all directions to see if anyone was coming. Loki often shape-shifted into a salmon and passed his day in the waterfalls of Franang, flipping through the spray and worrying about who might be coming after him, what that pursuer might be planning. He ripped flax and rolled it between his palms till it formed long threads and he wove a net as he brooded—rolling, weaving, brooding. He’d been doomed from the start … whose fault was that? Brood, brood.
And then he saw them coming for him.
The Aesir wanted revenge on Loki for causing the death of Balder. So Loki shape-shifted into a fish and swam away while they threw nets and tried to catch him.
Loki dropped his net into the fire and then plunged through the waterfall as a huge salmon.
When the Aesir arrived at the empty hut, the first to enter was the poet Kvasir, who understood things that others didn’t, as all poets do. Kvasir took one look at the smoldering net and declared it a fish net. So this posse of Aesir gods quickly spun flax thread and wove a net just like the one that the fire had destroyed. Then they marched down to the stream. Thor held one end of the net and the rest of the Aesir held the other and they cast it wide. It was a
good day for fishing.
The net fell near Loki. But Loki swam quickly between two stones, and the net passed above him and came up empty.
The Aesir simply weighted the net. Then they went upstream and cast it again. It was a good day for fishing.
Loki swam fast ahead of that net. It was gaining on him. The deep sea lay ahead, but that sea held too many dangers. So Loki turned and leaped over the net and went back up the waterfalls.
The Aesir saw him leap, of course. So they went after him a third time, starting right at the waterfalls. Now half the Aesir held one end of the net and the other half held the other end and the strong god Thor waded into the water at the very center of the stream, behind the net, his hands ready, itching to catch the wretched liar Loki. It was a good day for fishing.
Loki swam ahead of the net toward the sea. But he wouldn’t venture out into those depths. No. So he turned and leaped again, over the net, right into Thor’s hands. Thor carried him by his fish tail into a cavern in the mountains. The Aesir took three large flagstones and bore holes into them and set them end to end. Then they captured two of Loki’s sons, Vali and Nari, and they turned Vali into a wolf, who immediately set upon his brother and tore him limb from limb. With Nari’s entrails, the gods bound Loki to the three flagstones, a knot at his shoulders, a knot at his hips, a knot at his knees. Instantly, the entrails became iron. The giantess Skadi caught a serpent and fixed him above Loki’s head, so that venom dripped from the serpent’s jaw onto Loki’s face. Sigyn, one of Loki’s wives, held a basin to catch that poison. But whenever the basin was full to brimming, she had to hurry off to empty it, and in those moments, the poison scalded and ate away at Loki’s eyes and nose and lips. Ah, how he screamed and thrashed. The whole cosmos shook. Every earthquake marked the vengeance of the Aesir.
Treasury of Norse Mythology Page 7
