OF FIRE AND WATER THE OLD NORSE MYTHICAL WORLDVIEW IN AN ECOMYTHOLOGICAL PERSPECTIVE
A. MATHIAS VALENTIN NORDVIG MA, PHD CANDIDATE| AARHUS UNIVERSITY
CONTENT PREAMBLE
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Statement of purpose ........................................................................................................................................ 1 The structure of this dissertation ....................................................................................................................... 5 A note on translations and editions ............................................................................................................... 5 The Old Norse language in this dissertation ................................................................................................... 6 O the ter
Rag arǫk or rag arøkkr ......................................................................................................... 6
A note on certain Old Norse appellatives ................................................................................................... 7 On the term Útgarðr/Útgarðar ................................................................................................................... 7 A note on references to primary sources ....................................................................................................... 7 List of abbreviations ....................................................................................................................................... 8 INTRODUCTION
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Chapter introduction .......................................................................................................................................... 9 Method ............................................................................................................................................................. 11 Approaching myth ........................................................................................................................................ 15 Myth, culture, and collective memory ..................................................................................................... 17 Eco-mythology: the production of myths from place and space ............................................................. 24 The definition of myth .............................................................................................................................. 29 Source Reading ............................................................................................................................................. 30 Hypothesis for the analysis of eco-myths................................................................................................. 32 A practical method for analysis of eco-myths .......................................................................................... 36 The sources....................................................................................................................................................... 39 The internal relationship of the sources....................................................................................................... 39 Skaldic poetry ........................................................................................................................................... 43 Eddic poetry.............................................................................................................................................. 45 “ orri’s Edda ............................................................................................................................................. 53 The state of the sources ............................................................................................................................... 56 The discussion of worldview in Old Norse scholarship .................................................................................... 57 The early discussion of the Old Norse worldview ........................................................................................ 58 Contemporary scholarship ........................................................................................................................... 60 Commentaries on the research tradition in the Old Norse worldview .................................................... 67
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Chapter conclusion ........................................................................................................................................... 69 The consecutive definitions of myth ............................................................................................................ 70 The view of the sources and the modus of analysis and interpretation ...................................................... 71 The research tradition of worldview in Old Norse scholarship .................................................................... 72 Concluding remarks ...................................................................................................................................... 73 CONFRONTING THE SEA
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Chapter Introduction ........................................................................................................................................ 75 Þórr’s Fishi g E peditio .................................................................................................................................. 77 Þórr’s relatio ship ith the sea i other sour es ......................................................................................... 91 Þórr’s Jour e to Útgarðaloki ................................................................................................................... 92 Thorkillus’s Jour e s to Geruthus a d Ugarthilocus .............................................................................. 100 The Fishing Expedition: from stomach to soul ........................................................................................... 108 Chapter conclusion: the Fishing Myth as an eco-myth .................................................................................. 113 The early aspects of the Fishing Myth ........................................................................................................ 113 Later developments in the Fishing Myth .................................................................................................... 116 Concluding remarks .................................................................................................................................... 117 THE CREATION MYTH, THE MYTH OF THE MEAD OF POETRY, AND VOLCANISM
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Chapter Introduction ...................................................................................................................................... 121 The research background of early Icelandic volcanism in medieval literature .......................................... 122 The analyses in this chapter ....................................................................................................................... 124 Creation from Ymir ......................................................................................................................................... 126 The Ymir Myth ............................................................................................................................................ 126 The puzzle ................................................................................................................................................... 129 Eitr, Élivágar and Aurgelmir .................................................................................................................... 130 Surtr and Muspellzheimr ........................................................................................................................ 138 Collecting the pieces................................................................................................................................... 141 The Convulsions of Kvasir and the Odinic Eruption ........................................................................................ 145 The mead mystery ...................................................................................................................................... 145 Háleygjatal, Óðinn, and the Mead of Poetry .......................................................................................... 147 K asir’s o ulsio s .................................................................................................................................... 155 Kvasir ...................................................................................................................................................... 155 Vǫluspá 47–52 ........................................................................................................................................ 158 Óði
’s eruptio ......................................................................................................................................... 163
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Lava and mead, change and variation in the Mead Myth .......................................................................... 171 Latin influence on the Mead Myth ......................................................................................................... 173 The two mead myths .............................................................................................................................. 176 Chapter conclusion: the Creation Myth and the Mead Myth as response to volcanism ............................... 180 The Creation Myth as response to volcanism ............................................................................................ 180 The Mead Myth as response to volcanism ................................................................................................. 181 Concluding remarks .................................................................................................................................... 184 CONCLUSION
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Chapter introduction ...................................................................................................................................... 186 Confronting the sea ........................................................................................................................................ 187 Chapter summary ....................................................................................................................................... 187 Level one: the Fishing Expedition ............................................................................................................... 188 Level two: the journey out and new discoveries ........................................................................................ 189 Level three: new realizations and the conversion ...................................................................................... 190 Confronting the sea in an Old Norse worldview ........................................................................................ 191 The Creation Myth, the Myth of the Mead of Poetry, and Volcanism ........................................................... 194 Chapter summary ....................................................................................................................................... 194 The Creation Myth ...................................................................................................................................... 195 The Mead Myth .......................................................................................................................................... 196 The place of the land and volcanism in the Old Norse worldview ............................................................. 197 Concluding remarks ........................................................................................................................................ 199 The three questions of this dissertation ..................................................................................................... 199 The constitution of the Old Norse mythic worldview ............................................................................ 199 The question of the internal relationship of the texts ........................................................................... 201 The relationship of the texts to their surrounding environment ........................................................... 202 BIBLIOGRAPHY
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Primary sources .............................................................................................................................................. 203 Dictionaries, compendia, lexica and translated sources ................................................................................ 204 Secondary sources .......................................................................................................................................... 205 APPENDICES
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Summary in English ........................................................................................................................................ 221 Problem and purpose ................................................................................................................................. 221 The analyses ............................................................................................................................................... 223
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Resumé på dansk ............................................................................................................................................ 228 Problem og formål ...................................................................................................................................... 228 Analyserne .................................................................................................................................................. 230
OF FIRE AND WATER © A. Mathias Valentin Nordvig, 2013. PhD Dissertation Aarhus University Department of Aesthetics and Communication Section for Scandinavian studies Submitted on December 19th 2013. Supervisors: Pernille Hermann, MA, PhD. Aarhus University. Agnes S. Arnórsdóttir, MA, Dr. Phil. Aarhus University. Terry Gunnell, MA, PhD. University of Iceland. Front page picture: © Sigurður Hrafn Stefnisson.
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THANK YOU! There are several people, who have had direct impact on my personal choices and academic development leading towards the completion of this dissertation. I would like to thank my wife Stinne for the love, support and mind-blowing academic conversation and in-put that she has given me over the years. She has been very patient with me in the process of writing. I would also like to thank Henning Kure and Jannik Thiberg Thalbitzer for initially guiding me in the direction of Old Norse studies, and for expanding my horizon in our many fruitful debates over the years. I am grateful to Pernille Hermann and Agnes Arnórsdóttir for the many years of teaching and guidance they have provided me with when I was a student and as my supervisors during my time as a Ph.D.-candidate. Terry Gunnell, Jens Peter Schjødt and Stephen Mitchell also deserve my gratitude for all the support, conversation and useful advice they have offered me. I am thankful to Frog for having patiently helped me improve my writing skills more than once. A special thanks to Felix Riede, too, and his Laboratory for Past Disaster Science. Much of this dissertation has been conceived as a result of our academic exchange. Finally, I owe Steven Shema a big thank you for putting so much time and effort into helping me with the editing process of this dissertation. Thank you all!
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PREAMBLE STATEMENT OF PURPOSE
The overall purpose of this dissertation is to address the subject of worldview in the context of Old Norse mythology. To this end, I ask the question: (1) What is the constitution of the Old Norse worldview according to the literary mythological sources in terms of man’s relationship with nature? What is the relationship between the conceptual categories of culture and nature, or civilized and wild (byggð and óbyggð, innangarðs and útangarðs) as it is expressed in the æsir’s dealings with the surrounding world in the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, the Creation Myth, and the myth of the Mead of Poetry in the Edda version? How do the actions of the gods in these narratives express man’s mythical notions of his relationship with the land and sea in the Scandinavian and North Atlantic ecoystems? To answer this question we must first establish what is meant by the term ‘worldview,’ because this is not at all clear or consistent in Old Norse scholarship. The term is used widely by scholars of different disciplines, from literature and religion to archaeology. The subject has grown in popularity over the past forty decades (see pages 60-72), and the term ‘worldview’ has become commonplace in scholarship. It often supplants the term ‘cosmology’ in the context of Old Norse mythology in interdisciplinary discussion (e.g., Hultgård 2008, 213–15; Schjødt 2008b, 220), or in the juxtaposition of paganism and Christianity (Gräslund & Lager 2008, 637). It may also be used to describe a popular understanding of Old Norse religion and mythology contrary to a dogmatic or authoritative one (Raudvere 2008, 235–42). In other instances, the term is applied by some scholars as a designation for a social ideology that is essentially unconsciously implemented in society and individual life (Clunies Ross 1994, 11–19; Hastrup 1990, 25–66). The term ‘worldview’ is diffuse and originates in the German philosophical term Weltanschauung as it is used by, among others, Dilthey, Jaspers, and Scheler, to denote an overall comprehension of the world by an individual or a people. This all-encompassing understanding of the world synthesizes, generalizes, and transcends the scientific as well as the non-scientific perception of reality and prescribes social conduct, values, and explanations for the surrounding world (VTF 1982 I, 33–4, 107, 200). This is a very broad definition and it is thus no wonder that the term finds many uses in Old Norse scholarship. Because of the lack of clarity regarding the term ‘worldview’ and its application, the above question, when paired with the fact that there are no verifiably concrete
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first-hand sources for the pre-Christian worldview of Scandinavia, brings with it two other important questions, namely: (1) If the literature of Old Norse mythology contains a specific worldview, what is the internal relationship between these texts? And; (2) What is the external relationship of the mythology to the surrounding world? Answers to these questions have not been attempted by the various scholars who deal with the subject of an Old Norse mythological worldview. The broader discussion of the internal relationship of the texts is often lacking when it comes to trying to understand the worldview that the mythological narratives project. An exception is, to some extent, Nanna Løkka in Sted og landskap i norrøn mytologi (2010), but her restriction of source material to the use of eddic poetry at the expense of other texts—not least skaldic poetry and Edda—brings with it a series of problems (see pages 68-70). The case is similar with the question of the external relationship of the mythology to the surrounding world; it is hardly addressed in Old Norse scholarship. Only Stefan Brink in Mytologiska rum och eskatologiska föreställningar i det vikingatida Norden (2004) points out the relationship between worldview and the physical world of the people whose conceptions are being examined. However, his treatment of the problem is only superficial (see pages 66-67). As described below, the main interest of current scholarship on worldview in an Old Norse context has been to reconstruct a worldview in terms of values, primarily expressed in oppositional pairs. The discussion revolves around a model of the spatial stratification of cosmic realms as an indicator of the relationship between social groups and supernatural beings. In Island of Anthropology, Kirsten Hastrup describes the prevailing paradigm of the Old Norse worldview, which prescribes a binary opposition between an upper realm and an underworld, as well as an inner realm and an outer realm, with the added opposition of land to sea (1990, 26–30). This opposition of realms is understood to be expressed in social groupings of the supernatural beings of the cosmos, and the discussion of worldview primarily concerns whether or not this division of the Old Norse cosmos is correct (Løkka 2010, 17–34). A common misconception that is expressed in this regard is that eddic poetry offers a fragmentary worldview, while Edda demonstrates an ordered perspective that supports the binary model of the worldview (p. 22; Brink 2004, 297–306; Clunies Ross 1994, 230–3). This will be discussed more indepth in the research overview of the following chapter. The problem with this discussion is that it essentially neglects a wide range of parameters that pertain to the constitution of a worldview as it is described in the philosophical term above. It overlooks the influence of the natural world, of environments and ecosystems, on mythopoesis. It also overlooks the possibility of an evolution of mythopoesis, as well as an evolution in conceptions
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of the world and its many spaces and places. As such, the discussion primarily takes an interest in structuring models with regard to social stratifications of supernatural beings and groups. By contrast, this dissertation addresses conceptions of the natural world itself in order to understand the Old Norse mythic worldview, instead of social groups or races and their territories in the mythology. I have named this approach the eco-mythological approach, and it is conceived of as a tool for addressing aspects of the myths as worldview narratives, which are not always clear when the interpretive focus is solely on the social significance of the individual characters’ and groups’ actions. To demonstrate the value of this approach, I have chosen to focus on Old Norse conceptions of land and sea in the mythology. To address the conceptions of the sea in Old Norse myths, I have chosen the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition as my focal point. This myth is widely known in the early medieval or Viking Age of Scandinavia, and it is featured on picture-stones as well as in mythic narratives. In my analysis of the myth, I take an interest in its development as a mythic narrative in various literary forms and I combine its importance as a myth with the observable facts about the significance of the sea in early Scandinavian culture, thereby addressing the above-mentioned questions. With this approach I seek to answer the initial question in a more nuanced perspective. I find, in that respect, that the binary opposition of land and sea, civilized and wild, is a much more complex issue that does not easily let itself be grafted onto a fixed model. Notions of civilized space versus the wild and of the ‘safe’ landmass versus the outer, ‘unsafe’ sea—the Úthaf—in the models of current scholarship are disproportionate in light of the social significance that the sea had according to the mythological sources, as well as Saxo and several saga narratives. For the purpose of addressing Old Norse conceptions of the land, I have chosen to focus on the myth of the Creation of the World from Ymir’s body and, by extension, the myth of the εead of Poetry in its prose version from Skáldskaparmál. At first glance it may not seem entirely obvious to pair these two myths with one another, or for that matter to seek out conceptions of the land in the myth of the Mead of Poetry, but under the auspices of eco-mythology both of these myths are relevant to the study of one primary aspect of the Icelandic landscape that is unavoidable: volcanism. This has a different relationship to worldview than the subject of the sea, but it is in no way less important to an understanding of the conceptions of land in the Old Norse worldview. While the study of Old Norse mythic representations of the sea fits into the category of worldview studies as a conceptual mapping of a natural space that directly influences ideas of the self and society, the study of myths about volcanism in Old Norse mythology relates first to explanations of extraordinary natural phenomena, but likewise contributes to our understanding of Old Norse conceptions of the self and society. In addition, the study of volcanism in the mythology may lead towards a more thorough
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understanding of the evolution of mythic narratives that may have been transported from the Scandinavian mainland and continental Europe to Iceland. This is because, as a natural feature, volcanism represents the major difference between Iceland and Northern Europe, and also because an investigation into how myths may have been involved in relaying knowledge and explanations of volcanism can help illustrate hitherto unrecognized aspects of developments in mythic narratives from Scandinavia to Iceland. Furthermore, it is because volcanism is an overlooked subject in Old Norse scholarship (see chapter IV, pages 124-127), and until recently Old Norse myths have not been associated with volcanism in any noteworthy capacity. In that respect, it stands to reason that if the myths are the basis from which we can reconstruct a pre-Christian worldview, they must also contain knowledge about the volcanism of Iceland as much as they contain knowledge of such things as fishing, social conduct, and ideas about the end of the world. In this dissertation I examine the Ymir Creation Myth and that of the Mead of Poetry as two types of myths about volcanism and argue that they take their place as technical myths about volcanism and the response to volcanism in the Old Norse worldview as a consequence of the chthonic associations attributed both to Ymir and to the Mead.
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THE STRUCTURE OF THIS DISSERTATION
This dissertation is divided into three chapters and a conclusion: (1) Introduction; (2) Confronting the Sea, and; (3) The Creation Myth, the myth of the Mead of Poetry, and Volcanism. The introduction provides a frame for the discussion by setting up methodological standards for analysis and interpretation. It also contextualizes this study in relation to other research that has been done in the field. The introduction has a rather lengthy discussion on the method of myth analysis. This is attributable to the history of Old Norse scholarship. When addressing aspects of the natural world in Old Norse myths, it is important to construct a strong theoretical foundation that can support the analyses, otherwise there will be an array of pitfalls on the way, such as was experienced by the naturist schools of myth analysis in the nineteenth century. There is no single chapter on the state of the art in this presentation. There are instead several sections of the introductory chapter that deal with different aspects of the scholarly tradition that is relevant to the study. These are primarily the sections ‘Approaching myth’ and ‘The discussion of worldview in Old Norse scholarship,’ but in the case of the chapter on ‘The Creation εyth, the myth of the εead of Poetry, and Volcanism,’ there is a prolonged introduction addressing the research history of volcanism in medieval Icelandic literature and historical records. Since there are considerable differences in subject matter and perspective between the two main chapters of this dissertation, they are each designed as a closed analysis. However, in each chapter conclusion the meta-perspective of worldview as it relates to the research tradition of Old Norse scholarship is addressed. This is also the case with the final conclusion, which addresses the subjects of worldview, mythopoesis in the context of traditional technical knowledge, and the conceptions of sea and land (including volcanism), in Old Norse myths. A NOTE ON TRANSLATIONS AND EDITIONS
All translations are my own unless otherwise stated. In several instances the translations have been made in consultation with authoritative published translations. This is indicated in the text. For sources in the original languages, I have sought to use the most recent authoritative editions, or the ones that are philologically considered to be standard editions. I use Anthony Faulkes’s edition of Edda: Snorri Sturluson. Edda. Prologue and Gylfaginning (2011) and Snorri Sturluson. Edda. Skáldskaparmál (2007). I also use Faulkes’s edition of Edda for references to the skaldic poems that are cited here. For eddic poems, I use Neckel and Kuhn’s Edda. Die Lieder des Codex Regius nebst verwandten Denkmälern (1962). In the case of Ovid, I use R. J. Tarrant’s P. Ovidi Nasonis.
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Metamorphoses (2004) and for Gesta Danorum, I use the Friis-Jensen/Zeeberg edition Saxo Grammaticus Gesta Danorum I–II (2005). In the cases of Gesta Normannorum and Muspilli, I have used online resources from, respectively, the universities of Augsburg (1996) and Bochum (1994). The edition of Tacitus that I am using is the fifth edition of Ferhle-Hünnerkopf’s standardized text with translation: P. Cornelius Tacitus. Germania (1959). For Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum, I use Bernhard Schmiedler’s editon from 1λ17. As for the sagas and Landnámabók, I make use of the Íslenzk Fornrit editions, except in the case of Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns, where I use Gúðni Jónsson’s edition (1λ54). In the case of Konungs Skuggsjá, I use Ludvig Holm-Olsen’s edition from 1λ45; and for the annals, I use Storm’s 1888 edition. THE OLD NORSE LANGUA GE IN THIS DISSERTATION
In this dissertation I use normalized Old Norse as a standard for isolated words and phrases. However, all quotations respect the form of the original source. This means that there will be considerable differences in the spelling of quotations between Neckel and Kuhn’s edition of the eddic poems, Holm-Olsen’s edition of Konungs Skuggsjá, and the quotations of Faulkes’s Edda and the saga editions. It may serve to note that I use the older standard for Old Norse, which still uses ‘z’ and ‘ ,’ although in the cases of referring to genre categories such as ‘íslendingasögur’ I use the modern ‘ö,’ because it is a modern word. ON THE TERM RAGNARǪK OR RAGNARØKKR
The reader will note that I use both the form ‘Ragnar k’ and ‘ragnarøkkr’ in this dissertation. This is based on the linguistic discussion of the correct semantics of –r k/–røkkr. In his article Old Icelandic ragnarök and ragnarøkkr (2007), Haraldur Bernharðsson has made a convincing case for the two versions being related and interchangeable (2007, 35). He identifies the origin of the second element –røk(k)r from a strong class 5 verb in Old Icelandic: røk(k)va, rek(k)va, to Proto-Germanic *rekwan, which is related to Gothic riqis ‘darkness’ (p. 32-3). He concludes that both –rǫk and –røk(k)r refer to twilight as a phenomenon that occurs both in the beginning and the end of the day, and this may have lead to their interchangeability in terms of destruction and rebirth. As such there seem to be two traditions for the word: one tradition points towards ‘Ragnar k’ (with a capitalized ‘R’) in the commonly accepted sense of ‘The Fate, Destiny, or Process of the Gods’; and the other points in the direction of a form pertaining to darkness associated with, among other things, weather phenomena and battle (p. 33). The polysemantic nature of this word is fully-fitting with the subject of this dissertation: the first meaning associates it with a cosmic apocalypse and the second meaning
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associates it with observable natural phenomena and human activity. I will therefore in the following employ the term ‘Ragnar k’ whenever I wish to stress the eschatological—and generally Christian— association with this term, and when I am mentioning it in relation to volcanic events, I will use the term ‘ragnarøkkr.’ This seems to be consistent with the worldview projected by the sources, and it underscores the importance of keeping in mind the polysemantic nature of this type of literature. A NOTE ON CERTAIN OL D NORSE APPELLATIVES
I do not capitalize or italicize the group appellatives æsir, vanir, regin, asynjur, valkyrjur, nornir, dvergar, hrímþursar, and j tnar. These are not considered proper names in this dissertation, but rather group designations comparable to ‘gods’ and ‘giants’ and ‘dwarves’ as they would be used in standard English. I find that capitalizing these designations is inconsistent with their actual usage in the Old Norse texts, where certain designations are interchangeable, such as æsir, tívar, and regin. ON THE TERM ÚTGARÐR/ ÚTGARÐAR
In the discussion of Old Norse cosmology and worldview, the term ‘Útgarðr’ or ‘Útgarðar’ has enjoyed much attention (Løkka 2010, 9-11 and 254-5). The term does not play a significant role in this dissertation, but it is being used primarily in connection with the analysis of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, as I investigate the narrative of Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki. In that context, the reader will note that both the singular form ‘Útgarðr’ and the plural form ‘Útgarðar’ are used. This is due to the forms in Faulkes’s edition of Edda, where the singular form is used in reference to the place of Útgarðaloki—more specifically his castle—and the plural genitive form is used in the name of Útgarðaloki (Gylf. XLV-XδVI). εy usage of Útgarðr refers to Útgarðaloki’s castle, whereas the plural form refers to the entire area beyond the Úthaf that he presumably governs. A NOTE ON REFERENCES TO PRIMARY SOURCES
In the case of primary sources, I refer to the smallest singular unit in a work. This means that I refer to the chapters of Prologus, Gylfaginning, and Skáldskaparmál in Edda. In Saxo’s Gesta Danorum, I refer to the author with the individual books and the Praefatio, including numbered chapters and sections. To save space, I only give the full bibliographic details on Saxo’s work once in each section of the text where it is used, and subsequently refer to the book (lib.), and then chapter (cap.) in question: (Saxo 2005 I, VIII 15,1) > (lib. VIII 17,1) > (cap.14,1). When referring to Ovid, I give the book number in the same manner as in Saxo and then refer to the verse line: (Metamorphoses 2004,
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IV,647). All eddic and skaldic poetry is referred to by the title of the poem and the number of the stanza. There are some references to notes and commentaries in relation to the poetry, particularly in the eddic poems and Hallmundarkviða, and in those cases I refer to page numbers in the edition that I am using. This is also the case with the prose of Bergbúa þáttr. Finally, in the cases of the sagas, Landnámabók, Konungs Skuggsjá, and Gesta Normannorum, I refer to the chapters of the text, not page numbers in the edition. In the case of the sagas from Heimskringla, I indicate which saga I am referring to as well. In Heimskringla I also refer to the Prologus without chapter indication since it is not sectioned into chapters. It is a general rule that if I refer to parts of the text in the editions of the primary sources that do not belong to the text body of the primary source, but to notes or editorial remarks, it is indicated unambiguously. LIST OF ABBREVIATION S
Cap. = Capitulum (Saxo). DgF = Danmarks gamle Folkeviser. EOV = Encyclopedia of Volcanoes. Eyrb. = Eyrbyggja saga. Grm. = Grímnismál. Gylf. = Gylfaginning. Halkv. = Hallmundarkviða. Hál. = Háleygjatal Heimskr. = Heimskringla Hvm. = Hávamál. Hkv. = Hymiskviða. Landn. = Landnámabók. Lib. = Liber (Saxo). Musp. = Muspilli. Praef. = Praefatio (Saxo). Prol. = Prologus (Edda). ODNS = Lexicon poeticum antiquae linguae septentrionalis. Ordbog over det norsk-islandske skjaldesprog. ONP = Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog. Rgm. = Reginsmál. Skáld. = Skáldskaparmál. SnE = Edda. SPD = Skaldic Project Database. Vfm. = Vafþrúðnismál. VTF = Vor tids filosofi. Vsp. = Vǫluspá.
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INTRODUCTION CHAPTER INTRODUCTION
In the following chapter, I account for the working hypothesis and theory of myth that is applied throughout this study. These are formulated in close conference with leading theorists of myth and history in the field of narrative research in historical texts, combined with observations made by anthropologists and ethnologists studying non-literary cultures. I take this approach to Old Norse myths because of the realization that at any point from the Viking Age to the High Middle Ages in Scandinavia, we are dealing with a culture that is primarily oral and in which literacy is a secondary operational and communicative mode. Even the most literary personalities of this period, men like Saxo and (presumably) Snorri, must be understood to have been more bound to an oral-aural culture than to a written one. It neglects the true state of the texts of Old Norse literature to treat them only as literature in the sense known to modern scholarship of the recent centuries. With this recognition of the contextual status of the literature of Old Norse mythology, I formulate a functional understanding of myth in relation to the society and social processes of the transition age of early Scandinavia: the period from the early ninth century until the late thirteenth century. This social and societal understanding of myth becomes the background against which I justify the association of certain myths with natural phenomena and processes. I argue that the ecosystem of any given culture has a strong impact on the development of human society, and that we may thus expect to find more aspects of natural phenomena in myths than is typically acknowledged. Primarily, it is the impact of the sea on cultural development and conceptualizations of human existence—its central status in the Old Norse worldview—that I associate with the myths. This is a broad perspective that is common to all regions of early Scandinavian cultureμ from Danm rk to Svalbarð, and from Svíþjóð to Vínland. A more narrow context is found in the experience of volcanism: a phenomenon peculiar to Iceland, a region and an ecosystem that represents a new experiential frame—social as well as environmental—in the context of the broader Scandinavian cultural perspective. It thus represents an expansion or redistribution of conceptions in the worldview. With this I account for my source reading and interpretational mode. I make use of linguistic theories of how natural phenomena are expressed in analogies, metaphors, and with metonymic references in order to conceptualize and narrativize experienced space and place.1 In conference with these theories and their associated methods, I present a method of analysis and interpretation of Old 1
For a philosophical backdrop that accounts for the importance of experienced space to human cognition and conceptualization of the world, see J.E. εalpas’s Place and Experience (1999).
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Norse eco-myths as cultural response narratives to important sites and spaces in the ecosystem of the Scandinavian and North Atlantic region. The last part of this introductory chapter deals with the source material and scholarly tradition relevant for this dissertation. I describe the various sources and their interrelatedness, as well as the difficulties in approaching them as texts of myths and mythologies. I limit detailed description of the sources to the primary ones that are of most importance to this presentation. Details relevant to our understanding of an individual minor source in the context of analysis are relegated to the various chapters of analysis. This means that I treat the Latin and historiographical sources briefly in the introduction to the sources, but otherwise discuss their status as sources and representational modes in the context of carrying out analyses. The same is the case for the skaldic poems. For the eddic poems and Snorri’s Edda, however, I provide a deeper and more detailed discussion of their status as sources of mythology, their relationship with the pre-Christian era, and their status as cultural texts in Scandinavian culture. In my discussion of the texts’ status, I also provide an overview of the most important content of the eddic poems and the chapters of Edda relevant to this presentation. These poems are Vǫluspá, Hávamál, Vafþrúðnismál, Grímnismál, and Hymiskviða, while the chapters of Edda are Gylfaginning, Skáldskaparmál, and Prologus. This overview of the content and themes of these poems and chapters is conducive to our understanding of the misleading idea of the preChristian worldview that might be gleaned from a superficial reading of them, if one is not attentive to the narrative layers and the problems of the texts as sources of a pre-Christian condition of life or a cultural evolution. Following this exposition on the sources, I provide an overview of the scholarly discussion of the subject of cosmology and worldview. This contextualizes the present investigation in the recent debate of the worldview of Old Norse myths in the pre-Christian era. The worldview debate is relevant to this dissertation insofar as it postulates certain models and representational modes of how Vikings and pre-Christian Scandinavians may have perceived and conceived of their world. Although this dissertation does not, per se, follow a similar path of discussion as any of the scholars who are represented in the section on the state of the art of the worldview discussion, this study is very much a comment on the subject, and the discussions of these scholars are therefore highly relevant to keep in mind when reading this presentation. In the end, this chapter is closed off by a brief conclusion on the discussion of Old Norse myths, sources, and the worldview that they may reveal. This conclusion highlights the most important aspects that the reader must keep in mind when progressing to the first chapter of analysis and onwards.
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METHOD
In the following section I develop a theory of myth that can explain on what grounds and to what purpose Old Norse myths were useful as explanatory models for the world in a broad temporal scope, from the Viking Age until Snorri’s time, and beyond. The analyses conducted in this dissertation rely on a particular view of the concept of myth, which in turn informs the method of source reading. I have formulated this view on myth in accord with what may be defined as the cultural life of myth, in the sense that my view on myth takes into account the ways in which the concept has been received by scholars and philosophers from Antiquity until the present. To map out these different views in their details in this presentation would be too extensive, but a brief overview based on δauri Honko’s article The Problem of Defining Myth (1984 [1972]) is appropriate. Honko enumerates ten different theories on myth that are expressed by philosophers in Antiquity: (A1) Mythographic interpretation; (A2) Philosophical criticism; (A3) Pre-scientific interpretation; (A4) Allegorical interpretation based on natural phenomena; (A5) Allegorical explanation based on spiritual qualities; (A6) Etymological interpretation; (A7) Historical (comparative and derivative) interpretation; (A8) Euhemeristic interpretation; (Aλ) “Sociological” interpretation (deceit of the masses by authorities), and; (A10) Psychological interpretation (Honko 1984, 45–6). Honko notes that these theories did not begin to wane before empirical research became the norm in the early twentieth century (p. 45), and they were supplanted by a set of approaches that belong to four primary focuses of research: the historical, the psychological, the sociological, and the structural perspectives (p. 46). On the basis of this, Honko lists the following twelve modern scholarly approaches, which are seen as overlapping on different levels: (B1) Myth as source of cognitive categories; (B2) Myth as form of symbolic expression; (B3) Myth as projection of the subconscious; (B4) εyth as an integrated factor in man’s adaptation to lifeμ myth as worldview; (B5) εyth as a charter of behavior; (B6) Myth as the legitimization of social structures; (B7) Myth as marker of social relevance; (B8) Myth as mirror of culture and social structure; (B9) Myth as result of historical situation; (B10) Myth as religious communication; (B11) Myth as religious genre, and; (B12) Myth as medium for structure (p. 47–8). It is clear from this overview of a total of twenty-two different approaches to myth that the term has always been widely applied—this is also true in the study of Old Norse myth. It is also clear that there are aspects of the antique definitions that are still very much relevant in modern scholarship. One can find aspects of pre-scientific interpretation (A3) and allegorical interpretations based on nature (A4) in the modern approaches to myth as a source of cognitive categories (B1) and myth as worldview (B4). The allegorical explanation of myth as spiritual qualities (A5) is relevant to the
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approach to myth as a projection of the subconscious (B3), while the comparative and derivative approach (A7), the euhemerist approach (A8), and the interpretation of religion as the deceit of the masses by authorities (A9) are relevant to studies of myth as mirroring culture and social structure (B8), as well as the relation of myth to historical situations (B9). Finally, the psychological interpretations of myth (A10) may have some relevance to the notion of myth as a projection of the subconscious (B3). These correlations may be illustrated in the following manner:
A1 B1 B2 B3 B4 B5 B6 B7 B8 B9 B10 B11 B12
A2
A3 x
A4 x
x
x
A5
A6
A7
A8
A9
x
A10
x
x x
x x
x x
Figure 1: The relationship of modern to pre-modern theories of myth.
This study of Old Norse myth departs from a focus on myth as a source of cognitive categories (B1). Honko explains B1 asμ “an explanation for enigmatic phenomena. The intellect needs to conceptualise certain aspects of the universe, to establish the relationship between different phenomena” (p. 47). Honko does not explain the relationship between the different modern approaches to myth any further in the article, but one may see clear commonalities between B1 and B4, myth as worldviewμ “In myths man is faced with fundamental problems of society, culture and nature. Myths offer opportunities of selecting different elements which satisfy both individual tendencies and social necessities. From these elements it is possible to create an individual, but at the same time traditional, way of viewing the world” (ibid). My approach to myth in this presentation resembles these two definitions. The myths of Þórr fishing for the World Serpent, the Mead of Poetry, and the Creation of the World are as such human attempts to conceptualize aspects of the universe. They explain (enigmatic) phenomena of our world and they conceptualize these in a social structure. They are examples of man, who is faced with fundamental problems—in this case of nature—and they are representative of a specific worldview. Because they associate mythic material with natural phenomena, they also represent a kind of pre-scientific interpretation of the world. The object of this study is not to revive the approach of the school of “naturism,” the Oxford School, and the theories of Max Müller, G.W. Cox, and M. Bréal. To reiterate the words of Jan de
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Vries describing εüller’s theories (see εüller 18λλ) in his article Theories Concerning “Nature Myths” (1λ84 [1λ67])μ “It is not necessary [any more now] to waste words on such fanciful reasoning” (de Vries 1984, 37). In this article de Vries delivers a fine but short overview and critique of naturism and nature mythology. A longer and more in-depth critique is expounded by Émile Durkheim in The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (1965 [1915], 89–106), where he writes: [And] this argument [that a disease of language is a disease of thought] is not valid merely against Max Müller and his theory, but against the very principle of naturism, in whatever way it may be applied. Whatever we may do, if religion has as its principal object the expression of the forces of nature, it is impossible to see in it anything more than a system of lying fictions, whose survival is incomprehensible” (Durkheim 1λ65, 100 [my italics]). Durkheim’s purpose here is to underscore that religion and the activities of religion are inherently social and are not banal attempts of primitive man to explain the mysteries of the surrounding world. Religions and their mythologies are cultural systems (e.g. Geertz 1973, 5). I readily concede to the validity of this argument and most certainly the notion that the expression of natural forces is not the principal object of religion and thus myth. εythogenesis is not a function of man’s perception of natural phenomena, as it is suggested by the naturists, but we must ask ourselves whether or not natural phenomena and ecosystems play a part in mythopoesis, the continual cultural use and reuse of myths. I will argue that not only do myths associated with nature in fact occur, they occur at a much higher frequency than is usually credited, and their conceptualizations of social phenomena are much more important than is typically believed by established scholarship. There do exist myths about natural phenomena and processes, which may be termed more than just “lying fictions,” in the sense that they are misunderstandings of what natural sciences will reveal. Such myths were the prescientific narratives created by human beings to conceptualize their ecosystems, and the survival of these myths is indeed comprehensible. Such myths cannot be termed lying fictions, because of their primary function in society, namely: survival. The survival of humans, groups, and societies. The fundamental truth of this is that if myths of natural phenomena and processes preserve technical knowledge about these phenomena and processes, they do not only have a social function, their survival in oral and literary narratives is also crucial to the survival of human society. The core of this position is that no idea makes its way into these narratives without reason, intention, or some existence prior to the narrative, even though it may seem indiscernible, enigmatic, or mysterious. Set in practical terms this means, for instance, that when Saxo and Kongungs Skuggsjá both claim that there are wells that taste like beer in Iceland (Saxo 2005 I, Praef. 2,7; Konungs skuggsiá 1945, XV), this assertion will not be cast aside as the ramblings of a fool, the fantasies of a drunk man, or for that matter, the misconceptions of a clerk. It seems more reasonable to assume that
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the conceptual distance between Iceland and a writer such as Saxo is not as great as it is usually perceived to be, and his representations of the natural phenomena there may reveal some ties to conceptions of the physical reality of the ecosystem. The assertion should instead be scrutinized for its truth-value in terms of conceptions of natural phenomena: not in terms of searching for the corresponding natural phenomenon, but in terms of asking why would it be meaningful to the worldview associated with these texts to reproduces this idea? This approach also means that, for instance, the revelations of Ragnar k in Vǫluspá and Gylfaginning will be taken seriously as part of the worldview that created them, either as a fear of a moral apocalypse or as an actual apocalypse that was believed to be looming in the future. It may seem trivial to point this out, but it is necessary. In fact, with everything that is known of mythopoesis as an integrated part of human worldviews, not to point this out would bring this study in danger of becoming trivial, in that without this realization any discussion of the development of motifs and narratives would drag us into the realm of literary borrowings, and thus guide us to a dead end in terms of new realizations in Old Norse myths. Our discussion would then, as Durkheim points out, revolve around fictions distanced from reality and we would fail to see the possibility of actualized, useful meaning in the mythical material at hand. For this reason I have set out to formulate a dynamic and evolutionary understanding of myth that is derived from observed aspects of Old Norse mythology with reference to the Scandinavian cases of the wagons in the bog at Dejbjerg and the Telemark tale of Torsvegen over Urebøuren. These two examples demonstrate in full the concept of eco-mythology that I present in the following as the narrativization of natural Memory Spaces: places or sites in nature that for various reasons— particularly emotional reasons—produce enduring memories among human beings in their vicinity. Myths that consist of narratives with social and experiential significance in reference to the ecosystem are retained in such social memories. They are formulated as technical knowledge that, for the sake of preservation, is narrativized and has, in linguistic terms, undergone the “εemory Crunch” (Barber & Barber 2004, 9–10). 2 This is a functional approach to myth, and it will be developed in the following in relation to established theories of history and myth.
2
This will be explained in chapter II, pages 34-38.
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APPROACHING MYTH
The broadest description of myth is that it, like any other narrative produced by humans, is a structured account of a part of human reality. More narrowly we may express the nature of myth with Stephen εitchell’s words from his eminent study Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle Ages (2011)μ “εyths are alive, and they resonate in the lives of the individuals who hear, tell, know and use them. In other words, they are more than just words on a page about the characters and tales from a society long since gone” (εitchell 2011, 117). On par with Clunies Ross’s approach to myth in Prolonged Echoes vol. 2 (1λλ8) and ultimately also Joseph Campbell’s Myths to Live By (1972), εitchell states that it is myth “in this sense of invented, renewed, actualized, and ‘narrativized’ dogma and Weltanschauung” (p. 117 and endnote 1, p. 258) that he intends to articulate. To my mind, the nature of myth cannot be stated more clearly. Myths are evolutionary narratives that are constructed on patterns made up of common cultural currency, and they are used for the primary purpose of enhancing human experience of reality and for making sense of the non-human world. It is, however, not without difficulty that one applies the term ‘myth’ to the narratives of what is commonly known as Old Norse mythology. Annette Lassen has pointed out in Odin på kristent pergament (2011) that the term myth is, in essence, foreign to medieval Icelandic literature. In medieval rhetoric the term myth became associated with the term fabula due to the classical distinction between mythos and logos. The fabula is defined as neither realistic nor truthful and it stands in contrast to historia (ancient events) and argumentum (realistic fiction). The classical definition of fabula does not involve stories of gods and heroes. It is an entirely false account, and in Isidore’s Etymologiae it is primarily associated with animal tales (Lassen 2011, 83–4). Lassen asserts that the medieval, Latin-Christian literary culture of the Icelandic authors and composers would have viewed the term fabula as the proper definition for the Old Norse myths, and it is therefore an anachronism and subversive to understanding the literary context of the pagan tales to apply the term ‘myth’ to them (p. 87). The major problem with δassen’s conclusion in this is a failure to distinguish between function and content. The above definition of the myth as an evolutionary narrative constructed on patterns of common cultural currency, suggests a wider perspective on myth than one that is simply based on the Eliadean definition, used by Lassen, of a tale of supernatural beings in the beginning of time (Eliade 1963, 5–6), which may be revered as truthful or not. Eliade’s definition is primarily (although not exclusively) concerned with the content of a narrative in order to determine whether it is a myth, whereas the view on myth as an evolutionary narrative based on common cultural currency addresses the function of myth, and defines a narrative as myth based on its cultural function.
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Lassen is concerned with the internal definition of the narratives of Old Norse mythology in the Medieval Era, an activity that defines these narratives in terms of their content, not their function. With this focus on Old Norse myth, Lassen overlooks the seriousness with which these tales are treated in the primary medieval Icelandic literature on Old Norse mythologyμ Snorri’s Edda. Lassen glosses over the mythography of Snorri’s Edda in this context, treating it with only three sentences (Lassen 2011, 83), then proceeding directly to the reception history of Old Norse mythology. She suggests instead that the terms ævintýr, lygisǫgur, or skrǫksǫgur could have functioned as Old Icelandic translations or derivations of the term fabulae, and that they are more suitable to describe the Old Norse myths (p. 85–6). This focus ignores the terminology that is applied in context of Edda and the function of the interpretive strategies of euhemerism and typology that are employed in this text and elsewhere in Old Norse–Scandinavian literature that makes use of the myths. Since the text of Edda employs such terms as saga, mál, and frásǫgn, not ævintýr, lygisǫgur, or skrǫksǫgur, to designate the mythic narratives that are described here as ancient pagan tales (cf. Clunies Ross 1992), it seems that the tradition is aware of the historically pregnant status of these narratives. This sentiment is also expressed in the Prologus to Heimskringla, where the author refers to the close ties that Ari fróði had to important men and women with knowledge of the conversion era. He expresses trust in the information value of the (skaldic) poetryμ “En kvæðin þykkja mér sízt ór stað fœrð, ef þau eru rétt kveðin ok skynsamliga upp tekin” (And the poems I think will give the most, if they are properly composed and sensibly received [Heimskr. 1979 I: Prologus]). This is a historical view and a view of certain genres that may be termed as learned-indigenous, one which differs greatly from the one outlined by Lassen. It is a view of the ancient mythic genres of poetry, and perhaps even the prose narratives, which attributes to them a historical reality and an importance as narratives with primary cultural function, and thus sees them as evolutionary narratives based on patterns of common cultural currency—in so many words: as myths. Here, this historical view is applied to poetry, but arguably it seems that a similar view is expressed on the mythic narratives in Edda. The fact is that this approach established by the medieval ‘mythologists’ demands that their literary productions must be understood as part of the whole tradition, ranging from an early state of Germanic culture in the Iron Age to the High Middle Ages of Iceland and Scandinavia. Their texts are medieval creations that to some extent retain a historical reality that reaches far back in time. They do this in different ways: by postulating antiquity, by preserving ancient motifs, by preserving ancient narrative structures, and not least by displaying influence from the European literary tradition as it has developed from classical Roman times into the Medieval Era. This understanding of Old Norse myths is a ‘text in context’ approach, which draws upon recently developed theories on myths, historical sources as literary texts and the concept of collective
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and cultural memory. The interpretive mode of this study relies on a dynamic understanding of myth, in which ‘myth’ is perceived as a conceptual term for culturally important narratives that are used and reproduced under varying temporal and spatial conditions. In order to develop this approach, I combine the theories of two primary modern theoreticians on history, religion and memory, Jacques Le Goff (1992) and Jan Assmann (2006), with the term eco-mythology that is developed in conference with Åke Hultkrantz’s largely overlooked ecological approach to religion (1λ66, 1λ7λ and 1λ86). This approach to myth is described in the following. MYTH, CULTURE, AND C OLLECTIVE MEMORY
My initial description of myth as an evolutionary narrative that is constructed on patterns made up of common cultural currency, which defines myth in social-functional terms rather than as a specific literary genre, is derived from a certain view on history and narratives as historical sources. This view is formulated as a consequence of the literary circumstances of thirteeth and fourteenth century Iceland and the development from an oral-aural society in the preceding centuries, reaching back into the Viking Age in Scandinavia and the North Atlantic. With the advent of Christianity in Scandinavia and the establishment of churches and clerical infrastructure, the technology of writing and the production of texts were introduced into society in a new way. The early literary activity in Scandinavia consisted in its entirety of the production of short sentences and words in runes on artifacts and commemorative stones. This changed with the conversion of Scandinavia by the book—a change that is monumentally signified by the runic carving on the large Jelling rune stone where the letters are arranged as illuminated medieval script.3 This runic activity was based on a conceptual universe, which revolved around ritualized practices and tradition. In her article Memorials in Memory and Speech (2005), Judith Jesch suggests that both runic and skaldic commemoration are products of the cultural situation of their time. They allude to mythology as shared, basic cultural knowledge, which is assumed to be present in the minds of the audience (2005, 98–9). The skalds, she argues, were not just composers of aesthetically valued poems in the sense of modern poetry. They were first, probably not only poets but more than anything rune carvers, and second, their social function was to record and preserve essential cultural information for posterity. This, she points out, is what is maintained in Snorri Sturluson’s designation of the skald as a frœðimaðr (p. 99–100).
3
For an overview of runic script in the North, see Larsson 2007. For a good recent study of the conversion of Scandinavia, see Anders Winroth’s The Conversion of Scandinavia (2012).
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The frœðimaðr, the principal carrier of tradition, ensures the continuity of culture by verbally transmitting knowledge from one generation to another. Brian Stock describes this situation quite well in The Implications of Literacy (1983), where he writes that knowledge in an oral society is: […] passed on in a series of face-to-face encounters. Such meetings are rich in gesture, ritual and ceremony: men communicate not only by what they say but by how they behave […] εeaning arises as a compromise between a standard set of rhetorical figures and an individual interchange to which they are adapted. The single great storehouse of meaning is memory. The mnemonic devices through which epic, legal and religious information is recalled help to structure the way in which the individual thinks about the facts transmitted (Stock 1983, 14–15). This characterization fully fits the frœðimaðr that Jesch describes and it is important to note that Stock asserts that meaning, in terms of what is transmitted by this frœðimaðr, is a compromise between standard rhetorical figures and individual interchange. This realization demands that our understanding of the Old Norse myths in writing, which we may for many reasons assume to have an oral background (Gunnell 1995, 182–235; Gunnell 2007; Meulengracht 2006, 16–22; Jónas Kristjánsson 2007, 25–114), cannot be entirely fixed to the manuscript tradition. The manuscript is the latest compromise between the standard set of rhetorical figures and an individual interchange to which they are adapted. The prose commentaries in the Codex Regius GKS 2365 4to manuscript of the eddic poems attest to this, as the authors use them to distance themselves from the folk belief expressed in the poems (Gunnell 1995, 195–7), but also because they function as interjections explaining the course of events in the otherwise indiscernible stanzas. Here, the poetry stands as a last remnant of the arcane mythic knowledge of the frœðimenn and in recognition of this, the medieval author has chosen to curate some assertions with his contemporary knowledge. The same is the case for the Epilogus in Skálskaparmál (Skáld. Epilogus), where the author warns against believing in the tales that are related by him. This is a similar cautionary statement that serves to distance the author from the content. Gylfaginning has, on the other hand, incorporated this in its style, with the format of Gylfi’s questions to the æsir. The exchange is an oral setting borrowed from the dialogic form of Vafþrúðnismál where arcane knowledge is transmitted by frœðimenn, who are in this case the æsir themselves. The setting and style, with a prologue that explains the origins of the misconceptions of the æsir, distances the contents of the rhetorical figures of the æsir from the author. In both instances it is the oral depth of the culture that is the basis for the expositions of the myths. And both are medieval expressions of the literarization of cultural knowledge, functioning as the written expression of what Stock defines as a “conceptual filter for image formation and recollection,” in which the “social group, together with its ‘folk-memory,’ determines the relationship of the new elements to the
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old. The past, whether conceived abstractly or concretely, can be present if relevant to ongoing cultural needs” (Stock 1λ83, 15). This conceptual filter for image formation and recollection may be defined in Jacques Le Goff’s and Jan Assmann’s terms of Collective εemory and Cultural Memory. By invoking their terminology I intend to bridge the gap from mediality to culture, which I see implied in the discussion of the binarism of orality and literacy that is carried by the above argument. All too quickly, in discussing issues of orality in writing, the focus shifts towards the medial aspects of the text and its rhetorical figures, and with that to the subject of genre and a discussion similar to the aforementioned one that Lassen delivered. My purpose here is not to analyze the text, but the culture in the text, the myths and their function in the Old Norse-Scandinavian worldview. In δe Goff’s term ‘Collective εemory’ we find a suitable understanding of what myth is, while Assmann’s term ‘Cultural εemory’ helps us to understand what myth does. But before we proceed to the application of these terms, it is prudent to dwell for a moment on the term ‘memory.’ Early in the twentieth century εaurice Halbwach used the term ‘Collective εemory’ systematically, advancing it in the two studies of Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire (1952 [1925]) and La topographie légendaire des Evangiles en Terre saint: Etude de mémoire collective (1941). He argues, essentially, that an individual’s memory is formed from the present, and that memory is purely a social construct that belongs to a collective consciousness. The field of memory studies has since then fragmented, and the term ‘Collective εemory’ has taken on a plurality of meanings. This fragmentation has made it difficult to charter the problems and approaches to the term systematically (Confino 1997, 1387). I shall not delve too deeply into this discussion, but simply note that the broad scope that the term has gained over the years seems to stem from its utility as an alternative to ‘factual, objective’ history. In History and Memory (1992), Le Goff understands this distinction between Collective Memory and factual history, and develops his notion of Collective Memory in contrast to a history of objective, universal criteria. He calls the type of history pertaining to Collective εemory ‘ideological history’ (Le Goff 1992, 55–6). Ideological history, he says, conflates history with myth and is primarily focused on the earliest era of (social) existence. He adopts Bronislaw εalinowski’s expression for this, calling ideological history or Collective εemory the “mythical charter of the tradition” (p. 56). Collective Memory, or the Mythical Charter of Tradition, generally takes an interest in three major subjects: (1) Collective mythical identity, typically perpetuated by origin myths; (2) Narratives of prestigious families often arranged in genealogies;
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(3) Technical knowledge transmitted in practical formulae, deeply imbued with ‘religious magic’ (p. 58). All three subjects are detectable in the core material of Old Norse mythology and literature, and examples of studies of different genres of Old Norse literature as either subject 1 or 2 above are not difficult to find (cf. Clunies Ross 1994, 1998; Lindow 1997; Glauser 2007; Hermann 2007, 2009). For this dissertation, however, it is particularly subject 3 that is of interest, as it is our working hypothesis that the myths subjected to analysis here are a form of technical knowledge that is transmitted in practical formulae. We shall return to this below, but at this point it serves to mention that several eddic poems and some instances in Snorri’s Edda seem to be strewn with examples of technical knowledge imbued with some form of religious magic or numinosity. In Edda there is the famous example of the ship Naglfar that in the tradition of Gylfaginning is said to be made of the untrimmed finger nails of dead people. Therefore one must remember to cut his finger nails (Gylf. δI). Another example seems to be the mythic recollection of the character of εundilfœri in Vafþrúðnismál and the celestial horses Skinfaxi and Hrímfaxi (12, 14), which are also mentioned in Edda, as well as Árvakr and Alsviðr from Grímnismál (37). In the poems these characters seem to be reminiscent of calendar myths (Nordberg 2006, 125–30) and the tradition of Gylfaginning remembers them, but in a slightly different way, adding to the narrative what seems to be a myth of a celestial event in the strange story about Bil and Hjúki carrying the tub Sœgr on the carrying-pole Simul away from the well called Byrgir (Gylf. XI). Other examples of this tendency to retain technical knowledge in the mythic material are the magically instructive stanzas of Hávamál 142–64 and Sígrdrífumál 5– 37. For Le Goff, the Mythical Charter of Tradition—Collective Memory—retains certain varieties of knowledge important to the existence of cultural groups or units. A part of the function of this Mythical Charter of Tradition must be presumed to retain specific technical knowledge of the surrounding world. This is in essence the function of myth: the preservation of useful knowledge that can be applied to life. As the above examples show, there is abundant evidence for its existence in the core sources of Old Norse mythology. But for this study it is necessary to establish that there is a possibility that culturally essential myths can be formulated as technical knowledge about the spatial expanse of the sea and the potentially devastating natural phenomena of volcanoes, in terms of sea migration and the collection of food at sea in Scandinavia and the North Atlantic, and in terms of the volatile underground of Iceland. To that end we will now address Jan Assmann’s concept of Cultural Memory in Religion and Cultural Memory (2006).
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In defining his term ‘Cultural εemory,’ Assmann draws on both Gadamer and Derrida to arrive at a concept of Cultural Memory as an archive of traditionμ “Cultural memory,” he says, “in contrast to Communicative Memory, encompasses the age-old, out-of-the-way, and discarded; [and is] in contrast to collective, bonding memory” (Assmann 2006, 27). Cultural εemory opens up the Memory Spaces of many thousands of years, but the term is in the view of Assmann inextricably linked with the technology of writing (p. 28). This distinction between Cultural Memory and Communicative Memory is founded on the knowledge that oral societies, which, in Assmann’s view, operate exclusively with Communicative Memory, may nurture a memory horizon of only eighty to one hundred years back in time. The stock of what is needed of memory corresponds to the totality of Cultural Memory in oral societies (p. 24). Oral societies are characterized by ritual and immanence, and religions in such societies are thus cult religions. It is the principle of ritual repetition that ensures reproduction of culture through generations. The ‘cultural texts’ that are reproduced through the ages are to be understood as sign complexes encompassing not just (written) texts, but also rites, dances, symbols, and everything that supports the normative formation of meaning and identity. Cultural texts structure the world of meaning in society (p. 123). Cultural texts develop and change over time, and because of their primacy within a culture, they are subject to substantial modifications. They tend to adapt to changing realities and changing environments, and in oral transmission the extended context of the text as ‘cultural text’ requires a radical shaping process that often takes the form of ritual (p. 124). As such, Cultural εemory has the same function as myth. It would seem that Assmann’s term ‘Cultural εemory’ is at times contradictory to δe Goff’s term ‘Collective εemory,’ but with the following, we will see that the terms coalesce when applied to the Old Norse myths in the right proportions. With this we have now arrived at a characterization of the function of myth in societies that are oral or quasi-literate: we may define the function of myth as a cultural text that structures the world of meaning in society. Its primary function is to develop and change over time, to survive and carry normative conceptions of the cultural unit into the future. In societies without writing, this occurs primarily in context of ritualistic enaction of myths, as the horizon of the past in non-written memory—in Communicative Memory—is, according to Assmann, no greater than one hundred years. The reinforcement of ritual, the creation of a ‘past-in-present’ and a physicalization of myth, is what can transcend this horizon. And even once the ritual is no longer productive, the myth will still carry the cultural meaning. Studies of this function of myth as a cultural text that remembers rituals have been carried out in relation to Old Norse mythology in the two monumental works of The Origins of Drama in Scandinavia (1995), by Terry Gunnell and Initiation between Two Worlds: Structure and Symbolism
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in Pre-Christian Scandinavian Religion (2008a), by Jens Peter Schjødt. Gunnell uses oral-narrative theories to prove that eddic poetry is closely linked with the origins of drama in Scandinavia, tracing the tie to rituals far back in time.4 Schjødt, on the other hand, provides the convincing argument that structures of ancient Scandinavian initiation rites are embedded in the medieval narratives.5 However, neither of these scholars makes use of Assmann’s studies, and in both cases the historical scope of their work reaches beyond the time span of one hundred years in terms of remembered ritual structures in narratives. And rightly so, one must assume that the survival of a cultural text, when it is understood in the above terms of a part in the Mythical Charter of Tradition, not as an objective account of events, may reach far beyond two or three generations, depending on its attachment to certain mnemonic phenomena, among which are eco-spaces and landscape. In fact, later in his study, Assmann states that “[t]he principle of ritual coherence is based on the media that make the sacred visibly manifest in the world. These media include holy places, trees, sources, stones, grottos, groves, but also and above all, images, statues, symbols, and buildings such as temples …” (Assmann 2006, 128–9). Assmann, still focusing on ritual, points out that landscapes imbued with numinosity can have mnemonic functions. He is thus open to the notion that memories may live on in Communicative Memory if there are extra-human objects to which they can connect, primarily in relation to rituals. In Scandinavia there are several of such features in the landscape, cultural as well as natural. Lakes, bogs, mounds, rune stones, ridges, mountains, ravines, and other remarkable places in the landscapes have rich folklore attached to them, and some of these sites most certainly were mnemonic places of myth prior to the advent of Christianity. Gunnell identifies sites for ritual and dramatic activities in Scandinavia associated with the concept leikr (Gunnell 1995, 30–6) and he does not fail to mention a compelling example of the memory of an ancient ritual practice that may at its core have been preserved because of its relation to features of the landscape: the cult wagons of the early Scandinavian Iron Age (p. 53–60). Such sites can be termed as ‘εemory Spaces’ in the ecosystem. The story of cult wagon rituals lives on in Old Norse literary forms in Rǫgnvalds þáttr ok Rauðs, Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar hin mesta, Hauks þáttr hábrókar, and Gunnars þáttr helmings (p. 54), but the most interesting account is the one by the Roman ethnographer Tacitus in Germania (cap. XL) from c. 100 CE. Tacitus’s description of the Nerthus ritual connects the sanctuary (“deam templo”) of the goddess in the wagon with the bog lake (“secreto lacu”), as if to underline that the bog lake is the Memory Space for the cult wagon ritual. There have been at least six of such cult wagons found in bogs in the Danish region: Kraghede, Fredbjerg, Dejbjerg, Dankirke, Langå, and 4
See e.g. chapter 1: Dramatic Activities in Early Medieval Scandinavia 1: The Evidence of Archaeology and Literature (Gunnell 1995, 23–-92). 5 For an easily digestible discussion of the relationship of myth with ritual, see Schjødt’s article Myths as Sources for Rituals (2003).
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Husby (in Schleswig). Of particular interest to this discussion are the two wagons found in 1881 and 1883 in the Dejbjerg bog in western Jutland.6 In this instance the natural and cultural topography of the site interacts directly with local memory to perpetuate narratives about the wagons. The wagons are 100 years older than Tacitus’s account (Storgaard Pedersen 1921, 24), and this accords with the memory horizon outlined by Assmann. If such rituals were not still taking place at his time, Tacitus could have received reports of them, which had been preserved orally. Challenging Assmann’s horizon, though, there was at the time of the discovery of the wagons in 1881-3, a local tale about a king’s wagon that had been sucked into the bog at Dejbjerg (ibid). This extends the survival of the oral account of the event to nearly eighteen-hundred years beyond what, according to Assmann, seems possible in oral societies. The reason for this enduring preservation is in the topography of Dejbjerg and in its place name. Storgaard Pedersen refers the notation made by the local mound examiner J. Kierckeby, some fifty years prior to his article, in 1871μ “Intetsteds saa jeg dog saa mange Høje samlede som paa Hedebakkerne i Dejbjerg Hanning Pastorat nordenfor Skjernaamundingen” (Nowhere else did I see so many mounds gathered at one place as I did the heath-mounds in Dejbjerg Hanning parish north of the Skjern delta [ibid]). The place name of Dejbjerg seems to signal an involvement with the sacred and with ritual activities, as it is originally recorded in 1340 as a ‘Døthbyergh’ (Death-Mountain [Lundberg 1911, 308]). This type of place name fits with a widespread typology for sacral place names in Scandinavia and Iceland. The prominent case of the mountain of Helgafell (Holy Mountain) in Eyrbyggja saga also belongs to this typology (Lundberg 1911, 313–17). Helgafell is in Eyrbyggja saga closely associated with stories of a Þórr cult that is reminiscent of certain ritual activities, although the description of these may be strongly influenced by thirteenth century conceptions of pagan rituals (cf. Hultgård 1993). The essence of this example is to demonstrate that Collective Memory may preserve cultural texts longer—much longer—than is claimed by Assmann. I claim that this is possible under certain circumstances which may involve, but do not require, rituals, and which most certainly always involve the topography of the landscape. Features of the landscape, whether they are manmade or natural, as long as their characteristics may harbor meaning for a population, can serve as mnemonic pegs for the perpetuation of myths in the same manner as rituals. A rune stone site, a mound, a mountain, a bog, a lake, a lava field, or the vast expanse of the sea can be a Memory Space and an open-air vessel for myth.7 This is essentially a fusion of Collective Memory/Communicative Memory On the relationship of Tacitus’s account of the Nerthus procession with the actual cult, see Allan A. δund’s Nordens barbarer 1979, 138–40. 7 Halbwach sees this in terms of space as a medium for the transmission of memories in La topographie légendaire des Evangiles en Terre saint: Etude de mémoire collective (1941). It is ingrained in the title itself. 6
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and Cultural Memory. Where the Memory Spaces of Cultural Memory—preserving thousands of years of knowledge—are books and archives, the Memory Spaces of Collective Memory are ecospaces and landscapes. Both definitions of memory retain the Mythical Charter of Tradition. This notion has to some extent been formulated by Stefan Brink in his article Mythologizing Landscape. Place and Space of Cult and Myth (2001). Brink turns to Malinowski and his studies of the Trobriands, and suggests on the basis of what Malinowski says about the physical omnipresence of the Trobriand myths in their landscape, that the surrounding territory of a people becomes a topographic history. A landscape is, according to Brink, who borrows the term from the narratologist Mikhail Bakhtin, a chronotope in which space and time fuse and history materializes in monuments (Brink 2001, 79–81). To think of the relationship between myth and topography in this sense will be helpful to our further endeavors to establish an understanding of myth in terms of an eco-mythology. Unfortunately, Brink makes a common error in his view of the dynamics of a sacred or numinous landscape when he writesμ “During pre-Christian times, all nature and landscape were metaphysically ‘charged’ in different ways, with different degrees of energy […] Under the influence of Christian culture, we saw a division between the profane and the holy, where the sacrality became ‘institutionalized’ in certain buildings and structures, whereas the environment that surrounded these built-up structures became profane” (p. 81–2). To adopt this view in terms of the function and evolution of myths, not to mention mythogenesis, would be to return to the Oxford school and Max εüller’s theory of myth. There is no reason to assume such widespread romantic pantheism in any pre-Christian religion. We will have to take another route: one that acknowledges more nuance in these matters. In the following, we will investigate how ecosystems and natural places may facilitate a long life of tales and myths without the requirement of any form of ritual activity, and without subjecting them to theories of mythogenesis from a romantic pantheistic view of the sacredness of nature as a special catalyst of mythogenesis. We will investigate the term eco-mythology as a branch on the tree of myth, whose canopy stretches far and wide. ECO-MYTHOLOGY: THE PRODUCTION OF MYTHS FROM PLACE AND SPACE
The Dejbjerg example of the tale of the king’s wagon hardly involved ritualized activity in the late nineteenth century. Subjected to relatively mundane peat digging at the time, the bog must be said to have lost any sense of nūmen that may have been attributed to it in the Iron Age. This leaves a question to be answered: if there is no ritual activity to ensure the preservation of the wagon-tale in Communicative Memory, and there was no written record to reproduce the memory of it through ages
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of relative indifference to its ritual past, what is it about this and other sites that can keep tales and myths alive? An answer to this may be in emotions that are generated as a response to the environment. In Religion Explained. The Evolutionary Origins of Religious Thought (2001), Pascal Boyer outlines an evolutionary theory of religion where he argues that religious concepts are linked to our emotional systems, which are in turn tied to the experience of life-threatening situations and fear in general. The emotional programs are the heritage of evolution and they influence religion (Boyer 2001, 22–6). This is based on the recognition that religious narratives and myths are inextricably bound to emotional states. In the case of Dejbjerg, where there is no (known) ritual context or written record to preserve a narrative about the site for so long, it is possible that an emotional response connected to the local ecosystem of the bog and the manmade features of the mounds may have been the basis for retaining the myth of the king’s wagon in Communicative εemory. The primary emotion evoked in this instance would be fear or apprehension with the bog identified as a ‘death-place.’ It is uncertain whether the place name itself in its later forms would have prompted this response to the site, as the vowel changed some time prior to 1446 from ‘ø’ to ‘e’ (Dedbierg), and later the consonant from ‘d’ to ‘j’/’y’ in 1532 (Deybierge) (δundberg 1λ11, 308), thereby making it difficult to distinguish and understand the original form ‘død’ (death) that was otherwise discernible prior to the fifteenth century. There is, however, little reason to deny the notion that the site can have retained the association with death into the fourteenth century, because of the folk memory of sacrifices and burials in relation to the mounds. The bog, however, would not have been chosen as a site to swallow offerings to the other world in the first place if it were not for the basic human understanding of such a site as being closely related to death. After all, a bog can swallow a person if he is not careful where he steps. It is this acknowledgment that bogs are dangerous features in the ecosystem, which created the basis for ritual activities there and which has kept the myth of such activities alive long after the rituals stopped. Another Scandinavian example of a myth, whose persistence in Cultural Memory/Collective Memory is most certainly driven by the emotions of fear and apprehension, is the tale of Torsvegen over Urebøuren (Bø et al 1995, 89–90). This is a tale of how the troll Toer (Þórr) is a guest at two weddings in the Telemark region. Angry that he is denied more beer, he takes up his hammer and tears down a mountain next to the farmstead, causing a rockslide over the farm. With this act he creates the ridge of the Urebøure. But it is said that he made a pathway through the ridge and spared a single farm there, because there was one man who was nice to him and gave him beer. In the process, however, Toer lost the head of his hammer, and had to go in search of it. Both the motif of the
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destruction of the mountain and the motif of Þórr searching for his hammer suggest a connection to known medieval mythology. The motif of the destruction of the mountain has cognates in the tale of Þórr’s attempt to kill Skrýmir from Gylfaginning, where instead of the j tunn, he is beating mountains with his hammer. A similar episode of mountain destruction is also related in the tale of Þórr’s duel with Hrungnir. The motif of the lost hammer, on the other hand, is reminiscent of the eddic poem Þrymskviða. Although the Norwegian tale mentions ritual in the form of weddings, it is unlikely that it was a tale that was told in relation to a wedding ceremony—Toer’s presence at two weddings in the tale is more likely a memory of an ancient cult or of the storyline in Þrymskviða than it is a reference to a living tradition at the time the tale was recorded. It is rather the natural feature of the landscape, the ridge, which is the central mnemonic peg of this tale and hence the cause of the preservation of the myth in Cultural Memory. It is the knowledge that movement through the ridge can be dangerous and such features of the ecosystem can cause rock- and landslides. This myth too, then, takes its place among the technical myths in the Mythical Charter of Tradition, as a tale that preserves knowledge for survival in a particular landscape and ecosystem. With the Dejbjerg example and that of Urebøuren we have established that in Scandinavia there are occurrences of localized tales about natural features in the landscape—components of the ecosystem—which seem to combine the memory of ancient rituals (Dejbjerg) and the memory of very old mythology (Urebøuren) with the specificity of the site, based on its relevance to human activities. The bog at Dejbjerg functions as a Memory Space for the preservation of the memory of a ritual that was enacted there nearly eighteen-hundred years before, while the ridge at Urebø carries the memory of myths about Þórr who destroys mountains in narratives of the thirteenth century, some 500 years before. These are not isolated incidents, neither as mythogenesis on the basis of response to natural phenomena in the sense of naturism, or as mythopoesis as human conceptual dialogue with sites and spaces of the natural landscape and ecosystems in the way that it is perceived in this dissertation. As established above with the reference to Brink and Malinowski, it seems that landscapes and ecosystems as well as natural processes and events play an important role in the perpetuation of myth.8 We may draw forth other examples, such as the Daribi myth of the origin of the Genaa River in Papua New Guinea. The Daribi tell a tale of how the Genaa floods the terrain, folding myth and space in imagery of bodily fluids. Roy Wagner describes the process of mythopoesis from spaces and places in his article about this myth Condensed Mapping (2001)μ “Condensed mapping recondensed in the body, liquid space folded in and out of the body as the reflective surface of the lake folds and unfolds
8
See also Vitaliano: Geomythology: geological origins of myths and legends (2007); Hamacher & Norris: Australian Aboriginal Geomythology (2011), and; Haas, Peekna & Walker: Echoes of Ancient Cataclysms in the Baltic Sea (2003).
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the figures and distances around it” (Wagner 2001, 78). Here, the knowledge of the floods caused by Genaa is formulated in terms of the human body and in terms of the landscape, metaphorically associated with the folding of the surface of the water body. This is an extreme case of mythopoesis in close reference to an important feature of the ecosystem, the life-giving river. Another example of the close connection between religion and ecosystem in Papua New Guinea is Roy A. Rappaport’s studies of the Maring people in Pigs for the Ancestors (1968), Ritual Regulation of Environmental Relations among a New Guinea People (1979) and On Cognized Models (1979). In On Cognized Models Rappaport describes how the Maring practice ritual war-cycles based on the growth of the population of semi-domesticated pigs in their village. He focuses primarily on the interplay between ecosystem, meaning, and ritual activities (among which we count warfare). However, he also describes parts of the Maring mythology, telling of a separation between upper and lower spirits. The upper spirits, dwelling in the highest altitude of the forest, are called Raua Mugi, the Red Spirits, and they are hot and associated with war and the pigs. The Kun Kaze Ambra, the Smoke Woman, also lives at the high ground, and she sometimes flies to the highest peak in the area: Mount Oipor (Rappaport 1979, 103). The other class of beings, called the Raua Mai, Antecedent Spirits, is associated with the lower levels of the valley, with water, fertility (food and procreation is contained in the word mai), and with eels (p. 104). Rappaport does not make note of it, but the Simbai valley in which this people lives is an active volcanic area. It seems that this cosmology is directly associated with the primary features of the ecosystem, the features of it that are essential to keep track of for survival: fertility and the destructive power of war and volcanism. This tendency for mythopoesis grounded in ecosystems is not reserved to the tribes of Papua New Guinea. It occurs among such different peoples as the Daur Mongols of Manchuria, the Hohodene Baniwa of the Rio Negro in Brazil, the Apache, the Caribou Inuit of the Hudson Bay, and the Anishnabe/Ojibway who inhabit the area around the Great Lakes (Grim 2006, 298–303). To these people, different parts of the ecosystem play central roles in the myths of their societies, and their religions built around these myths may be said to associate with the term eco-religion as it was coined by Åke Hultkrantz in a series of articles in the sixties and seventies.9 As a result of his studies of the Wind River Shoshoni in Wyoming, Åke Hultkrantz has formulated the ‘religio-ecological method’ of cultural analysis of pre-historical peoples in his article An Ecological Approach to Religion (1966) and subsequently developed it further in another article entitled Ecology of Religion: Its Scope and Methodology (1979). In the former article he states that
9
Hultkrantz has based his theories of eco-religion on the theory of multilinear evolution based on the impact of ecosystems on culture by Julian H. Steward in Theory of Culture Change (1963). It would reach too far to discuss the parameters of this theory in this context, and therefore I limit my discussion to Hultkrantz’s articles.
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the environment of a people may furnish us with clues as to the religion of pre-historical peoples, letting us trace religious configurations of the past in the same setting (Hultkrantz 1966, 132). He criticizes nature-mythologists such as E.B. Tylor and Max Müller, and states that the influence of nature on religion has never been formulated in an empirically sound way (p. 133).10 The approach of Hultkrantz sees nature as a promotional force in human life, manifesting its influence through a religious filter. He adopts the term cultural ecology as a tool for determining in what capacity a culture’s adaptation to an environment may entail change to its social structures and habits (p. 137). It is a theory of cultural response to environmental variation that may explain the origins and patterns that characterize the cultures of different areas (p. 138). Hultkrantz sees the environment of a culture as the provider of materials for religious action and conceptions. In his view, beliefs pertaining to the supernatural are to some degree modeled over environmental, social, and cultural features, while myth is to a large extent determined by tradition, but these elements combine in a reflection of the surrounding environmentμ “The storyteller, in other words, alters the details of the mythical picture to suit his listeners; or he reinterprets the tale unconsciously, to enhance its reality value” (p. 144). In light of the above discussion, this view of the function and development of myth is too simplistic, but in essence Hultkrantz is correct that changing environmental conditions will affect the way in which myths will be told. Hultkrantz, however, assumes that those aspects of religion and myth that are “less tinged with rigid tradition” (p. 143) are more affected by environmental changes, believing that core myths which constitute the self-conception and identity creation of a group will be more conservative. This again, in light of the above discussion of the involvement of myth in cultural life—myth as cultural texts—does not necessarily have to be the case. ‘Tradition,’ as it were, seems to be more complex than that and at times it seems that identity-constituting myths may be highly susceptible to change. This constitutes a working model for an eco-mythological approach to Old Norse myths. It consists of the understanding of mythopoesis in concert with the surrounding environment and ecosystem. It is not an attempt to perceive nature that sparks mythogenesis and subsequently propels mythopoesis. It is rather the case that landscape, nature, ecosystems, and environment offer Memory Spaces with which myth can be associated. This can be myth in terms of folktales preserved in Communicative Memory, telling about a landscape feature connected with ancient ritual practice (Dejbjerg), or it may be myth in terms of the narrativization of natural landscape features, providing them at times with etiologies that involve supernatural species and events (Urebøuren). This is myth as a function of the Mythical Charter of Tradition that preserves technical knowledge which is crucial
10
He is seemingly unaware of the studies being carried out by Rappaport.
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to survival. With this understanding of the status and function of eco-myths, we will move on to the definition of myth under these terms. THE DEFINITION OF MY TH
We may thus define myth as a function in the Mythical Charter of Tradition that exists mainly to preserve culturally significant knowledge that is important for the survival of a cultural unit. Myth structures the world of meaning and develops over time in the form of texts that are used and redefined in a cultural system. It is the primary function of myth to stay alive in cultural systems and myths are therefore from time to time subject to extensive modifications. This condition of myth is the function of myth’s ability to carry into the future normative conceptions that are important to the survival of the cultural unit. The extensive life of a myth in a cultural unit makes it a conceptual filter for the formulation of images, mental categories, and memory. The cultural unit will re-actualize, invent, and renew knowledge of the past in myths and make it relevant to their contemporary condition in a process of evaluating the relationship of new cultural elements to old ones, and vice versa. Myth exists as narrativized ideology and the expression of worldview. A segment of this Mythical Charter of Tradition retains technical knowledge. Technical knowledge is often transmitted in practical formulae, often in the form of religious magic, but there is another side to technical knowledge in myths: survival. The need for the preservation of knowledge crucial to the survival of a society may result in the formulation of myths. Technical knowledge is not only the knowledge of healing charms or the memory of such technologies as iron ore processing, it is also vital knowledge about seafaring—collection of food and migration at sea—and most certainly knowledge about the different aspects of geological activities. The preservation of this type of knowledge in Cultural Memory/Collective Memory is intimately linked to Memory Spaces in the ecosystem and the natural environment. These Memory Spaces are, in the very sense of the word, physical and mental spaces in oral cultures: condensed mapping. Landscape features harbor meaning for a population and serve as memory pegs in our mental landscapes to which myths are connected. One such connection of Memory Spaces to meaning and myth is that of fear and apprehension, central features of our survival instinct. Dangerous and significant features of an ecosystem may have myths attached to them that live on for centuries, maybe thousands of years, in spite of large cultural changes. The primary features of an ecosystem may even be generative in the formulation of cosmologies, combining myth, social life, and environment into one. Mythopoesis occurs in dialogue with the ecosystem of a cultural unit. Elements of the ecosystem may be reflective of cognitive categories in myths, but in turn, the
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cognitive categories in myths may have a need to process elements of the ecosystem to re-actualize them in stories and thus secure the survival of a culture. This is not an attempt by the culture to perceive nature and as such formulate theories of cause and effect in a misguided pre-scientific stage of existence. This is the narrativized perseverance of a technical knowledge, whose role is to ensure existence in a certain environment with certain features. It is the memory of the “dos and don’ts” in situations where humans are faced with threatening natural forces. Myth must then be understood as a superstructure, which incorporates systems, which can in turn be activated in certain contexts and by certain cultural needs. These systems in myths are mechanical structures that produce images, which are activated in specific contexts and are recognizable in the mind of the cultural participant as functions of existence, such as survival, coping mechanisms, and cultural categories. They extend from a singular tale to many more and it is possible to follow their trace. As an example we may consider that the myth of the Mead of Poetry is not just the myth of Óðinn bringing the mead to the æsir, it is also a myth about the cosmic constitution, about the dominance of the æsir over the j tnar, about the deceptive character of Óðinn, about the cultural significance of skaldic recitation, and not least about a volcanic eruption. This view on myth is foundational to my approach to the source material and thus also to the choices made in relating and combining the sources to one another. In the following I will describe how I read and combine the sources that I use for this study. SOURCE READING
In the previous section we briefly considered the fictionality or truth-value of myths in relation to Annette δassen’s statements about the use of the term ‘myth’ in the research of Old Norse mythology and her rejection of the term as anachronistic to the narratives. Above, I have argued that there is good reason to apply the term ‘myth’ to the narratives of Old Norse mythology, because myth as a category is a functional definition, not a generic one. δassen’s primary argument is built on genre definition from content, primarily the evaluation of the content as either truthful or not—its fictionality. So far, it has not been addressed to what level the contents of these myths are truthful and what their fictionality consists of. The process of reading and interpreting these myths is deeply rooted in certain notions on how myths fictionalize reality: the question of how reality is mediated in the process of narrativization. This question is at the heart of most discussions of Old Norse literature, be it the mythology, saga genres, or learned literature. The typical question for the scholar of saga literature has long been whether or not the saga relates actual historical knowledge or if it is a literary fancy (Meulengracht 1993, 22). For the historian of religion dealing with myths, the question has
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been—and still is—whether or not the content of the mythic material is Christian or pagan (Schjødt 2008a, 85–100). Regardless of the great differences between the genres of the mythology and the sagas, it is fundamentally the same structural question: can certain narratives be trusted to reveal anything of the actual past? In reality, as Meulengracht observes, the answer to this question relies on belief (Meulengracht 2006, 67). I would modify this assertion to say that, in the least, the answer to this question depends on trust: the trust in the ability of narratives—not authors, writers, or scribes— to convey ancient knowledge. In Fortælling og ære Meulengracht has formulated what is to date the most functional understanding of the relationship between fiction and reality in Old Norse literature. This was done for the purpose of reading sagas, but it is my opinion that the approach can be easily adjusted to fit the reading of the mythology. In his considerations of the literary approach to the saga, Meulengracht underlines that it is methodically unsatisfying to settle with an interpretation of the text as either a historical text or a piece of fiction that is independent of reference to the reality of history. Interpretation must rely on the wider meaning-complex of the text and it must be recognized that the texts are both accounts of a past culture as much as they are the narrativized representation of this past. As such, these texts cannot be considered to be sources for a historical reality in the traditional sense (Meulengracht 1993, 23).11 This situation is in no way different when it comes to Old Norse mythology. As these myths claim to be ancient and pre-Christian, they will not be satisfyingly interpreted as fictions bereft of reference to historical reality. They do, as has been outlined above, relate to a wider meaning-complex and they account for a past culture as much as they function as fictions of that same culture. They are of course in no way traditional historical sources, they are not the all-encompassing dogma of Old Norse–Scandinavian religion, but rather an expression of normative conceptualizations—the worldview. They are part of a diverse universe that at no time had one singular expression, but at all times was influenced by variations of geography, social structures, cognition, psychological conditions, and many other factors (Schjødt 2007a, 2009, and 2011). Some of the more recent studies in Old Norse mythology outside the history of religion have realized this consideration that Meulengracht points out. Clunies Ross treats the mythology with due deference to historical reality in Prolonged Echoes vol. 1 and 2, as does Lindow in Murder and Vengeance among the Gods (1997), but like Meulengracht they refrain from investigating the myths beyond their existence as medieval narratives. In the article Freyr in der Isländersagas (1992) however, Meulengracht points out another aspect of these texts: even though there was a shift in religious continuity with the advent of Christianity, there was sufficient continuity between the pagan religion
11
For a similar view expressed in relation to broader historical research, see Stein 2005.
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and the cultural institutions of Iceland that much of the pre-Christian mythology and worldview could have lived on into the Christian era (Meulengracht 1992, 734–5). Building on this, Jens Peter Schjødt argues that there are two types of manifestations of paganism in the Old Norse material: conscious assertions and unconscious assertions (Schjødt 2007b, 180). The conscious assertions, one can expect, are in one way or another influenced by the event of the conversion, while unconscious assertions can be understood as more genuine expressions of older layers of culture. In terms of truth-value, the relaying of historical events, and the fictionalization of reality, we may expect that these unconscious assertions in the corpus of written texts are reliable under certain conditions. These conditions relate to the way in which the human mind shapes myth and they seem to follow a set of principles that can be observed in a wide range of myths across the landscape of human cultures. In the following I will describe in what way I find that these unconscious assertions may be identified and interpreted in eco-myths within the parameters of the so-called mytho-linguistic principles. HYPOTHESIS FOR THE AN ALYSIS OF ECO -MYTHS
In the monograph When They Severed Earth from Sky: How the Human Mind Shapes Myth (2004), Elizabeth W. and Paul T. Barber describe how the human mind linguistically processes ecological disasters and natural phenomena. Some myths have developed from actual events. They have been subjected to universal principles for memory storage in oral cultures. Not all myths are the product of historical events, but many more, according to Barber and Barber, turn out “to stem from actual events and real observations of the world [more] than twentieth-century scholars have commonly believed” (Barber & Barber 2004, 3). Barber and Barber formulate a universal theory of mythogenesis in the same way as the naturist school, arguing its specific interest for students of cognition and for archaeologists with a penchant for restoring a lost history of the world before writing (p. 4). In earnest, this goal seems both too ambitious and a causeway for precariously far-reaching speculation. I have in the main sought to take into account the issues in their theory that I see as flawed in my utilization of those of its aspects that I do find useful. The overarching problem with the theory is that it lacks reference to established theories of myth such as the aforementioned by Le Goff and Assmann and as such it does not take into account the function and application of myth in societies, other than the aspect which the authors postulate: that a large part of mythogenesis is due to observations of natural phenomena.12 We have already discussed the reasonability of this assumption, and with the theory of the functions of myth that I have formulated above, I intend to avoid such complications and focus 12
There is no criticism of the naturalist school in the work.
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on the aspects of their theory (which are the larger part) that concern mythopoesis in concert with natural phenomena. I shall, in the following, clarify how the principles of mythopoesis according to Barber and Barber interact with my above-outlined theory of myth. There is one overarching principle that encapsulates four fundamental mytho-linguistic principles. The overarching principle is called “the εemory Crunch,” and the four fundamental principles are the following: (1) Silenceμ “What everyone is expected to know already is not explained in so many words” (p. 17). (2) Analogyμ “If any entities or phenomena bear some resemblance, in any aspect, they must be related” (p. 34). (3) Compressionμ “Once the stories around something (e.g., a hero) achieve sufficient mass, that thing (or whatever) attracts yet other stories to him/her/itself, via any “significant” point of event, same place, and same name or clan name” (p. 113). (4) Restructuringμ “Whenever there is a significant cultural change, at least some patterns will get restructured or reinterpreted. Successive changes on a given pattern will render the form of the pattern un-understandable to its users—it goes from a matter of logic to one of faith, and finally to a matter of disbelief” (p. 138). The overarching principle of the Memory Crunch is based on the observation that information may be passed on for thousands of years in what is termed by the authors as the “oral pipeline,” if the information is viewed as important, if it corresponds to something visible to the users of the myth, and if the information is encoded in a highly memorable way (p. 9–10). To this realization is added the notion that what is encoded in language becomes the explanation for events. In societies without permanent accumulation of knowledge and stable recording of events to refer to in order to demonstrate cause and effect, a primary tool for explanation becomes analogy (p. 15). Within the framework of the four primary principles, Barber and Barber have identified another forty-four principles. It is beyond the purpose of a description of my method of analysis and interpretation to give a detailed account of all these subsidiary factors. The following provides detailed descriptions of the four primary points with which Barber and Barber constitute the Memory Crunch. The silence principle is the basic principle of shared cultural knowledge that need not be explained. A case of the opposite, which Barber and Barber call forth, is the information given both in Edda and in the prose postscript to Lokasenna that the binding of Loki in the underground with snakes dripping venom above him is the cause of earthquakes (p. 20). This, according to Barber and
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Barber, is a situation where the author (they know only the version in Gylfaginning) divulges some information that is available to him in his perception of the cultural myth, which the readers may not have, because they have been culturally removed so far from the original information of the myth that they are unable to perceive it. Seeing in (the Gylfaginning version of) Ragnar k/ragnarøkkr a myth of volcanism (p. 204), and unaware of the version in Lokasenna, Barber and Barber presume that this is part of the original myth. This is not necessarily the case. It is, after all, an instance of a conscious assertion by the author about pagan mythology and one may be inclined to suppose that this is a medieval interpretation of δoki’s mythic roleμ an example of a conscious statement about paganism. However, if we accept this as a breach of the cultural silence of this myth, we may understand why the narrative of Bergbúa þáttr contextualizes volcanism in relation to the pagan gods in the twelve dróttkvætt stanzas of Hallmundarkviða. It does not seem to be exclusively related to Gylfaginning and the postscript of Lokasenna, the latter of which may be derived from the explanation in Gylfaginning. This situation essentially describes the main point that Barber and Barber are making about the silence principle: as long as a culture does not undergo major social and technological changes, their myths will not change drastically either. When the circumstances to which the myths refer change, their information may become meaningless or obscure to younger generations (p. 22). In terms of the Icelandic literary material, there are conditions which may have perpetuated a long, transparent life of certain myths, while others may have become obscure. In terms of Old Norse myths, it is important to be aware that the migration from Scandinavia and the British Isles may have contributed to the obfuscation of some myths, while others have been kept alive and understandable because of this event. The same can be said for the conversion to Christianity, the inclusion of Iceland into the Norwegian kingdom, the Reformation, and not least the emergence of natural sciences. One can therefore expect that culture-altering events of Icelandic—indeed Scandinavian—history have obscured certain aspects of the myths and an objective in terms of analysis is to investigate a possible principle of silence in both conscious and unconscious assertions in the material. The analogy principle pertains to the description of reality. Where the principle of silence is a function of culture, the principle of analogy is a function of the language that is employed to describe the world. If several phenomena bear resemblance in terms of form, behavior, cause, or significance, it is often assumed that they are related (p. 35). We saw this above in the case of the Maring, who associate the Red Spirits and the Smoke Woman with war, smoking, and high altitudes. With analogic thinking, humans will also assume that if X can be retrieved from Y, then X resides in Y. If we can get fire from flint, fire resides in flint (p. 38). This means that humans tend to attribute to an object the quality of that which this object causes: if a mountain creates fire, it has a quality of fire and can thus be associated with all the conceptual elements particular to fire. If lava flows like water, it has
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the qualities of water and vice versa. If the viscosity of lava resembles that of honey, mead, or beer,13 it is believed that these substances have similar qualities. If gold shines like fire, it can be designated “eldr allra vatna” (fire of all waters).14 This also means that if a god is related to one phenomenon, and another phenomenon is comparable to the first phenomenon, it is likely that the god will be associated with the second phenomenon as well (p. 62–6). If Þórr was originally associated with the thunderstorm that brings lightning over the fields, he can just as easily be associated with the winds of a storm at sea, and eventually the lightning storm in a volcanic eruption caused by super-charged static electricity. Likewise if his thunderstorm in the fertile summer months gave water to crops, he can just as well be associated with fertility and good harvest, and eventually, the procurement of food at sea. The principle of analogy also extends from the realization that if humans act in the world with intention, then non-human phenomena must do the same: if something happens, it must have been willed (p. 41). If there was an eruption somewhere, or if the sea sets you off course, there is a great chance that either a human or a non-human entity has caused this as an act of its or his will. An aspect of the principle of analogy is also that the process of narrativization bears a tendency to make things interesting: explanations and descriptions are encapsulated in an interesting cultural form, which is— within the perimeters of that particular culture—analogically referential to the event (p. 91). An example is thus the tale of the Urebøure, where the socially attractive setting—that which makes the story interesting—is a merry time of wedding celebration. The willfulness of the narrative is of course the troll (Þórr/Toer), who brings down a mountain upon the dwellings of men. The next principle is that of compression, with which we encounter the concept of metaphoric reality: if the simile of the analogy is lost there is nothing to separate the event or phenomenon from the cultural tale (p. 97). Compression works with metaphoric reality to pack knowledge and information in myth, so that when the distinction between two things that are perceived as similar is erased—that Y stops being simply like X and eventually partakes in X or becomes X—there is less to remember and additional room for encoding more important knowledge (p. 114), such as the forms of knowledge that ensure survival. We have seen this in the example of the Dejbjerg wagons: no one remembers why the wagons were initially put in the bog, but it is understood that the danger a bog presents is drowning and it is therefore significant to remember that something has sunk there previously: to underline the significance of this, the ‘something’ is coded as a king’s wagon (not a common, uninteresting
13
Note that beer made of fermented cereals in pre-industrial times was a much thicker substance than it is today. Compare with the Incan expression for goldμ “Sweat of the Sun”. Cf. Peter δourie’s book by the same titleμ Sweat of the Sun, Tears of the Moon: A Chronicle of an Incan Treasure (1998).
14
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peasant’s wagon) that was taken from the community. In fact, this mode of compression was even at work in the scholar’s mind when he recorded the information of the taleμ he simply recorded that there was a tale of a king’s wagon, not the specific details of it, seeing as they were not culturally— or, rather, scientifically—relevant to him. This is a basic economization that serves to preserve the message of the cultural relevance of the natural phenomenon rather than the explanation. It poses an immediate problem in the attempt to identify the referent of a representation. εyths are distorted by “the peculiarities of our cognition,” and if the referent is lost, the information encoded in myths can become unintelligible. Some of the original information may be reconstructed by examining these cognitive peculiarities and if one has access to the referent, this becomes all the more easily done. This is the basic component of restructuring (p. 163). Barber and Barber maintain that it is relevant to still speak of a myth about a natural phenomenon or historical event even if the factor of time has contributed immensely to the restructuring of the myth. If time or spatial conditions alter the myth, they sayμ “[T]his doesn’t just allow changes in the myth, it speeds them. In time, the story needs revisions to make any kind of sense at all” (p. 138). When it has come to this point, I see no reason to still consider the myth in question a myth of a historical event or a natural phenomenon. At this point, it is removed from its Memory Space and from its relevant cultural context and has—if it is still being used—obtained a new social and cultural position. As such, this exposition is to be considered a hypothesis for the way in which information is fictionalized in myth. In combination with the understanding of the function of myth in culture in the foregoing chapter, this hypothesis for the cognitive and linguistic processing—the fictionalization of myths from events or features in the habitat of human cultures—can support an approach to the literary evidence of Old Norse myths, where the referent of the text is assumed to be a natural phenomenon. This will be developed in the following. A PRACTICAL METHOD F OR ANALYSIS OF ECO -MYTHS
The practical method for analyzing eco-myths in this presentation assumes that any type of myth may become culturally relevant for the description or remembrance of events and features of the ecosystem—and thus the subject of mythopoesis—rather than as Barber and Barber assume, that such events or features must have generated the myth in the first place (mythogenesis). Concretely put: the myth of Þórr fishing for J rmungandr was not originally generated because of a need to perceive the sea, it has instead become entangled with Scandinavian conceptions of the sea in order to preserve knowledge and memories of seafaring, the collection of food at sea, early societal constructions, and
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social change. Similarly, the myth of the Mead of Poetry was not conjured as a response to a volcanic eruption in Iceland, it was, rather, used by the early inhabitants of Iceland to convey important knowledge and memories about eruptions, because the myth—just like the volcanic event itself—is culturally relevant. Practically, this means that analysis is carried out as a literary and linguistic investigation of the narrative patterns, words, and expressions in the myths which fit the criteria laid out in the above description of the goal of the investigation. I investigate their repertoire of meaning and their context in the cultural environment. In essence, this means that there is more than one option for interpretation. A word can carry multiple meanings and the choice of meaning relates directly to the choice of referent for the myth. My method of analysis depends on choosing a suitable referent for the myth. This referent is not the product of thin air, but rather the result of recognizable features within the myth in question. In other words, when hrím is associated not with frost but with soot in the myth of the Creation of the World, it is because other parameters of the myth seem to relate more to fire than to ice. These parameters are Surtr, Muspell, the inconsistency of the Élivágar freezing up upon leaving the realm of the eitr-cold Niflheimr, and thus, subsequently, the enigmatic meaning of eitr itself in this context of a strange analogy to the cinder of the fire (see chapter IV, pages 133-137). Eventually, this is contextualized in a broader, comparative perspective where such can be retrieved. I rely mainly on cultural reports from scientists of religion, anthropology, and ethnology, but in more than one instance I refer to reports from volcanologists and geologists. My interpretations are thus a result of a contextualized bottom-up analysis of the singular components of the myths. They rely on the clarification of the term ‘myth’ as a cultural vocabulary that can be activated in response to the surrounding ecosystem, as a narrative of technical knowledge in the Mythical Charter of Tradition. This informs the investigation of the referent in the selected myth, which in turn informs the various analytic choices that are made in the pursuit of comprehension of the mythic image, motif, or narrative. Finally, the results of these choices are compared with a range of related phenomena to ensure the durability of the interpretation. This, in turn, informs the conclusion of the analysis and interpretation. The hermeneutics of this analytical approach and interpretive method may be illustrated in the following manner:
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Myth
Provides meaning to social, cultural and natural phenomena and processes.
Identification of singular components of the myth, which relate to natural phenomena.
Language and nar-rative analysis with the identified natur-al phenomenon as referent.
Comparative reflection based on known, verified material from other indigenous or local cultures, or from reports of comparable scientific material.
Interpretation of the myth as a myth of natural phenomena, which is culturally relevant to the user group and thus consistent with the function of the myth as a provider (and creator) of meaning to social, cultural and natural processes.
The myth’s statement in the culture about a given natural phenomenon: the conceptualization of the phenomenon in the worldview.
Conclusion about the cultural function of the eco-myth Figure 2: Flow chart for analysis and interpretation.
This chart illustrates how the offset in the functional understanding of eco-myths as a technical subspecies of myths in the Mythical Charter of Tradition inspires the search for one or more components in the myth that are compatible with conceptualizations of a natural phenomenon that is relevant for the local ecosystem of the cultural unit. This natural phenomenon is utilized as a referent for the analysis of the meaning of the narrative structure and the linguistic content of the myth. The analysis results in an interpretation of the myth as a cultural narrative about said natural phenomenon and its conceptualization in that cultural frame—with reference back to the functional understanding of myths in a societal context. Finally, the result of this analysis and interpretation is the myth’s statement about the natural phenomenon, which leads to a conclusion about the myth and about that which other scholars have said about the myth or its cultural concepts in a broader context. With this outline of the approach to myth and the method of analysis and interpretation derived from it, we will now turn our attention to the sources of interest to this investigation.
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THE SOURCES THE INTERNAL RELATIONSHIP OF THE SOURCES
The total sum of sources used for this study ranges from early Latin literature to late vernacular narratives: it includes histories, myths, literary genres of poetry and fiction, as well as didactic works, and even annals. The primary sources are Snorri’s Edda, skaldic and eddic poems, and Saxo’s Gesta Danorum. In addition to these, I use the early δatin texts of Tacitus’s Germania and Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I include parts of the later Latin-Christian historiography of Dudo’s Gesta Normannorum and Adam of Bremen’s Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum. I also use the vernacular histories of Heimskringla, Landnámabók, and Guta saga. There are also references to didactic works in the vernacular, such as Konungs Skuggsjá and Muspilli. There are references to biblical tales, and finally there is a corpus of vernacular medieval texts consisting of the íslendingasögur of Flóamanna saga, Eiríks saga rauða, Eyrbyggja saga, the Icelandic translation of the life of St. Clemens, Clemens saga, as well as Bergbúa þáttr and Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns. It would range too far beyond our scope to give a detailed account of the age, provenance, and manuscript traditions of all of the above-mentioned sources in this presentation. The core material of this investigation has been chosen because it is perceived as, by and large, the product of indigenous Scandinavians who used and reproduced the myths of the Edda, skaldic and eddic poetry, and Saxo’s Gesta Danorum. The other narratives that have been included in the investigation have been selected because of their relationship to the core material. This selection is informed by the above-described conception of myth as a cultural text and Mythical Charter of Tradition. Tradition is in that sense many things, and it is not believed here that pre-Christian Germanic, Nordic, or even Icelandic tradition evolved in a vacuum: no culture is an island. It is, however, with reference to the above view on myth, believed that any culture harboring the conceptions of another, distant culture, may process these conceptions in new ways in response to the ecosystems of relevance to the recipient culture. It is therefore the perspective of this presentation that one cannot speak much of literary borrowings between Old Norse mythology and continental literature of various kinds, but rather cultural borrowings, which may occur at any given point in time. We may see this as the proliferation of mythic images, motifs, and narratives over time, much in the same manner as has been demonstrated by Frog in his article Circum-Baltic Mythology? The Strange Case of the Theft of the Thunder Instrument (ATU 1148b) (2011).15 In this article, Frog traces the variants of the myth of the theft of 15
For a more recent article by Frog discussing only the Germanic proliferation pattern, see Germanic Traditions of the Theft of the Thunder-Instrument (ATU 1148b): An Approach to Þrymskviða and Þórr’s Adventure with Geirrøðr in Circum-Baltic Perspective (2013 [in press]).
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the thunder-instrument. He demonstrates how the proliferation of this myth in the Circum-Baltic region is a consequence of cultural contacts, and that the evolution of the narratives and the motif is dependent on historical exchanges between the Indo-European and Finno-Ugric peoples in the region. In another article discussing the methodologies of situating traditions in long-term perspectives, The Parallax Approach: Situating Traditions in Long-Term Perspective (2012), Frog graphically demonstrates the proliferation of the motif of the theft of the thunder-instrument in Circum-Baltic tradition (Frog 2012, 52):
Figure 3: The proliferation of the ATU 1148b motif in Circum-Baltic traditions. The chart shows how the motif originates in an ancient, unknown form and evolves into the known forms of the literatures. The red arrows signify cross-cultural interaction, demonstrating how, while the narrative develops in one tradition, it is influenced by cultural exchange with another tradition. The black arrows show cultural expansion, while the grey, dotted arrows signify uncertain developments (Frog 2011, 52 [reproduced with permission]).
We may utilize this visualization to understand the relationship of Old Norse myths internally and externally. A similar graphic description can be made internally for Old Norse myths for the dispensing of, for instance, the narrative pattern of Þórr’s battle with a j tunn (εcKinnell 1λλ4), or externally for the evolution of the mythic image of muspilli from Heliand in the mid-ninth century to the Old High German poem fragment of the late tenth century and eventually to its appearance in the Old Norse myths of Vǫluspá and Snorri’s Edda in the thirteenth century. It is important in this view to make a distinction between mythic image, motif, and narrative. This enhances our understanding of the different ways myths can develop: a mythic image may be designated as a simpler form, a signifier of a myth that is distributed in cultural systems; a motif is a more complex structure that can
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be transposed from one context to another; while a narrative is a fully-realized pattern on which myths can be structured in a process of telling and retelling. The mythic image is one such as muspilli (see chapter IV, pages 141-143) from the Christian Old High German poem Muspilli from the tenth century, which seems to connote a mythic image, but may become redefined once it has left its earlier context, thus creating the Nordic interpretations Muspell, Muspellzheimr, and Muspellz synir/lýðir. The word is the only aspect that is retained, and there are certainly traces of the original understanding of muspilli as an apocalypse of fire in the Old Norse version, but in the medieval North its meaning has evolved to designate a place or even some demonic beings, far removed from the Day of Judgment and Elijah’s battle with Satan. A motif may be defined as more complex, including elements of narrative action intended to be recognizable to an audience. If, however, the structure of the motif is deconstructed in the transmission process, it will become unrecognizable. Thus Þórr’s battle with the j tunn is a motif that is found in many variations, but it should always include the direct confrontation of Þórr and the j tunn to function as that particular motif. This means that the narratives of Þórr and Geirrøðr and Þórr and Hymir share a common motif, but the story of Þórr and Útgarðaloki differs: it is a parody, a novel exposition of the motif. Narrative patterns are shared between the story of Þórr and Hymir and the story of Þórr and Útgarðaloki, and even though the latter is a parody of the former, the confrontation situation is recognizable as belonging to the same motif. It is with this understanding of the textual examples of the myths that I approach them and find reason to combine different genres from different eras, areas, and languages. Mythic images are exchanged between cultural spheres, motifs are used and reused in cultural systems, and within textual and oral narrative systems, patterns are redistributed. Saxo, Dudo, Adam, and the author of Heimskringla belong to roughly the same tradition of medieval history writing. Saxo and Heimskringla are the youngest sources, from c. 1208–23 (Saxo 2005 I, introduction: 58–9) and c. 1230 (Heimskringla 1979 I, formáli: viii). Saxo16 mentions Dudo and shows knowledge of Adam’s text, as well (δassen 2011, 1λλ—200). They are writing histories, but they do not refrain from sprinkling their tales of ancient deeds of kings and heroes with mythical material, be it in a mythic image, a motif, or an entire narrative. Saxo uses countless mythic images, among which we find the forest troll Mimingus, the reused mythic image of Mímir. In the same manner, we find a reference to Orcus in Dudo’s history of the Normans and Adam gives us the (mythic) location of Ghinmendegop, his version of Ginnunga gap, while Heimskringla has Ásgarðr/Ásaheimr in Ynglinga saga. Of motifs, Saxo again offers many, such as the poetic exchange
16
On Saxo as a source to mythology, see Lassen 2011, 196–-217, and: Saxo og Snorri som mytografer: Hedenskaben i Gesta Danorum og Heimskringla (2009). See also Meulengracht: Moderen forløst af datterens skød (1989.).
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between Haddingus and his wife about their different preferences in land and sea, in which we find the motif of Nj rðr and Skaði’s failed marriage. Saxo is also the one to reproduce entire narrative patterns, such as the narrative pattern of Þórr and Útgarðaloki/Geirrøðr in his tale of Thorkillus’s travels. There are other types of problems with the older Latin sources. Tacitus and Ovid are from the same era, only decades apart, with Ovid’s death in c. 17 CE and Tacitus’s birth in 56 CE, but they should not be grouped together. Tacitus17 is writing an ethnographic description of the Germanic peoples and Ovid a pagan mythological poem. They share cultural ties and language, but beyond that they have little in common. However, Tacitus in his descriptions of the Germanic peoples reveals some mythic motifs that are useful to the understanding of a long-term tradition of Germanic religion and mythology. It is a similar case with Ovid although his revelations are not directly tied to the Germanic, Nordic, or Norse world. What we find in Ovid is instead mythic representations of the Greco-Roman mythology that may have served as inspiration—even direct knowledge—for the interpretation of Nordic mythic elements at any given time in the Medieval Era, due to the enduring popularity of his works. In terms of the vernacular Old Norse sources, it may serve the purpose to distinguish between the learned literature and indigenous literature, but this distinction does not come without costs. While Konungs Skuggsjá is most certainly a learned, didactic work—displaying, for instance, some familiarity with Ovid—its didactics are specifically relevant to the indigenous population of the North Atlantic, accounting for the geography and knowledge particularly relevant to this cultural sphere. The development of Icelandic literature from the advent of the first texts of the Latin world to the age of saga writing is a complex and intriguing process (cf. e.g., Vésteinn Ólason 1998, 38–62). Landnámabók is in many aspects an indigenous work, but it too has been formed under influence from the Latin textual authority, and this is true also for the various sagas. We recognize the same condition in Bergbúa þáttr with its late medieval prose narrative, framing the skaldic poem in dróttkvætt meter, which is certainly older (Bergbúa þáttr: ÍF 13 1991, cciii–ccv). Even in the tenth century poem of Muspilli this tendency to appropriate the foreign in a familiar form is visible, as it seems to utilize an ancient Germanic formulaic style in relaying the apocalypse (de Vries 1970, 361 and 392–3). The primary sources of Old Norse mythology are just as much a product of this cultural and literary condition of Western Europe. The circumstance pertaining to how these texts came into being, and what life they had prior to their codification and creation, must however, be treated more
17
On the source value of Tacitus, see Allan A. Lund: Nordens barbarer (1979), p. 52–78.
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profoundly. In the following, I will present an overview of the literary tradition that relates to the skaldic and eddic poetry and Snorri’s Edda. SKALDIC POETRY
The individual poems that are used as sources in this dissertation will be presented in the context of the analysis. At this point it serves the purpose of this presentation better to give a brief overview of the poetry as a mythical genre.18 Skaldic poetry is perhaps most easily understood in contrast to eddic poetry: at an early stage the distinction between the two types of poetry is unclear, seeing as the poems of Haraldskvæði and Hákonarmál are usually considered skaldic poems due to their subject matter, but they are composed in eddic meter. The opposite is the case in Ragnarsdrápa and Haustlǫng where skaldic meter is employed to relay legendary and mythological material (Jónas Kristjánsson 2007, 83). As the genre of skaldic poetry develops, it becomes more removed from eddic poetry. Stylistically skaldic poetry is distinguished from eddic poetry by its hendingar and its end rhymes. Eddic poetry is to some extent a part of a common Germanic poetic culture that shows similarities with Beowulf and the Old High German Hildebrandslied, whereas it is often said that skaldic poetry is inherently Scandinavian and primarily Norse. Skaldic poetry employs complex and specialized diction and generally makes use of complex word order to accommodate the rhymes. The content of eddic poetry is heroic legends and pagan mythology in a distant past, while the content of skaldic poetry is recent and contemporary to the poet, treating events of warfare and praising kings and chieftains. Finally, it may be added that skaldic poetry is composed by named—and often famed— poets, while the poets of the eddic poems are entirely anonymous (ibid). That skaldic poetry was not exclusively a Norse type of poetry, however, is evident from the skaldic meter on the Karlevi rune stone, which was raised on Öland around the year 1000 in honor of a Danish chieftain who died there (p. 91). The Danes seem to have been particularly interested in skaldic poetry as a form of cultural identifier, seeing as Danish kings kept skalds at the court all through the period from the ninth century well into the thirteenth century. Even after the twelfth century, when the east Norse dialects had removed themselves so far from the Viking Age language that skaldic compositions in the west Norse dialects must have seemed archaic and in some ways indiscernible, Danish kings such as Erik Ejegod kept Icelandic skalds at their court (Meulengracht 2006, 115).
18
A review of the genre as a source to history of religion (and thus myth) is given by Marold in Die Skaldendichtung als Quelle der Religionsgeschichte 1992, 685–719. For a good overview of the reception of skaldic poetry, see Würth 2007.
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Saxo, too, made use of the knowledge of Icelandic skalds in his writing of Gesta Danorum (Saxo 2005 I, Praef. 1,4), and it is most noteworthy that his long narrative about the advent of Christianity in Denmark in the Thorkillus tales, built on Old Norse mythic motifs and narrative patterns, employs an Icelandic storyteller, a skald, as the guide of king Gormus on the dangerous mission to the far North. This, if nothing else, attests to the cleric’s need to deconstruct authoritative pagan tales, mediated by skalds in the service of the Danish court. That he does so by placing the Icelandic skald in the favored leading role as the one who literally sees the light would in turn, underscore the reverence that the skalds and their poetry enjoyed at the Danish court of his time (see chapter III, pages 104-117). This usage of skaldic poetry in historical writing is one of the primary reasons for its preservation. As has been noted above, the author of the prologue to Heimskringla finds that skaldic poetry (kvæðin) can yield historical truths if the verses are composed properly and interpreted correctly. Saxo must have shared this view, although he put the poetry to work in a much different way. The prehistory of kings’ sagas given in Ynglinga saga attests to a different usage of skaldic poetry than Saxo’sμ one that is much closer to its source. Where Ynglinga saga quotes the poem and presents its judgment of its content as historical events, Saxo generally implements in his text the narrative structures of myths he must have been familiar with in poetry. It is in such contexts that entire poems or singular lausavisur have been preserved, in sagas of various kinds and, of course, in Snorri Sturluson’s monumental didactic work of Edda, which was created for the purpose of preserving this art form (Jónas Kristjánsson 2007, 89). The poem Háleygjatal, which is important to this study, has for instance been preserved in manuscripts of Snorri’s Edda. What initially inspired this art form is unclear, but it is a notable aspect of the earliest skaldic poems that they are predominantly ‘word-pictures,’ image-describing poetry that is very often composed in conference with—not simply reference to—images on shields. That is, they were not conceived as commentaries on the images, but rather as counterparts to the image; they do not refer a complete narrative but instead to events within the narrative, like the images (Meulengracht 2006, 115). Bragi inn gamli’s Ragnarsdrápa is such a shield poem relaying four images, one of which is Þórr fishing for J rmungandr. Meulengracht describes the style in this manner: Fra alle fire myter er det kun selve scenen, som billedet fremstiller, der er digterens motiv. Fra fisketuren er det således øjeblikket, hvor Thor har trukket Midgårdsormen op til overfladen […] Her lykkes det så at sige skjalden at få sproget til at stå stille i en visuel fastholdelse af det dramatiske øjeblik, og samtidig skaber det komplekse sprog et sidestykke til billedstilen. It is only the singular scene of each of the four myths depicted in the image that is used as motif by the poet. From the fishing trip it is thus the instance in which Þórr has drawn
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the World Serpent to the surface […] The poet succeeds in bringing the language to a halt in a visual ossification of the dramatic moment, and at the same time the complex language creates a counterpart of the image (Meulengracht 2006, 116). It thus seems that one purpose of the mythological aspects of skaldic poetry was to capture images from myths in their most acute, dramatic state. This can be compared directly to the Viking Age picture-stones depicting known myths, although their focus is different, because they depict not a narrative but a specific scene or situation of the myth in question (cf. Meulengracht 2002 [1986]). It stands to reason that the genre of skaldic poetry developed from a Nordic-Germanic tradition of mythical poetry that, due to the social circumstances where it was tightly knit into the hegemony of Scandinavian rulers, developed into praise poetry of kings, earls, and chieftains. Several myths known in their prose forms in Edda can be found in skaldic verse: Ragnarsdrápa and several other poems recount the myth of Þórr’s fishing trip, and Haustlǫng accounts for the theft of Iðunn and Þórr’s battle with Hrungnir, while Þórsdrápa details Þórr’s encounter with Geirrøðr. But, again, it is important to remember that the genre did not develop in a cultural vacuum. The great corpus of Christian skaldic poetry is an obvious testimony to this, but external influence on the genre extends beyond local Christian adoption, seeing as both Ynglingatal and Háleygjatal seem to have been inspired by Anglo-Saxon royal genealogies (see chapter IV, pages 151-159), while the World-Body imagery in skaldic poetry seems to have been formulated in conference with continental sources (Nordal 2001, 273–308; see chapter IV, pages 129-132). EDDIC POETRY
The fifth century Tune stone in Østfold, Norway, with its alliterative lines, is an early example of verse forms commonly associated with eddic poetry (Jónas Kristjánsson 2007, 27–8). With the information from Tacitus that the Germanic peoples celebrated their mythology in carminibus antiquis (ancient songs [Germania 1959, II]), the Tune stone suggests that the form of alliterative poetry that would eventually evolve into the types of poetry commonly known as ‘eddic poetry’19 is the oldest form of verbal Germanic art. As noted above, there are strong commonalities between eddic poetry and the ninth century Old High German Hildebrandslied, as well as the Anglo-Saxon poems of Beowulf, Widsið, and Deor from the eighth to the tenth centuries (Gunnell 2007, 93). Eddic poetry as we know it is, however, preserved from the thirteenth century and there is good reason to assume
It is little more than a coincidence that this type of poetry came to be known as ‘eddic poetry.’ In a letter to Stephan Stephanius, bishop Brynjólfur Sveinsson writes that he considered Snorri’s Edda to be a part of a greater work, which he associated with Sæmundr fróði, and when he was later presented with the collection of Codex Regius, he thought that this was a version of Sæmundar Edda (Lassen 2011, 309).
19
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that the form in which the known poems have been transmitted is recent rather than ancient (Harris 1985, 68, see also Harris 1983, Kellogg 1990 and Gunnell 1995).20 The primary collection of eddic poetry is the Codex Regius GKS 2365 4to from c. 1270. It contains 29 poems, ten of which are concerned with matters of mythology, while the remainder are Scandinavian and Germanic heroic legends. The term ‘eddic poetry’ covers a wide span of metres, among which the most widely used are ljóðaháttr, fornyrðislag, and málaháttr. The unassuming medieval manuscript of Codex Regius is, as such, more a thematic collection of different types of folk-poetry comparable to such other medieval collections as the medieval German compilation of (folk-)songs Carmina Burana (Gunnell 2007, 82). Little is known of the life of the Codex Regius manuscript before it was presented to bishop Brynjólfur in 1643. It is possible that the Codex Regius was written at the Þingeyrar monastery and that it was kept there from c. 1300 (Lassen 2011, 309). It seems that the heroic poems were copied from a single, older source, while the mythological poems may have been pieced together from various sources. This would essentially identify the writer of the manuscript with its redactor (p. 311–12), thus indicating that the 1270 version of the Codex Regius is the first (and only) collection of its kind, and that the mythological poems may come from various minor collections. There is another manuscript in fragmentary form from c. 1300, the AM 748 I a 4to, which also contains eddic poems. The AM 748 contains five eddic poems that are nearly identical to their counterparts in the Codex Regius (Gunnell 2007, 83). Aside from these it also contains Baldrs draumar, which is to be found nowhere else. Some other poems that are traditionally considered to be ‘eddic’ in their genre are preserved in other manuscripts. These are: Rígsþula, which is preserved with Snorri’s Edda in Codex Wormianus; Hyndluljóð in Flateyjarbók; Grottasǫngr in various manuscripts of Snorri’s Edda; and finally, the post-medieval poems of Gróugaldur, Fjölsvinnsmál, Sólarljóð and Hrafnagaldur Óðins, which have been preserved in paper form (Lassen 2011, 313). The poem of Vǫluspá is extant in three different versionsμ one in Codex Regius, one in Snorri’s Edda, and one in the fourteenth century collection of Hauksbók. The different manuscript versions and the poems found outside of Codex Regius are not essential to the present study, but it is beneficial to our understanding of the tradition of eddic poetry in medieval Iceland to consider this proliferation pattern. The fact that poems of the eddic type occur outside a single collection and that some of the poems occur in variant forms attests to a more widespread interest in the material than the humble appearance of the Codex Regius manuscript would suggest.
20
For a discussion and overview of the research history in the dating of eddic poetry, see Fidjestøl 1999.
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The organization of the poems in Codex Regius follows a certain disposition: Vǫluspá, Hávamál, Vafþrúðnismál, Grímnismál, Skírnismál, Hárbarðzljóð, Hymiskviða, Lokasenna, Þrymskviða, the heroic poem of Vǫlundarkviða, and finally Alvíssmál. Alvíssmál is followed by the heroic poems (see Wimmer & Finnur Jónsson 1891). Vǫluspá accounts for eschatological cosmic time, laying bare the events of the pagan cosmos from beginning to end. Hávamál is the first of the Odinic poems giving instructions for proper conduct and the social life of the (pagan) world. Vafþrúðnismál gives an account of the pagan cosmos in a dialogic contest between Óðinn and the j tunn Vafþrúðnir, while Grímnismál is set as a monologue of Óðinn at the hall of the human king Geirrøðr. In Grímnismál, the cosmology ties in with the moral aspect of the king mistreating his guests, and the cosmological recitation of the bound Óðinn has ritualistic character. Skírnismál relays the events of Freyr’s appropriation of Gerðr and is thus the only poem in the collection about Freyr. The subsequent poems except for Vǫlundarkviða and Lokasenna are about Þórr. Hárbarðzljóð, Þrymskviða, and Lokasenna are kept in a more or less burlesque tone of parody (Meulengracht 2006, 80–1), letting Þórr endure the insults of the ferryman Hárbarðr in Hárbarðzljóð and the embarrassment of having to dress up as a woman in Þrymskviða, while in Lokasenna, Loki scolds the gods for infidelity and other improper behavior. Hymiskviða tells the story of Þórr’s visit to Hymir, where he catches the Miðgarðsormr. Unlike the others, it is kept in a relatively serious tone. Alvíssmál is a didactic poem set in a dialogue between Þórr and a dwarf. Alvíss recounts the names of the cosmic elements among the various supernatural beings of the mythology, while Þórr keeps asking him new questions until the sun comes up and the dwarf turns to stone. It is hard to reach a final conclusion in terms of the source value of the eddic poems. They are most certainly oral in origin, but the form in which they were recorded is inherently medieval (Gunnell 2007, 93; Meulengracht 2006, 65–6). There are few—if any—objective criteria for such an evaluation, and a fundamental problem has long been that the object of the discussion of the orality of eddic poetry has been to postulate a set of hypothetical poems identical to the written ones, which were presumed to have existed in oral culture (p. 66). This is in essence a discussion that pertains to genre and the question of whether or not the eddic poems as they are known in medieval script preserve details that had acquired formulaic status. With the above-defined view on myth, I seek to transgress the boundaries of this discussion and talk instead of myths in Cultural Memory/Collective Memory—the eddic myths as features of the Mythical Charter of Tradition. In his article Om eddadigtenes alder (1991), Meulengracht expresses this need to transgress the written form of the poem to discuss its content instead, and see the preserved form of the poem primarily as an aid to understanding the content (Meulengracht 1991, 222). With this, Schjødt argues that the knowledge preserved in the content of the poems must have its root in the pagan world of ideas (Schjødt 2008a,
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93), and that is exactly on a par with the notion of the Mythical Charter of Tradition that preserves much needed knowledge for posterity. This is therefore the approach that I take in this presentation: I discuss not the poems as much as their content and I consider all of that content inherently mythical. The specific eddic poems of interest to this presentation are the Vǫluspá, Hávamál, Vafþrúðnismál, Grímnismál, and Hymiskviða. The poem Vǫluspá is a carefully structured monologue of direct speech in sixty-six stanzas of fornyrðislag. It provides a view of the eschatological temporality of the Old Norse cosmos.21 It seems to have been written either in the tenth century or in the early eleventh century (Simek 2007, 366). The vǫlva tells of the beginning of the world, the creation of the world, and the eschatological progress towards Ragnar k. This apocalyptic event seems to be based partially on imagery from the Book of Revelation (North 2003, McKinnell 2008, Steinsland 2009). As mentioned, Vǫluspá is extant in three different versionsμ one in Snorri’s Edda, one in Codex Regius 2364 4to, and one in the fourteenth century collection of Hauksbók. There are some variations between the different versions, but the overall perspective presents a poem that recounts the life of a pre-Christian cosmos. Stanzas 1 to 2622 describe the creation of the world and its most important features. The vǫlva describes how the world was created in a time when mjǫtvið mœran, the ‘mighty measuring tree’ Yggdrasill, was below the ground and nothing existed except the primordial creature Ymir23 (sts. 1–3). The Burs synir, presumably some of the æsir, create Miðgarðr, make a calendar, and build a city complete with temples and industry (sts. 4–8). At this point some þursa meyjar (þurs [troll] maidens) come to the gods from the J tunheimar and this leads to the creation of the dwarves (sts. 8/9–16). Afterwards the three gods Óðinn, Hœnir, and δóðurr create the first pair of humans, Askr and Embla (sts. 17–18). Now, the tree of Yggdrasill has grown out of the ground and has become a mighty tree. Below it come some meyjar, the nornir, who determine the fate of humans (sts. 19–20). This is followed by a recollection of the first war of the world, when the æsir killed Gullveigr/Heiðr and denied the vanir wergild for the deed, with a devastating war as the result (sts. 21–6). Óðinn ventures to seek knowledge of the eschatology (sts. 27–9), and this leads to the prophecy of Ragnar k that is subsequently uttered by the vǫlva in grisly specters of death and doom. It begins with Baldr’s death (sts. 31–33) and the binding of Loki (sts. 34–5). The vǫlva describes a mythic locale of a river of swords and a hall built on the Beach of Corpses, Nástr ndr, where serpents spew venom through the roof. Here, the oath-breakers and murderers walk the heavy streams, and in the east there are witches in the woods breeding wolves that will destroy the world For two thorough investigations and translations of Vǫluspá, see Sigurður Nordal 1927 and Dronke 1997, 3–154. This is the normalized text in Neckel and Kuhn (1962). 23 In the version of Snorri’s Edda, there is no primordial being. Both Codex Regius and Hauksbók mention Ymir in stanza 3μ “Ár var alda, þat/þar er Ymir bygði …” (In the beginning of time, when Ymir lived [Vsp. 3]), while Snorri’s version hasμ “Ár var alda þat er ekki var …” (In the beginning of time, when there was nothing [Gylf. IV]). This will be addressed in chapter IV, pages 129-132. 21 22
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(sts. 36–41). Crowing roosters and barking dogs signal the coming of the battle and Heimdallr blows his horn (sts. 42–6). The evil powers break their bonds and approach the battlefield (sts. 45–52). The gods meet them and they destroy each other in a cosmic clash (sts. 53–6). Earth sinks, the sun is darkened, and flames reach as high as the sky (sts. 57–8). The last seven stanzas describe how a new world emerges, possibly with the coming of a Christ figure named inn ríki in stanza 65 (sts. 59–66). The primary stanzas of interest to this study are the so-called ‘volcanic stanzas’ of 47 to 52. Hávamál follows Vǫluspá in the Codex Regius manuscript without any prose to separate the two poems. The poem is typically ascribed to Óðinn because of its title’s association with the Óðinn heiti Hárr, which is preserved in the manuscript (Lassen 2011, 333). The poem relates gnomic knowledge mixed with runic and magic wisdom. As such, it is an outstanding example of technical mythical knowledge in an Old Norse literary context. It is possible that Hávamál is an indigenous Norse version of a tradition for didactic poetry inspired by the early medieval Latin poem of Disticha Catonis (c. third century CE), to which also Hugsvinnsmál belongs (cf. von See 1981; McKinnell 2005b; Lassen 2011). It has also been observed by Hermann Pálsson that there are Latin parallels to several stanzas in Hávamál (1990) and both he and McKinnell have suggested some influence on Hávamál from Ovid’s Ars Amatoria (Hermann Pálsson 1999; McKinnell 2005b; see chapter IV, page 154). This seems to indicate a relatively late dating for the poem, around the twelfth or early thirteenth century (Simek 2007, 134). It has often been assumed that Hávamál is a compilation of several minor poems, since it does not follow a single metrical pattern. Most of the stanzas are in ljóðaháttr, but stanzas 73, 85–87 and 144 are in málaháttr and stanza 145 is in fornyrðislag. In addition, stanzas 80 and 142–143 are in an unknown meter (Gunnell 1995, 188–9; see also Lassen 2011, 335, footnote). The traditional division of the poem was devised by Müllenhoff, who separated it thus: stanzas 1–7λ are a ‘gnomic poem’; stanzas 95–102 are an episode designated ‘Óðinn and Billing’s girl’; stanzas 103–110 are ‘Óðinn and Gunnl ð’; stanzas 111–137 are Loddfáfnismál; stanzas 138–145 are Rúnatal; and stanzas 146–163 are Ljóðatal (Müllenhoff 1891). This sectioning of the poem was last amended by McKinnell in his Hávamál B: A Poem of Sexual Intrigue (2005b), where he divides the poem thus: stanzas 1–79 are ‘The Gnomic Poem’; stanzas 84 + λ1–110 are ‘The Poem of Sexual Intrigue’; stanzas 111, 4–8 + 11, 112–136 are ‘Loddfáfnismál’; and stanzas 138–141, 146–161, 1–3 and 163 comprise ‘Ljóðatal.’ It is possible however, to understand the poem as one singular composition that, if nothing else, was meaningful to the thirteenth century compiler. The subject matter of Hávamál ranges from aspects of personal conduct in social settings to magic formulae for healing and warfare, and not least myths. The primary myth of interest here is the stanzas 104–110 referring to the myth of the Mead of Poetry, or as in other designations, ‘Óðinn and Gunnl ð’.
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Vafþrúðnismál is composed as a contest of wisdom between Óðinn and the j tunn Vafþrúðnir. The entirety of this poem is devoted to cosmic knowledge as it deals with the cosmogony, the celestial elements, and all the aspects of an ideal existence in the Old Norse cosmos. It is impossible to safely date Vafþrúðnismál. The contents of the poem show encyclopedic interest in pre-Christian mythology, indicating a dating as early as the late tenth century, whereas the style of the poem with its dialogic form points to medieval influences and thus suggests a dating as late as the thirteenth century (Simek 2007, 345). The first stanzas of Vafþrúðnismál are a dialogue between Óðinn and Frigg, where Óðinn announces his intention to test Vafþrúðnir’s knowledge, leading Frigg to caution him (sts. 1–5). Then follows an introduction of Vafþrúðnir and Óðinn, now with the name Gagnráðr. Here the god challenges the j tunn and refuses to respect the customs of Vafþrúðnir’s home (sts. 6–10). The first questions are posed by Vafþrúðnir to Óðinn and they concern the origin of night and day, the river Ífing that separates the j tnar from the æsir, and the place where the gods will meet Surtr in the final battle (sts. 11–18). In stanza 19, Vafþrúðnir acknowledges the wisdom of Gagnráðr and now the dialogue shifts to Óðinn questioning Vafþrúðnir. First Vafþrúðnir tells how the world was created (sts. 20–1), then he relates the details of the celestial elements, the causes of night and day and the causes of the seasons (sts. 22–7). The subject then changes to the oldest beings of the cosmos, their origin and their qualities (sts. 28–35). Óðinn then inquires about the origins of the winds, of Nj rðr, about who the einherjar are, and about the secrets of the j tnar (sts. 36–43). At this point the poem changes to a form where Óðinn begins each question with a formulaic sentence that he uttered to Frigg in the beginningμ “Fi lð ec fór, fi lð ec freistaðac, f lð ec reynda regin” (εuch I journeyed, much I tempted, much I tested the regin [Vfm. 3]). This sequence focuses on the particulars of Ragnar k (sts. 44–53), and constitutes the ending of the poem. In stanza 54 Óðinn asks Vafþrúðnir what the god whispered in Baldr’s ear on his funeral pyre, and it is by this that Vafþrúðnir realizes he has lost the contest, because he cannot answer this question (st. 55). The poem of Grímnismál is similar to Vafþrúðnismál insofar as it relates cosmic knowledge. But where Vafþrúðnismál is preoccupied with the contest between Óðinn and Vafþrúðnir, and dispenses its cosmological information in a seemingly less structured form, Grímnismál is a more structured exposition of a cosmic landscape with focus on the feudal ruler who is personified in the main god Óðinn and his dwelling (cf. Larrington 2002). This structure seems to relate directly to a ritualistic scene that incorporates the cosmology in a performance aspect (Gunnell 2001, 24–5). Grímnismál has a prose frame that likely belongs to the redaction in the thirteenth century manuscript. The poem may however, be understood as a late pagan didactic poem because of the tendency to systematize the mythology in the poem (Simek 2007, 118–9). The prose frame tells of two princes
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and brothers, Geirrøðr and Agnarr, who went fishing. They are lost on the sea and drift ashore on a distant island. There they are taken in by an old couple who give them shelter during the winter. When summer comes the old couple takes them to their boat and leads them on their way. Before letting them sail away, the old man who has cared for Geirrøðr takes him aside and tells him some secrets. When the brothers come back home, Geirrøðr is the first to jump on land and when he does so, he pushes the boat out at sea again and lets Agnarr drift far away. By doing this, Geirrøðr inherits the kingdom of his father. It is then revealed that the old couple who took care of the boys during the winter away were Óðinn and Frigg. They argue over the success of each boy and Óðinn taunts Frigg because her favorite, Agnarr, is breeding with a troll-woman in a cave while Geirrøðr, his own favorite, is king. Frigg claims that Geirrøðr is stingy with food and the two gods wager on that claim. Óðinn seeks out Geirrøðr to find out if he indeed is stingy with food, disguising himself as Grímnir. Frigg has in the meantime sent her servant Fulla to warn Geirrøðr of the wandering Grímnir and that he is a wizard. When Grímnir comes to Geirrøðr’s home, he is caught and put between two fires without receiving food or drink. The poem’s brief introduction in the stanzas describes how Óðinn has been captured and placed between the two fires for eight nights. Only the boy Agnarr, Geirrøðr’s son, has brought him any kind of sustenance. Agnarr is praised for this, and Óðinn begins reciting cosmic knowledge (sts. 1–3). He begins by declaring that the land is holy near the æsir and álfar, whereafter he proceeds to enumerate thirteen divine dwellings (sts. 4–17). Stanzas 8–10 linger by the features of Óðinn’s hall, here called both Glaðsheimr and Valh ll. After the enumeration of the divine dwellings, the poem describes Óðinn’s mythic locale in more detail, mentioning the einherjar, Geri and Freki, and Huginn and Muninn (sts. 18–20). The world of the einherjar is described more thoroughly in the following stanzas (21–5) before the focus shifts to a catalogue of mythic rivers that seem to stem from the well of Hvergelmir below the mighty tree Læráðr/Yggdrasill (sts. 26–9). The tree of Yggdrasill is then described in more detail and the various creatures associated with it are mentioned (sts. 29–35). A lone stanza 36 mentions the primary valkyrjur or nornir but then focus shifts to the celestial elements (sts. 37–λ), and the creation of the world from Ymir’s body (sts. 40–1). Stanza 42 praises the one who can quench the flame first. This may be directed at Agnarr but the poem quickly shifts focus again to recount the best parts and objects of the æsir’s world (sts. 43–4). Finally Óðinn reveals himself to Geirrøðr who is present at this recitation, but seems unable to fully understand the message of the poem. Óðinn invites the æsir to come into Ægir’s hall, and it seems as if the mythic world—the ideal cosmos—converges with the hall in which the speaker is seated (st. 45). Óðinn recounts his many names (sts. 46–50), and then he directs his speech to Geirrøðr saying that the ruler has lost favor with the god. Here the poem ends. A final prose comment tells how Geirrøðr rises to free Óðinn from his
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bonds as the king realizes who Grímnir is, but Geirrøðr’s sword falls on the floor and he trips over it so that it pierces his body and he is killed. Agnarr is installed as king after his father. Where Vǫluspá is a cosmological temporal exegesis, the poems of Vafþrúðnismál and Grímnismál are catalogues of what may be presumed to be standard pagan cosmological spatial knowledge. Together, these three poems relate basic, important knowledge about how the pagan cosmos should be perceived, what elements it consists of, and how these elements come together in a logical and consistent way. This is surely the way they were used as sources in the tradition of Gylfaginning. As such they may be understood as embodying everything that is held in δeGoff’s definition of a Mythical Charter of Tradition. Not only do these narratives relate visions of the cosmology, they demonstrate clear notions of ethics and morality, and they set these notions in direct relation to conceptions of civilization and its beginning. The social and esoteric dynamics that are at play between the æsir and other groups of natural and supernatural beings in Vǫluspá are reiterated in the meeting of Óðinn and Vafþrúðnir, and again in his meeting with Geirrøðr (see e.g., Clunies Ross 1994). This is also the case with Hymiskviða, where Þórr exerts these dynamics in his meeting with Hymir. This poem is a narrative enactment of these dynamics set in a theme of resource procurement. Hymiskviða 24 relates in fornyrðislag the story of how Þórr and Týr venture to procure a cauldron large enough to brew beer or mead for all the æsir (sts. 1–6). They journey to Hymir at the end of heaven, east of Élivágar, where they are greeted by a j tunn who is less than welcoming (sts. 7–14). They sit down to eat, setting off a pattern of contests between Þórr and Hymir, based on a lack of food to feed Þórr (sts. 15–17). They row out to sea to catch whales and, eventually, the Miðgarðsormr (sts. 17–25). Back in the home of Hymir, the j tunn challenges Þórr to break his crystal goblet and the god does so, using the j tunn’s forehead for the purpose (sts. 26–31). After some deliberation, Hymir then gives up a cauldron that is large enough, and the two gods are off (sts. 31– 4). But they are pursued by Hymir and his army, and because one of Þórr’s goats is lame in its leg, they must stop and fight. In the fight, Þórr manages to kill Hymir and his men (sts. 35–9). The poem seems to be a pastiche combining several tales with their own, individual themes (von See 1997, 259–65). These are the motifs of the fishing trip, the motif of the lame goat, and the motif of the feast in Ægir’s hall, which in turn incorporates the motif of collecting the kettle. They are combined in a form that is described as Märchencharakter (p. 266): Þórr is sent to procure a difficult-to-obtain object from a hostile otherworldly being. In this aspect, as well as in the subject of Þórr’s hunger, it seems that Hymiskviða is related to Þrymskviða, but Hymiskviða is older than
24
For an in-depth overview of Hymiskviða, see von See et al 1997, 253–77.
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Þrymskviða (p. 277). In Both One and Many (1994), John McKinnell analyzes Hymiskviða as part of a common narrative pattern of Þórr’s visit to a j tunn’s hall (1λλ4, 57–86). Hymiskviða shares its structure with a number of narratives about Þórr battling a j tunn as well as several secondary tales derived from this motif. These tales are Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns, Saxo’s Thorkillus narratives, Þórr’s Visit to Geirrøðr, Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki, and the skaldic poem Þórsdrápa. As mentioned above, the three poems Vǫluspá, Vafþrúðnismál, and Grímnismál are the primary sources to Gylfaginning. In its form in Codex Regius, however, Hymiskviða seems to be a concoction that has come to life after the writing of Gylfaginning (von See 1997, 259). Not only does the poem recount the fishing trip, but it also combines it with the trials in the hall of the j tunn as it is known from Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki. In Gylfaginning, the narratives of Útgarðaloki and the Fishing Myth relate to one another analogically (see chapter III, page 96), and it is reasonable to assume that the form in which Hymiskviða, the story of Útgarðaloki and the story of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition in Gylfaginning belong to the same tradition of narrative interpretation and reformulation—a tradition that is close to that of Saxo’s Thorkillus tales. “NORRI’“ EDDA
Snorri’s Edda is the most comprehensive redaction of Old Norse mythology. Written in the early thirteenth century around 1220, it represents a Christian and learned medieval interpretation of Old Norse mythology (cf. Mogk 1923; Baetke [1950] 1973; Holtsmark 1964; Dronke & Dronke 1977; Faulkes 1983; von See 1988). Written as a didactic book on skaldic poetry (Weber 1986; Clunies Ross 1987; Guðrún Nordal 2001), the discourse of Edda seems to have been influenced by early medieval theories of the conversion of pagans (Abrams 2009), and the cosmogony is inspired by neoplatonic teachings on the elements (von See 1988, 52–5). Surely the myths of Edda have their root in oral tradition, but they seem to have been skillfully handled by Snorri and his medieval tradition as forn fræði in a literary context (Meulengracht 1992). The Edda has been preserved in full in four different manuscripts: Codex Regius 2367 4to (1300–1325); Codex Wormianus AM 242 fol. (c. 1350); Codex Upsaliensis DG 11 (c. 1300); and Codex Trajectinus Traj. 1374 (c. 1595). From the contents of these manuscripts it seems reasonable to conclude that the original parts of Snorri’s Edda were the main chapters of Prologus, Gylfaginning, Skáldskaparmál, and the poem Háttatal.25
25
To this discussion the poem of Háttatal is not important and its description has thus been left out. Concerning the problems of defining Edda as Snorri’s original book with its original content, see Krömmelbein 1λλ2.
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The prologue gives a learned account of the origins of pagan religion. It describes how humankind developed paganism in a Christian dogmatic perspective. God created Earth and sent the Flood, but as time progressed men forgot the name of God and started worshiping wealth and prosperity instead. With the engaging of reason (jarðligri skilningu) in perception, humankind deduced that the world was a living creature with the same qualities as men, and so they counted their origins from it, sacrificed to it, and told stories about it. They also reasoned that, since the celestial elements moved with a course over the sky, they were guided by a Supreme Being, and so they started to worship Him (Prol. I–II). In the further description of the development of paganism, Prologus refers to etymologies and migration of the æsir from Troy in Asia, and essentially claims that Old Norse myths are correctly interpreted as classical Greek history (Prol. II–X; Skáld. Epilogue). Finally, Prologus outlines the migration history and the fellowship between the different Germanic nations. Prologus attributes this to Óðinn’s placement of his sons as kings over the countries, and finally describes how Óðinn set up his center of worship in Sweden, with the same laws and customs that were performed in Troy (Prol. X–XI). The structure of Gylfaginning relates to the poems of Vǫluspá, Vafþrúðnismál, and Grímnismál. The dialogic style of this chapter is borrowed from Vafþrúðnismál (Teilgård Laugesen 1942, 306; Holtsmark 1964, 16; Beck 1992, 613): the Swedish king Gylfi goes to the æsir to enquire about the mythology and this develops into a contest of questions and answers comparable to the dialogue of Óðinn and Vafþrúðnir. Gylfi asks questions of the three æsir Hár, Jafnhár, and Þriði, hypostases of Óðinn. First Gylfi enquires about the greatest god and asks how the world was created. Following this, he asks about the beings in the world: humans and their creation, Óðinn and Frigg and what they possess, the goddess J rð (Earth), and the gods of night and day and who they descend from. Then it is told how All-father made the cycle of night and day. The dialogue continues to revolve around the subject of the celestial beings, Sun and Moon. To this is added information about the wolves that threaten the sun. In the following, the world above the natural or physical one is described. First, it is told how to get there on the rainbow bridge Bifr st. Then the text describes the multitude of abodes that the gods have in heaven, the holy center of Yggdrasill, the qualities of Yggdrasill, and the realms where its roots reach out to. When Gylfi asks how the gods’ place in the sky will be safe when Surtr burns the world, it is related that there are two other heavens above the one populated by the æsir, these are called Viðbláin and Andlangr. From this point, the dialogue focuses on more earthly matters. The origins of the wind, summer, and winter are discussed. Gylfi asks questions about the æsir, and the individual gods are enumerated. After having listed the asynjur and having told of δoki’s offspring, including the tale of the Fenrizúlfr,
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Gylfaginning dwells on descriptions of Valh ll and not least the undead life of the einherjar. Eventually the talk falls on the subject of the most magnificent belongings of the æsir, the best horse Sleipnir and his origins, as well as the tale of Þórr’s journey to Útgarðaloki. After this, the matter of cosmology is no longer discussed, and the narrative moves towards treating eschatology. Gylfaginning relates the tale of Þórr and the World Serpent, Baldr’s Death, and subsequently Ragnar k. In this way, Gylfaginning provides a synopsis of the cosmology of pre-Christian Nordic mythology that is fully governed by a canonical view comparable to Christian doctrine of thirteenth century Iceland and, indeed, Europe. Notably, Gylfaginning represents a highly eschatological view on the mythology: first it describes the spatiality of the cosmos and then, in the end, its temporality. This is consistent with the poems of Vǫluspá and Vafþrúðnismál. Skáldskaparmál is a different matter. Compared to Gylfaginning, the structure of Skáldskaparmál seems incomplete in the sense of common Aristotelian composition.26 The frame is set at the banquet at Ægir’s where Bragi is teaching Ægir the language of poetry. He enumerates several mythological fictions (Clunies Ross 1992), which explain some of the circumlocutions of skaldic poetry. First27, he explains the circumlocutions for gold relating to j tnar by giving an account of the myth of Þjazi stealing Iðunn. Next, he accounts for the myth of the Mead of Poetry. Then comes an epilogue warning against believing in these tales, even though they should not be considered entirely untrue. Skáldskaparmál thus explains how the poetry may be analogically interpreted as the events of the story of Troy. It is explained how, for instance, Þórr fishing for the Miðgarðsormr with the ox-head is an analogue to Hector using the head of Volucrontes to lure Achilles out for the fight (Skáld. Epilogue). The warnings in the epilogue and the outlined interpretative mode relate to the prologue, and suggest the preferred approach of the medieval redactor to his material. Afterwards, the chapter proceeds to enumerate kennings and to garnish the lists of kennings with myths about Þórr and Hrungnir, Þórr and Geirrøðr, the skaldic poems of Haustlǫng and Þórsdrápa, and several more tales.
26 27
On the relationship between Edda and the Aristotelian tradition, see Magerøy 1991, 204–5. This description follows Faulkes’s standard.
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THE STATE OF THE SOURCES
The source material is a diverse body of texts which are first and foremost medieval literary productions, but at the second level, they are cultural texts and cultural knowledge, which was perceived as useful in one way or another, at least until the fourteenth or fifteenth century. In Snorris fræði (1992), Meulengracht writes that Snorri was writing his Edda on ‘our’ side of the grand divide between a Christian and a pre-Christian worldview (Meulengracht 1992, 271). This is, in my opinion, not entirely correct. Snorri, like those who recorded eddic poetry and, in fact, also Saxo, belongs to the tradition of producing and reproducing Old Norse myths, as a kind of fræðimaðr. Snorri and his peers have recorded the mythic material for various reasons, the primary one being that these myths held cultural currency in the thirteenth century, and even beyond into the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. It was only with the Modern Era and the religious change of the Reformation—which in many aspects was more disruptive than the conversion to Christianity—that ancient myths and folktradition lost their usefulness. This is primarily evident in the lengths to which the medieval writers went to incorporate the ancient myths into their literary culture. Finally, it should not be forgotten that in other cultures where the advent of Christianity caused a paradigmatic shift in terms of literary representation, the infusion of Christian myth was an important factor in the survival of indigenous material. This is realized in relation to the Mayan Popol Vuh of the 1550s, both in terms of its preservation of indigenous language in Roman letters and in terms of its preservation of myth. As such, it is comparable to Snorri’s Edda (Damrosch 2007, 215–19) and to some extent Saxo, insofar as the content of these texts is a catalogue of indigenous myth that undergoes a restructuring under the hegemony of another script world. This cultural hegemony brought about by the impositon of a script world other than the one that is fully indigenous results in a certain representational mode of the indigenous material. This is mostly expressed in the cosmological and eschatological representations of Old Norse mythology as they have been outlined above. The perspective given to the cosmology and eschatology of Old Norse religion in these sources is an imposed structure, not so much in terms of pagan vs. Christian, but rather in terms of its function in relation to the ecosystem: it does not accord with the actual functional worldview of pre-Christian Scandinavians and their relation to the environment. As the object of this presentation is a discussion of key elements of the worldview of Old Norse mythology, the topic of cosmology and the ideological organization of the worldview is important to the following investigation. Now I will therefore provide an overview of the research in Old Norse cosmology and worldview.
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THE DISCUSSION OF WORLDVIEW IN OLD NORSE SCHOLARSHIP
The subject of cosmology and worldview has been an integrated part of analyses, interpretations, and representations of Old Norse mythology for more than two centuries. Considerations of how the cosmos is arranged and what the worldview consists of is part of any standard work on Old Norse mythology and religion. The standard of worldview description as it is commonly known in works on Old Norse mythology seem to have been set by Grimm’s Deutsche Mythologie I–II from 1835. It is focused on beings, particular elements, and certain concepts of the pre-Christian (Teutonic) mythology and religion, and it does extend to the description of cosmological aspects. Grimm devotes one chapter to Óðinn, one to Þórr, and another to Freyr (Grimm 1854, 120). He also discusses groups of beings: gods (p. 88) and giants (p. 485) amongst others, as well as concepts of fate and the soul (p. 816 and 786). His treatment of cosmic components is divided into chapters on creation (p. 525) and celestial elements (p. 661), separated by a chapter on the elements (p. 548), and one on trees and animals (p. 613). εore than one hundred years after Grimm’s publication, such standard works as Jan de Vries’ Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte I–II (1956 and 1957) and E.O.G Turville-Petre’s Myth and Religion of the North from 1964 present this subject matter in much the same way, leaving the discussion and description of the cosmology and worldview as a part of a greater whole. As a systematically addressed topic, cosmology and worldview do not find their way into many studies of Old Norse–Germanic or pre-Christian Scandinavian religion and mythology prior to the articles of E. Meletinskij and the studies of Kirsten Hastrup. In spite of the primacy of the subject of worldview and thus the subject of the way in which pre-Christian Scandinavians structured narratives about their world, it is only in the more recent works that cosmology and worldview as a singular subject are given sufficient attention. These works are, among others, Britt εari Näsström’s Fornskandinavisk Religion (2001), John δindow’s Norse Mythology: A Guide to Gods, Heroes, Rituals and Belief (2002), Rudolf Simek’s Religion und Mythologie der Germanen (2003), and particularly Gro Steinsland’s Norrøn Religion from 2005. In the following, I will give a presentation of the research history that discusses the subject of cosmology and worldview as an independent theme among the other important facets of the mythology. I acknowledge that cosmology and worldview are part of any scholarly discussion of Old Norse–Germanic mythological components, but as a singular subject, I find that the scholarly debate of the constitution, structure, and conceptual importance of the term worldview—and thus the question of how early Scandinavians interacted with their ecosystem—is relatively young and overlooked.28 To date only one dissertation has been completed on the subject: 28
An exception to this is perhaps the Vägar till Midgård 1-4 project, where no. 4 is focused on cosmology and worldview. See Andrén, Jennbert and Raudvere: Ordning mot kaos (2004).
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Nanna δøkka’s Steder og landskap i norrøn mytologi from 2010. Others have discussed the Scandinavian cosmological system or worldview in articles and brief chapters in books, but her dissertation is the first scholarly work devoted to the subject of the pre-Christian Scandinavian worldview, per se.29 THE EARLY DISCUSSION OF THE OLD N ORSE WORLDVIEW
The subject of an Old Norse worldview or world-model was first addressed by Aaron Ya. Gurevich in his article Space and Time in the Weltmodell of the Old Scandinavian Peoples (1969). This article approaches the phenomenon from a sociological-developmental angle and divides the Old Norse cosmos and worldview in a vertical and a horizontal axis (Gurevich 1969, 44), in addition to pointing out that there is a prevalent binary theme of Miðgarðr vs. Útgarðr (p. 44–46). The opposition of εiðgarðr vs. Útgarðr has been observed previously, but Gurevich’s focus on its social implications brings a new dimension to the debate of an Old Norse mythological worldview, and makes this his contribution central to the subsequent research in Old Norse cosmology. Eleazar Meletinskij follows four years later in 1973 with the article Scandinavian Mythology as a System I–II, consolidating the systemic or structuralist30 approach to the mythology. Meletinskij makes use of the same basic terminology as Gurevich by describing the cosmos in axes and associating the opposition between Miðgarðr and Útgarðr with the horizontal axis. His most important contribution to the field is that he connects these axes of the cosmos with conceptual categories and thus links his research directly to Claude Levi-Strauss’s structural theory of myth. With the two axes and the two temporal systems of cosmogony and eschatology, Meletinskij skillfully combines the binary conceptual oppositions of known vs. unknown, culture vs. nature, order vs. chaos, home vs. forest, and center vs. periphery (Meletinskij 1973, 47) to the spatial and cosmological categories that are available in the Old Norse mythological vocabulary. With a base in εeletinskij’s conceptions of the Old Norse cosmology, Kirsten Hastrup applies historical anthropological methods to construct models of the pre-Christian worldview of the Old Norse culture in Iceland in three publications, spanning from 1981 to 1990: the article Cosmology and Society in Medieval Iceland (1981) and the two books Culture and History in Medieval Iceland (1985) and Island of Anthropology (1990). A general theme of her research is to connect the cosmic ordering of the Old Norse world with the arrangement of the Icelandic farmstead and medieval Icelandic law. This approach is mainly inspired by Gurevich, but Hastrup’s schematics (see below) 29
Another dissertation is currently being written by Lukas Rösli in Zurich entitled Topographien der eddischen Mythen. For a recent overview of the structuralist and post-structuralist debate in context of Old Norse cosmology, see Kozák 2010. 30
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are reproduced from εeletinskij’s work (Hastrup 1λλ0, 31–2). As a notable contribution, she applies indigenous Icelandic linguistic concepts from the law-codes to the model of oppositions, so that the conceptual opposition of center versus periphery is related to terminology found in the Icelandic language. Thus ‘innangarðs vs. útangarðs’ and ‘innihús vs. útihús’ correspond to the cosmological opposition of Miðgarðr vs. Útgarðr (Hastrup 1985, 60; 1990, 28). In addition to this, Hastrup accepts and reproduces εeletinskij’s trichotomic structure of the vertical cosmic axis in accordance with the world tree Yggdrasill (Meletinskij 1973, 48). Represented in the zoomorphic catalogue of the cosmos (ibid) with the eagle above, the reindeer in the middle, and the serpent below, this model places the home of the gods, Ásgarðr, in the top of the tree—in heaven. Humans are placed on Earth and the dead below ground (ibid; Hastrup 1990, 30–1). εeletinskij’s partial association of the temporal concept of cosmogony with the horizontal axis and the concept of eschatology with the vertical axis (Meletinskij 1973, 50–6),31 is interpreted by Hastrup as two fixed concepts of temporality, which are associated directly with the axes. She applies the notion of ‘temporal irreversibility’ to the vertical axis and ‘temporal reversibility’ to the horizontal axis (Hastrup 1990, 31–2). Below are displayed Hastrup’s models of the cosmosμ
The Úthaf Specific
Útgarðr
innihús útihús innangarðs útangarðs land sea familiar foreign ‘we’ ‘the others’ ‘inside’ ‘outside’
Ásgarðr
Miðgarðr
Útgarðr
Miðgarðr
General
Center
Periphery
The Úthaf Figure 4: The horizontal model of the cosmos reproduced on basis of Hastrup (1990, 29).
31
It should be mentioned that Meletinskij is not as strict in his division as he is often criticized for (Schjødt 1990, 54–5). He sees the eschatological temporal system as permeating the entirety of Scandinavian mythology and thus acknowledges an integration of the temporal system in both axes (Meletinskij 1973, 52).
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The World Tree of Yggdrasill Oppositions related to the vertical axis of the cosmos Óðinn; The eagle Valh ll
Ásgarðr human inhabitance reindeer Urðarbrunnr The norns
gods
immortals
humans
mortals
heaven
living
earth
dead
underworld
male
Hel dead
female
Serpent
Figure 5: The vertical model of the cosmos reproduced on basis of Hastrup (1990, 31). CONTEMPORARY SCHOLARSHIP
The year 1990 marks a change in the scholarly debate about the system of Old Norse cosmology and worldview with the first critique of εeletinskij’s and Hastrup’s models in Jens Peter Schjødt’s article Horizontale und vertikale Achsen in der vorchristlichen skandinavischen Kosmologie (1990). Schjødt’s critique is not only directed at the conclusions of the above scholars, but also addresses their use of the sources. Both Meletinskij and Gurevich have only sparse references to their primary source material and few references to other scholarly works.32 In fact, it is unclear if the two are aware of each other’s works.33 Meletinskij refers to Edda (Meletinskij 1973, 41 and 51), to Vǫluspá (p. 47– 53), and more broadly to “Eddic poetry” (p. 41 and 68). Hastrup, on the other hand, seems entirely focused on Edda as the only primary source alongside εeletinskij’s work. In Island of Anthropology, she specifically refers to Edda as the text from which she retrieves her information (Hastrup 1990, 26). In Culture and History in Medieval Iceland, however, she mentions eddic poetry briefly as her only reference to Old Norse mythological texts (Hastrup 1985, 67). As such, we are faced with the problem of a very narrow scope when it comes to the collection of empirical data to support these assertions about an Old Norse mythic worldview. This does not go unnoticed by Schjødt. Aside from challenging εeletinskij’s notion of corresponding semantic elements on the vertical and horizontal axes (Schjødt 1990, 47) and the association of different temporal modes with the axes (p. 54–5), Schjødt refers to eddic poetry as a source in order to correct some of the assertions put forth by both 32 33
For another brief critique of εeletinskij’s article, see Schjødt 2008a, 143. This is also pointed out by Løkka (2010, 24).
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Meletinskij and Hastrup (p. 40–45). One of Schjødt’s most important contributions to the discussion is the rejection of any idea that the gods dwell in the heavens. With reference to the fact that this is an idea picked up in Edda (p. 40), Schjødt concludes that the sky is empty space. It is mainly used for movement by different beings, but it is not—as is seen in Christianity—an actual cosmic site, a place where supernatural beings dwell (p. 46). The revised model of the cosmos is thus rather a Tshape as the one displayed below:
The
Periphery
The Center
Figure XXμ Schjødt’s modified world
The Underworld
Periphery
model.
Figure 6μ Schjødt’s amended model of the cosmos
Joining the critique of the Meletinskij/Hastrup worldview as one based mainly on the mythology of Edda, Margaret Clunies Ross introduces elements of narratology to the discussion in Prolonged Echoes vol. 1 (1994). In her view, the reason that the mythology of Edda governs Hastrup’s view is that these “Aristotelian narratives” serve the modern predilection for extended prose narratives with a beginning, a middle, and an end, and are therefore preferred at the expense of the fragmentary information in the eddic poems (Clunies Ross 1994, 230–2). Clunies Ross’s contribution to the discussion of the world-model is of great importance, as she points out that the term ‘Útgarðr’ is in fact a rare definition in Old Norse mythology. It appears only in the story of Þórr’s journey to Útgarðaloki and is not found elsewhere. Notably, this Útgarðr is the home of a being that along with other cosmic forces such as the Fenrizúlfr and the Miðgarðsormr are beyond social control and are more akin to natural forces (p. 51–2). The most common term for the antagonistic zone, she finds, is the J tunheimar. The plural form of this word, ‘the homes of the j tnar,’ forms a foundation for conceiving the outer realm as more of a series of territories or garðar, arranged in concentric halfcircles around the home of gods and humans (ibid).
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As the reader may have noted at this point, neither Meletinskij nor Hastrup in their approaches to the subject of a worldview in pre-Christian times—even in the Medieval Era—take into account the actual natural conditions of the milieu that produces these texts, in terms of an attempt to assign some significance to the impact of the conditions of the ecosystems and natural environment of these cultural units.34 There is no discussion of the parameters of the ecosystems and environments, and what these may afford in terms of economy and social order. It is the other way around; social ideology is imposed on a world that is not perceived in terms of its ecosystems or its physical aspects. Neither is any attention given to the activities of characters in the narratives, nor is there any association with the cultural function of places in the natural environment, in terms of how the use of the ecosystem may affect its conceptualization by the culture. However, an attempt to refer to ecosystems appears in Stefan Brink’s article Mytologiska rum och eskatologiska föreställningar i det vikingatida Norden (2004). With reference to Clunies Ross’s comments on the binary model of the Old Norse worldview, the critique of Meletinskij and Hastrup is taken even further by Stefan Brink. Brink criticizes the entire notion of structuralism and the tendency to construct simplified maps and diagrams from the source material. It is seen as too simplistic and as an unsatisfying method for describing the preChristian Scandinavian cosmology and worldview (Brink 2004, 297). Brink takes his critique so far as to comment that the binary model of the Old Norse mythological worldview seems to be an example of how the minds of contemporary scholars intellectualize and seek out spatial logics that were never present in pre-literate society.35 In Brink’s view, oral cultures did not need to structure their metaphysical world—their cosmology—as a logically coherent system (p. 295–6). Brink is of course right in his critique that the simplistic structuring of a worldview, in the sense that any attempt to distill it into a coherent system of religious dogma that can be said to have been widespread and fully understandable throughout Scandinavia in the pre-Christian era, is impossible (cf. Schjødt 2007a). But at the same time it must be pointed out that Brink is not at all correct when he seeks to discard the notion that human beings—whether they live in oral or literate societies—are not prone to constructing binary models in their conception of the world. If nothing else, the prevalence of the binary models in structuralism and the scholarly milieu around pre-Christian Scandinavian mythology seems to indicate that there is something to be said for the usefulness of operating with such structures.
34 Hastrup uses law-codes as an alternative (1990, 44–65). Clunies Ross takes some aspects of the natural world into account, but she stays within the boundaries of the farmstead as a unit (1998, 122–54). While she investigates the migration to Iceland as a cultural theme, a theme of the worldview, she assumes that the spatial categorizations are imposed onto the ecosystem, they are not developed in relation to the ecosystem (p. 124–27). 35 On the complexity of cosmic structures, see also Wellendorf 2006.
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Brink, however, identifies the notion of binary oppositions—in an amplified echo of Clunies Ross— as a phenomenon derived from the literary, Christianized text of Edda: Snorre var en kristen författare, som visserligen beskrev en äldre, förkristen epok, men troligen eller uppenbarligen (här tvekar forskare) har han i sin version av de förkristna, isländska kosmologiska föreställningarna färgats av den kristna, retoriska polariteten mellan himmel och helvete. Att Snorre och hans kolleger påverkats av samtida mentalitet, retorik, teologi och kanske också ideologi torde vara uppenbart (Snorri was a Christian author who described an older, pre-Christian epoch, but surely or apparently (here the scholars differ) he was influenced by the Christian rhetorical polarity between heaven and hell in his version of the pre-Christian Icelandic cosmological imagery. It is obvious that Snorri and his colleagues were influenced by contemporary conceptions, rhetoric and theology and possibly also ideology [Brink 2004, 297–8]). Brink follows the path set out by Clunies Ross in criticizing Edda as a highly literate work and the source for the binary model. He adds the perspective of Christian influence to underline the difference in mentality between those who wrote about the pre-Christian era of Scandinavia in thirteenth century Iceland and their actual pre-Christian ancestors in Scandinavia prior to the conversion. In this regard, it is worth noting that his purpose seems to be to underline the usefulness of landscape analysis and onomastic evidence as a factor in attempts to reconstruct the worldview of pre-Christian Scandinavian peoples. His emphasis on the problems with Edda as a source and the singular focus on Gylfaginning (p. 295) and Grímnismál (p. 306) serve this purpose well. This conclusion, though—regardless of the purpose it serves—is entirely erroneous. While a superficial glance at a text such as Edda may support such notions of a strictly binary worldview based on Christian dualism, a more in-depth investigation of the worldview of the myths of Old Norse mythology, be they related in Edda, eddic and skaldic poetry or elsewhere, yields a much more complex world of myths. While Brink’s assertions do not do justice to the source material in any way, his focus on the habitat and ecological backdrop of various Scandinavian peoples in relation to the mythology is a useful aspect of the argument. Brink makes clear—as does this present dissertation—that the surroundings, the ecosystem, and the environment of a people influence their conceptions of the world. In reality there should be nothing controversial in such a statement, but it seems that its self-evidence has not yet been fully recognized by a wide range of scholars dealing with the topic. Gro Steinsland also directs criticism towards the approach of the early structuralists in her article The Late Iron Age Worldview and the Concept of ‘Utmark’ (2005). In regard to the limitations of her article, she does not treat the issues of structuralism as a tool for worldview interpretation, but instead briefly mentions its methodological problems. Referring to the critique of Claude Lévi-Strauss by Clifford Geertz in his The Cerebral Savage from 1973, she writes:
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The limits of this paper do not permit any discussion of the basic assumptions of structuralism itself, namely that human beings will, independent of time and space, always think in binary oppositions, and that the same basic oppositions may be found underlying every mythology, every social system, no matter how different they may seem. Here, I will only briefly call attention to the fact that some researchers in the field of society and culture are not convinced by the basic theories of Claude Lévi-Strauss, for instance the social anthropologist Clifford Geertz (1973) (Steinsland 2005, 142). It thus seems that in relation to the discussion of the pre-Christian Scandinavian worldview, a discourse built around the critique of structuralism as a method has formed in recent years. This relates particularly to the original notions of Meletinskij and Hastrup that perceive the cosmology and worldview as based on a system of binary opposition, but extends to a basic critique of Edda as a source. Steinsland only briefly addresses Edda as a text (p. 141), but like Brink, is focused on the (perceived) differences between a Christian and a pre-Christian worldview. Steinsland’s brief recapitulation of the mythological system is in this context a gendered approach, where she calls attention to the oversimplified notions of both Hastrup and Clunies Ross, who have posited that there is a basic cosmological opposition between the creative male powers and chthonic female powers related to the concept of ‘death’ (ibid).36 She proceeds to state that: It was, in particular, the giants who were the opponents of the gods. But – and that is an important lesson from Norse mythology – the antagonism between Gods and giants cannot be explained as a parallel to the Christian dichotomy between God and the Devil, good and evil, light and darkness […] The gods needed the giants, their knowledge their competence and their powerful objects, just as the giants for their part desired objects belonging to the gods (p. 143). Steinsland is softening up the division between the home of the æsir and the outer territories belonging to the j tnar. In her view, interaction and exploration are important keywords in describing the relationship between the spheres and she expresses this best when she writesμ “It is the crossing of borders, the negotiations and agreements, the mixture, which is the clue. The energy and the potential for life seem to occur at the crossing-points between Asgard and Utgard” (p. 144). With this, Steinsland is emphasizing another important aspect of borders: that these often function as points of interaction between two groups, and that the dynamics of life can unfold in border areas just as well as in a protected and perhaps static center. This attempt to reform the scholarly understanding of the dynamics between Ásgarðr and the J tunheimar also lies at the heart of Nanna δøkka’s PhD thesis Steder og landskap i norrøn mytologi (2010). As a student of Steinsland (Løkka 2010, iii), Løkka develops some of the above notions in For a good, brief overview of the gendering of death in the Old Norse worldview, see Judy Quinn’s article The Gendering of Death in Eddic Cosmology (2006).
36
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her dissertation. Her analysis is based only on eddic poetry and does not include Snorri’s Edda analytically, but does discuss some of its contents (p. 8). The object of δøkka’s dissertation is twofold: (1) It seeks to redefine the cosmic model of the Old Norse universe by adopting a monistic principle of causality, rather than a dualistic one, and; (2) It attempts to redeem the status of the j tnar in the mythology (p. λ–15). Even though the title of the thesis indicates a focus on places and landscapes, Løkka devotes most of her pages to the status of the j tnar in the mythology. This is not entirely without reason, as the outer space—the J tunheimar—are defined by the beings that are confined to it, and it is logical to focus on the j tnar and their status in relation to the æsir. The methodological approach in δøkka’s dissertation is of fundamental importance, as it relates directly to the preceding discussion on the subjects of structuralism and Snorri’s Edda as a source for knowledge about Old Norse cosmology. Unlike the overview of the research in the cosmology and worldview in this presentation, Løkka begins with Anne Holtsmark’s Studier i Snorres mytologi from 1964.37 The purpose for this is stated as follows: Snorre har tradisjonelt blitt betraktet som en viktig kilde til det førkristne verdensbilde, nettopp fordi han gir en sammenhengende lære og ikke et fragmentarisk puslespil som eddadiktningen kan tilby. Til tross for at førkristen kosmologi ikke er det sentrale i Holtsmarks analyse, bliver avhandlingen likevel ytterst viktig, fordi den så tydelig viser hvordan Snorre-Edda krever finmeislede redskap av den forsker som bruker den som kilde til førkristen kosmologi. Når Holtsmark tydeliggjør forbindelsen mellom middelalderens kristne teologi og kosmologi og Snorres beskrivelse av den førkristne kosmologien, fordrer det en omfattende revurdering av Snorre-Edda som kilde til førkristen kosmologi. Av denne grunn mener jeg det er avgjørende å holde Snorre-Edda atskilt fra eddadiktningen. (Because he provides a coherent lore and not a fragmented jigsaw puzzle like that of the eddic poems, Snorri has traditionally been considered an important source to the preChristian worldview. Although that pre-Christian cosmology is not the focus of Holtsmark’s analysis, her dissertation is extremely important in this regard, because it so clearly shows how Snorra-Edda requires refined equipment of scholar who seeks to use it as a source. When Holtsmark exposes the relation between Christian theology and cosmology of the εiddle Ages and Snorri’s description of pre-Christian cosmology, it requires an exhaustive reevaluation of Edda as a source to pre-Christian cosmology. Because of this, I find that it is crucial to keep Snorra-Edda separate from eddic poetry [p. 22]) I have not included Holtsmark’s important studies here, because she is not specifically focused on the issue of reconstructing a systematically organized model of the cosmos, but rather on the analysis of the reception of pre-Christian mythology in Edda as a Christian text. Her important contribution is of different value to this study than to δøkka’s and will not be dealt with at this stage. Instead I use Holtsmark’s analysis of the cosmogony in relation to the Creation εyth in chapter IV, pages 132-145. 37
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With this, Løkka addresses directly the issues mentioned earlier by the various scholars that are critical of Meletinskij and Hastrup (with the exception of Schjødt). For them, the Christian influence on the representation of pre-Christian cosmology in Edda is a fundamental problem and complicates the use of this source in the studies of Old Norse mythology.38 δøkka’s solution to this critique is to simply select a different group of texts as her sources: eddic poetry. She deals only with Edda corroboratively, in the sense that the text either reaffirms or contradicts the poems’ information on spatiality (ibid; p. 53). In her treatment of Hastrup, Løkka returns to the issue of Edda as a source and to the use of Edda without proper attention to the circumstances pertaining to its representation of pre-Christian subject matter. At this point, however, it is combined directly with structuralism as an analytical approach: Hastrup understreker riktignok at det ikke er hennes agenda å analysere selve tekstene, og at det er strukturelle forhold i kildematerialet som hun vil avdekke. Men selv om strukturalistiske undersøkelser ikke skulle være underlagt samme kildekritiske forbehold som andre undersøkelser, er det vanskelig å akseptere konklusjonene Hastrup trekker, all den tid Snorre-Edda fungerer som undersøkelsens viktigste kilde. (Hastrup does actually emphasize that it is not her intention to analyze the texts, and that it is the structures in the source material that are the object of her focus. But even if structuralist analyses are not to be submitted to the same source critical reservations as other analyses, it is hard to accept the conclusions drawn by Hastrup whenever that Edda functions as the main source of her analysis [p. 26]) The general assumptions in this citation are the following: (1) Structuralism as a method operates without proper attention to its source material, though it is the common approach in studies by philologists and textually-oriented scholars of religion (p. 34), and; (2) It is the use of Edda as a source that is the direct cause of the model of the worldview that Hastrup develops for Old Norse cosmology.39
38
Løkka expands on the problems of Edda as a source in chapter four, where she discusses her view on the sources in the dissertation (Løkka 2010, 51–3). Here she makes clear that it is possible to find some traces of the pre-Christian worldview in Edda, but asserts that these are not to be found in Gylfaginning where they are typically sought (p. 53). 39 This is in itself interesting, as the above schemas reproduced from Hastrup indicate, she ignores vital information in Edda that relates to her binary oppositions. As an example, one can point out that Hastrup places ‘immortals’ next to ‘gods’ in the top of the tree of the vertical axis. In Gylfaginning it is described how Baldr dies and goes to Hel (Gylf. XLIX–L), This dissolves Hastrup’s schema, since it would mean that ‘god’ is also to be found in the bottom; that ‘mortal’ also appears in the top; and with the addition of the einherjar to Valh ll, we are also faced with—as Meletinskij described it—the dead in the top of the vertical axis. It seems that it is neither the method of structuralism nor the source used, which contains the origins of these confusions, but perhaps rather Hastrup’s willingness to consult the actual text. Not once does she refer to specific chapters or citations in Edda in her chapter on the cosmology in Island of Anthropology (1990, 26–43), nor is the work featured in the bibliography. Her only access to Edda is through the interpretations of other scholars.
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Towards the end of her chapter on the relevant scholarship, Løkka concludes that, despite critique of the method, no research has yet been presented on the cosmology that has been able to sever the traditional ties to structuralism (p. 34). Neither does she attempt to do so in her chapter on method. She admits that her own work is influenced by several structuralists, among others Claude LéviStrauss (p. 35), and that the method by which she analyzes the eddic poems draws heavily on literary structuralist and formalist traditions such as narratology (p. 37–50). COMMENTARIES ON THE RESEARCH TRADITION IN THE OLD NORSE WORLDVIEW
The scholarly tradition of worldview analysis in the narratives of Old Norse mythology can be described as a general discussion of the source value of one text and its applicability in terms of what the individual author holds to be either ‘Christian’ or ‘pagan.’ εuch of the discussion of what exactly it is that is pagan in terms of the worldview described in the narratives of Edda relies on how the individual scholar seeks to define his work in relation to the paradigm of structuralism, and, as noted earlier, the scholar’s belief or trust in the capacity of the source to relay knowledge of the preChristian worldview. Somehow, along the lines of critique of the early scholars of this tradition, the method of structuralism became synonymous with binarism, which in turn became synonymous with a Christian worldview that is supposedly exclusive to Snorri’s Edda, because it is perceived as a structured and highly literate text that was conceived in an exclusively learned and Christian milieu. As such, the discussion is lacking a dimension. We do not need to search long to find that some sense of cosmic binarism is realized in every culture on Earth. We saw it above in the case of the Maring and it has been observed as a primary feature of worldview among an array of cultures by various prominent scholars in the discussion, such as van Gennep (1909), Eliade (1959 and 1971), LéviStrauss (1967 and 1983), and Turner (1967 and 2009), as well as in Old Norse religion by one of the field’s most outstanding scholars, Jens Peter Schjødt (2008a). Furthermore, it is also a highly questionable disposition to simply rule out Snorri’s Edda as a source for Old Norse mythology and the worldview of the pre-Christian era because of its Christian elements. In many respects, Snorri’s Edda is neither better nor worse than the eddic poems as a source of pre-Christian mythology. Nor can the eddic poems be said to be more ‘fragmentary’ in their worldview than Edda. They belong to the same cultural whole. They are, each in their own way, medieval narratives conveying the compromise between the tenets of the traditional worldview and the frœðimaðr. Each type of source has its advantages and disadvantages in terms of its representationality and fictionality. We have dealt with this extensively above. A final and fundamental element that has evaded the research concerning the worldview, is that it should be made clear what is contained in such a term. This is not done by
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the above-mentioned scholars. The term is loosely applied and may mean anything from ‘how individuals perceive their position in life’ to ‘how to make a fictitious model of the cosmos from the sources.’ In the above section ‘Approaching myth’ I have outlined a theory of myth and its function in society. This theory is easily combined with a notion of worldview comparable to δauri Honko’s definition of “myth as an integrated factor in man’s adaptation to lifeμ myth as worldview” (Honko 1984, 47). This is hardly the same perspective that is at the root of the schematics of Hastrup and Meletinskij, but it does have some affinity to the views expressed by both Brink, Steinsland, and Løkka. However, where Løkka and Steinsland focus deeply on the social processes and relationship between æsir and j tnar, I contend that this is a narrow scope on worldview. In fact, in the case of Løkka, it seems to lead towards a discussion that forgets or neglects a clear definition of the cultural unit associated with the texts. Her argument is unclear about who is being talked about and when these people exist, insofar as her discussion of a pre-Christian Old Norse worldview is more than just a discussion of the contents of one limited set of texts written down in Iceland in 1270. We cannot simply assume that the content of these texts are applicable to any type of ‘Norse’ or ‘Scandinavian’ existence before the conversion to Christianity. Brink is, in that sense, more in line with this study, as he expresses awareness of differences of peoples and ecosystems. He seems to fully understand the approach to myth analysis that Åke Hultkrantz formulated in his article An Ideological Dichotomy: Myths and Folk Beliefs Among the Shoshoni in 1984: that one must broaden the spectrum of variables to be included in the study, and draw on many more disciplines than the dogmatic system of one’s own (p. 152–4). With the concept of worldview as myth that functions as an integrated factor in man’s adaptation to life, it becomes clearer that much more than just a text must be integrated into the method of analysis in order to study the worldview itself. In another article entitled Oral Epics and World View (1998), Lauri Honko expands on his definition of worldview. He defines worldview as “living systems of values and meaning,” and goes on to say that such living systems “are culturally adapted and locally functional, i.e. tradition-ecologically fit to carry out basic tasks of orientation for man and society” (Honko 1λλ8, 155). This definition is much more open and much more useful for the approach to myths as eco-myths in a Mythical Charter of Tradition, than a perspective on worldview that seeks to fit mythic information into a neat schema. It is with this definition of worldview that I carry out my analyses of Old Norse myths as eco-myths, and discuss their status in the worldview of Viking Age and medieval Scandinavian society.
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CHAPTER CONCLUSION
In this chapter I have developed a functional definition of myth to carry my analyses of the Old Norse Creation εyth, the myth of the εead of Poetry and the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition as ecomyths. These myths are seen as fully-integrated technical narratives of a Mythical Charter of Tradition in Old Norse–Scandinavian culture. This means that they have a specific function of relaying meaning and values in the context of significant aspects of the ecosystem and environment of early Scandinavian culture. As technical myths, they are discernible as functions in the worldview as culturally adapted and locally functional. They are tradition-ecological narratives that assist in the orientation of man and society. The term ‘tradition-ecological’ simply means ‘technical myths about the ecosystem in the εythical Charter of Tradition’ insofar as ‘ecology’ means ‘the knowledge humans draw from dealing with an ecosystem.’ As such, they have the ability to alter behavior in connection with accumulated knowledge of a natural phenomenon of the ecosystem. They are response narratives that can be employed in situations of social need, societal change and imminent disaster—we will see concrete examples of that in the next chapters. This approach to the myths is distanced from the traditional discussion of the Old Norse worldview insofar as it does not seek to formulate, define, or redefine models and schematics of a worldview, but instead seeks to understand the function and impact of particular myths in human responses to the ecosystem. However, while this approach avoids the ‘bird’s eye’ perspective on Old Norse mythology that is contained in the tendency to construct models, it does not mean that it removes the cosmological character of the myths that are subjected to analysis. On the contrary: this approach, I believe, assigns more cosmological significance to the myths than any attempt to design models from reading them, because it understands its subject matter as actualized narrativization of useful knowledge about ecosystems in an evolutionary reality. Where model-making is two-dimensional, this approach seeks to be threedimensional by adding the element of spatial reality to social reality. The following sections summarize the main points of argument and conclusions from this chapter.
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THE CONSECUTIVE DEFINITIONS OF MYTH
Myths exist, both orally and in written form, as texts in context and the term may be defined as a conceptual designation for culturally important narratives or narratives that take primacy in a worldview. Myth is the sum of shared knowledge in a cultural unit: it is Collective/Cultural Memory or a Charter of Tradition. This charter has three primary functions in terms of preserving vital social knowledge: (1) Myth preserves mythical identity; (2) Myth preserves genealogies, and; (3) Myth preserves technical knowledge. As such, myth exists to instruct and orient the life of a cultural group—and with this we understand that myth always has cosmological implications. The life of myths is in Communicative Memory (in pre- and quasi-literate societies), where they exist as cultural narratives that provide the world with structure and meaning. This means that they change over time and develop for the purpose of carrying normative conceptions. However, it is not just social processes that accelerate change in myths. The ecosystem affects mythopoesis in various ways, because it is inherent to the myths as cultural texts that they will develop to ensure survival—of themselves and of their society. The ecosystem may present humans with natural processes and events, or permanent sites, which have a direct effect on the existence and survival of a society, and therefore parts of the cultural texts which develop contain narrativized technical knowledge about the ecosystem. This means that the ecosystem has a direct effect on the formulation and redefinition of normative conceptions in the worldview. The experience of a new ecosystem or a new natural process will alter these conceptions to the degree that the event is interpreted within the existing frame. This is the essence of eco-mythology: sites and spaces in the ecosystem that are of relevance to human activity—essentially everything that is visible and sometimes even imagined 40 —may function as Memory Spaces for localized myths. In this context, nature is a promotional force in human life, and it manifests its influence in the worldview through myth. This is the narrativization of landscape features and ecosystems. Myth is the sum and function of the Mythical Charter of the Tradition belonging to a cultural unit. Myth is a conceptual filter for the formulation of images, categories, and memory, which 40
Cf. the above argument of Brink about narrativized landscapes. In terms of imagined parts of the ecosystem, we may consider such places as the underworld.
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preserves knowledge about the surrounding world as much as it preserves knowledge about human behavior within a society. The preservation of both types of knowledge is for the purpose of ensuring survival and it must be realized that the two types are mutually dependent—therefore we may expect to find the two aspects of knowledge for survival more often than not combined. In this we recognize the condition of myth as a superstructure that incorporates systems of meaning, which can be activated by certain cultural needs whenever they arise. Such needs can be social and societal change or natural processes, often in combination with one another. THE VIEW OF THE SOU RCES AND THE MODUS O F ANALYSIS AND INTERPRETATION
The consequence of this approach to myth is a de facto dissolution of the boundaries of genre and the chronological differences in the selected corpus of sources. The perspective is that the various narratives applied in this study are—with few exceptions—contextualized in a Scandinavian worldview, and they are thus perceived as a Mythical Charter of the Tradition of the cultural unit that is the Nordic linguistic group of Scandinavia and, by extension, the North Atlantic region. This is true regardless of the narrator’s predilection for writing in δatin or a Germanic language, and it is also true regardless of whether or not a particular author is in fact part of that ethnic system: as long as the author is mediating knowledge about this cultural unit, he comments on its worldview and supplies information about its Mythical Charter of Tradition.41 Interpretation thus becomes a matter of sifting through the layers of representationality and fictionality in the texts. The modus of interpretation relies on the wider meaning-complex of the text and it is recognized that the texts are both accounts of a past culture as much as they are the narrativized representation of this past and products of a time different from that past. This is an unconventional understanding of the texts as historical sources; it is an understanding that accepts their value as tradition in a worldview. The practical approach to analysis is then a matter of employing techniques to discern the layering of the texts and discuss their representationality and fictionality in mythopoesis. This method is the fourfold principle of the Memory Crunch, which consists of: (1) Silence (2) Analogy (3) Compression
41
This is applicable to Tacitus, Dudo, Adam, and the German contributions to the source material of this study. Ovid stands out as a contributor that has nothing invested in the Nordic tradition, and he is thus of course not included in this view. He and the indigenous Roman tradition (see chapter IV, pages 176-186) are points of reference for cultural influence on the Nordic worldview.
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(4) Restructuring This methodological approach assumes that any type of myth may become culturally relevant in the description or remembrance of events and features of the ecosystem and that any given corpus of myths may therefore be interpreted as such if the proper conditions are in place, such as references to aspects of an ecosystem or natural processes. It does not assume that mythogenesis is caused by natural events and processes: mythogenesis is, for this approach, an entirely social activity that refers inwards to a group structure. Mythopoesis, however, may become active as a function of human interaction with an ecosystem. The practical result of this view of mythopoesis is a methodical approach to the analysis based on literary and linguistic investigation of narrative patterns, words, and expressions in the myths that have been chosen for their references to natural phenomena in accordance with the goal of this dissertation. These interpretations are in that sense the result of a contextualized bottom-up analysis of the singular components of the myths, the images, motifs, and narrative structures. They rely on the clarification of the term myth as a cultural vocabulary that can be activated in response to the surrounding ecosystem. THE RESEARCH TRADITION OF WORLDVIEW IN O LD NORSE SCHOLARSHIP
This dissertation inscribes itself into the research tradition of worldview and cosmology in Old Norse scholarship. It does so not on the grounds of understanding the concept of worldview as a model or diagram that maps out conceived spatial relations between social groups, but rather on the basis of seeing worldview as an intricate web of values and meaning, as a life system that is localized and culturally adapted—both to a social form and to an ecosystem. The scholarly discussion of worldview in relation to Old Norse mythology has been preoccupied with an interest in devising models for a spatial conception of the Old Norse cosmos, and in that process, with the exception of Schjødt (1983),42 an investigation of the individual myths has been neglected. The few scholars who have attempted to approach the discussion from another perspective, mainly Brink, Steinsland, and Løkka, have been too focused on confronting either the analytical method of structuralism or the compatibility of Snorri’s Edda with a pre-Christian worldview, to free their discussion from the constraints under which both εelentiskij’s and Hastrup’s analyses suffer: the problem of whether or not there is a division between the supernatural social
42
In his article Livsdrik og vidensdrik (1983) Schjødt actually contributes to the worldview discussion with an in-depth analysis of the myth of the Mead of Poetry, but the article does not address this general discussion of the worldview. We will deal extensively with Schjødt’s analysis in chapter IV, pages 149-186.
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groups and therefore the cosmos as a whole. As has been pointed out, it is a futile discussion, since (as recognized by Schjødt) there are always binaries in a worldview and narratives generally tend to have protagonists and antagonists. This is most certainly true in the case of Old Norse mythology. In that respect it should also be mentioned that an investigation of the Old Norse worldview that does not take into account the myths of the monumental work of Snorri’s Edda is an incomplete analysis. This conclusion is not reached without a certain sense of apprehension. It should be recognized that a study of the Old Norse worldview that seeks to encompass the entirety of the material would be a massive endeavor and it would greatly surpass the parameters of a dissertation of this size. Some selection is therefore in order, but one that discounts Edda is in the view of this author incomplete. It is therefore the perspective of this dissertation that if one seeks to investigate the worldview of Old Norse mythology, approaching the material as a Mythical Charter of Tradition and focusing on one or a few aspect of this charter, is the most appropriate angle. The worldview of Old Norse mythology has been investigated in light of the first two of the three components of δe Goff’s term Collective Memory—much has been written on foundation myths, genealogies, sagas, social, and societal aspects of the myths. However, little has been done in terms of understanding the aspects of Old Norse myths as technical knowledge about the natural world and the ecosystems of Scandinavia and the North Atlantic region. CONCLUDING REMARKS
The exercises in this chapter to define myth and discuss the basis on which the Old Norse worldview is investigated in scholarship have been undertaken in order to address some of the pitfalls that I have observed in the debate in this field. In the following, the steps I have taken to formulate a method and a theoretically sound foundation for my analyses will be put to work. In that context, it should be remembered that there is still much work, which can be done in terms of analyses of the primary narratives of this dissertation. This research touches upon a few aspects of the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, the Creation Myth and the myth of the Mead of Poetry, and points them out as integral parts of the Old Norse worldview, but it must be remembered in that respect that myths are polysemantic and that a single myth can have many meaning-complexes associated with it. In this presentation I have chosen to focus on the meaning-complexes that relate to the ecosystems of Scandinavia and the North Atlantic region. This disposition obviously guides the perspective of the analyses in a certain direction, leaving blind angles in terms of other perspectives. Such is the nature of scholarship: it is an open landscape and one must choose a path, but in choosing one path, the others close behind you.
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CONFRONTING THE SEA
© Nordvig There is so ethi g pri ordial a out tra eli g o ater, e e for short dista es. You are i for ed that you are not supposed to be there not so much by your eyes, ears, nose, palate, or palm as by your feet, hi h feel odd a ti g as a orga of se se Brodsk 99 , 4 .
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CHAPTER INTRODUCTION
If it is possible to single out a mythic motif that may be said to represent an ancient Scandinavian understanding of the relationship of man to sea, it is certainly Þórr’s Fishing Expedition. The god, an anthropomorphic figure, journeys out on the great sea and faces the might of a creature, J rmungandr, that is conceived as a giant serpent which lives in the depths of the ocean. This myth is relayed in various versions in medieval literature, and because of its popularity in Scandinavia it seems to have taken on several forms. It appears in picture-stones and runic inscriptions from the Viking Age; and it is referred to by skalds in the late Viking Age and early medieval period. In the medieval period, the Fishing Myth is also relayed in more discernible narrative form in eddic poetry, and not least in mythic prose in Snorri’s Edda. It is a common Scandinavian narrative that has existed in oral form for centuries (Gísli Sigurðsson 2004). In addition to that, it seems that the popularity of the primary character of the myth, Þórr, has resulted in the creation of certain prose tales about the Christianization of the North which draw upon themes and motifs related to the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition. Saxo’s hero of the Christianization process of Denmark, Thorkillus, is most certainly derived from the mythic Þórr figure, and the story as Saxo relays it includes borrowings from several Þórr myths, including his meeting with J rmungandr. The same seems to be the case with Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns, although in this tale the elements of the Fishing Expedition seem to have been reduced to no more than a faint undertone. With such wide cultural currency and use throughout the Viking Age and the medieval period, the Fishing Myth is an ideal candidate for eco-mythological analysis. The myth takes on many forms as it is reproduced in various literary genres, no less than in the visual media. As it seems to be one of the oldest and most widespread myths in Scandinavia, and since it seems to appear in forms that can be more or less distinctively associated with pre- and post-conversion paradigms in Scandinavia, it is also a useful myth for analysis in terms of understanding the pre-Christian worldview and its development in medieval narratives. In the following, I will analyze the εyth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition from the perspective of its earliest form as a myth relating primarily to the activity of collecting food at sea. From that point of view, I will expand the scope of the analysis to include the relevant saga literature and historical sources in which evidence of a common structural association of Þórr with the sea and seafaring can be found. On that basis I argue that, because of the prominent conceptual position of the sea as an important resource, the Fishing Myth held such primacy in early Scandinavian culture that it later came to be associated with themes of discovery, and subsequently it was used as a narrative frame in memory narratives to account for the journey to Vínland. Eventually, I argue that the cultural impact
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of the discovery of Iceland, Greenland, and Vínland, alongside the association of the sea with the appropriation of wealth and power, offered the myth a place among the foundation narratives of the Mythical Charter of Tradition, insofar as the myth carries the justification for a certain social structure. The status of this myth as a foundation narrative and an eco-myth about fishing, seafaring, and sea exploration prompts the use of its patterns and motifs in medieval tales of Christianization and Christian critiques of paganism, namely in Gesta Danorum and Gylfaginning. By employing the Fishing Myth in his tale of Christianization in Denmark, Saxo not only reactualizes an old narrative, he deconstructs its pagan tenets while maintaining its motifs, and brings Christianity to Denmark in narrative form by way of a seafaring Icelander. At the end of this chapter, these interpretations are contrasted with the assertions about Old Norse cosmology and worldview put forth by Kirsten Hastrup and Nanna δøkka. Both Hastrup’s argument that the Old Norse mythic worldview is based on binary oppositions and δøkka’s argument that the Old Norse worldview is monistic and inherently fated, are criticized on the basis of my analysis and interpretation of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition.
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ÞÓRR’“ FI“HING EXPEDITION Þórr’s Fishing Expedition has been treated by Preben εeulengracht Sørensen in its different sources in the article Thor’s Fishing Expedition (2002 [1986]43). There are four different picture-stones that depict Þórr fishing for the serpent: Altuna and Ardre VIII in Sweden, Hørdum in Denmark, and the Gosforth Cross in England (SPD 2013, Þórr’s fishing expedition). The age of Altuna is unspecified (SPD 2013, U1161),44 while Ardre VIII is broadly dated to the period 700–900 (SPD 2013, SHM 11118: VIII). The same broad dating is the case for the Hørdum stone, which is dated to the period 800–1250 (SPD 2013, NJy30),45 while the Gosforth Cross seems has been dated more narrowly to 900–λ50 (SPD 2013, Gosforth6). The myth is referred to in skaldic poetry by lvir hnúfa and Bragi Boddason in the ninth century, by Gamli gnævaðarskáld and Eysteinn Valdason in the tenth century, and by Úlfr Uggason in Húsdrápa, also in the tenth century (SPD 2013, lv; Bragi; Ggnæv; EVald; ÚlfrU; Gísli Sigurðsson 2004, 10). The eddic poem Hymiskviða, possibly from the earlier parts of the twelfth century (McKinnell 1994, 59; see also Simek 2007, 167), gives an account of the Fishing Expedition as part of a pattern of competitions between Þórr and the j tunn Hymir in the stanzas 17 to 27. Finally, there is a prose version of the myth in Snorri’s Edda (Gylfaginning 48), where the tale follows immediately after Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki, and it seems to have been incorporated into a narrative whole that contextualizes the story in an exposition of the false divinity of the æsir, which anticipates the demise of the gods and the coming of Ragnar k as part of the Christian worldview (Clunies Ross 1994, 265). With this great variety of sources, all connected by oral tradition (Gísli Sigurðsson 2004, 10-17), it seems that the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition is the most widespread myth of Old Norse mythology. It has been pointed out by Meulengracht that there are relatively big differences in the elements of the myth that are relayed by the various types of sources (Meulengracht 2002, 121–2). The myth consists of the following elements: (1) Þórr gets ox-head as bait; (2) Þórr in boat; (3) Hymir in boat; (4) Þórr and Hymir row out to sea; (5) the fishing line is baited with ox-head; (6) Þórr lets out fishing line; (7) serpent below boat; (8) serpent bites fishing line; (9) fishing line tightens; (10) Þórr pulls serpent; (11) serpent spits poison; (12) Þórr and serpent glare at each other; (13) Þórr raises hammer;
43
Meulengracht originally published this article in Words and Objects (1986), but I am using the posthumously published version in The Poetic Edda. Essays on Old Norse Mythology (2002), by Carolyne Larrington and Paul Acker, due to the usefulness of the introduction to the article written by the editors. 44 Otto von Friesen dated it to the 11th century in Tors fiske på en uppländsk runsten 1924, p. 425. 45 Brøndsted believes it is from the Viking Age in Thors fiskeri (1955, 102).
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(14) Þórr strikes serpent; (15) Þórr’s foot goes through boat hull; (16) Hymir cuts fishing line; (17) serpent sinks back into the sea. These elements are distributed in the following manner:46 Figure 7: The distribution pattern of motif the elements of the Fishing Myth Altuna
Ardre VIII
Hørdum
Gosforth
Húsdrápa
Bragi
Hymiskv.
Gylf. 48
1 x x 2 x x x x x x 3 x x x x 4 x x x x 5 x x x x 6 x x x x x 7 x x x 8 x x x x 9 x x 10 x x x 11 x x 12 x x x 13 x x x x 14 x x (x)1 15 x x x 16 x x 17 x x x The stanzas of lvir hnúfa, Gamli gnævaðarskáld and Eysteinn Valdason have intentionally not been included in this schema. 1 It is unclear whether or not Þórr strikes the serpent in Gylfaginning.
The images of the picture-stones may be considered the earliest representation of the myth, since at least the Gosforth Cross is from 900–950. They tell the tale of an anthropomorphic being sailing in a boat (Altuna, Ardre VIII, Hørdum, Gosforth), who is accompanied by another anthropomorphic being (Ardre VIII, Hørdum, Gosforth). The sailor is fishing (Altuna, Hørdum, Gosforth) for a large sea creature (Altuna) and he means to strike it with a hammer (Altuna, Gosforth), while his companion rushes to assist him (Hørdum). For more than a century, a wide range of scholars have, in different capacities, argued that the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition may have Christian origin and find its immediate report in the Biblical legend of Leviathan (deVries 1970, 142–3).47 The Christian context in which the myth is found on the Gosforth Cross, coupled with the linguistic equation of J rmungandr and δeviathan in later translated religious literature in medieval Iceland, has certainly given credence to this position The disposition for this schema is available at the Skaldic Project Database (SPD 2013, Þórr’s fishing expedition). I have constructed the schema on the basis of a similar one that I have found among the notes that Preben Meulengracht Sørensen collected for the original version of his article in 1986. These notes and the schema are in my personal archive. 47 The latest case is Örn Sævar Thorleifsson (2000), who dismisses the notion that the Miðgarðsormr is originally Nordic and argues that it has been inspired by δeviathan (p. 422). He also dismisses the idea that J rmungandr and εiðgarðsormr should be the same mythic figure (p. 345). Eldar Heide dismisses Örn’s sentiments on the basis that his argumentation has little substance and weak reasoning (Heide 2006, 260). 46
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(Simek 2007, 324–5). It is beyond the scope of this discussion to delve deeply into the arguments for and against a possible Biblical origin of this myth or the motif of the celestial god and an aquatic dragon in combat. It must, however, be pointed out that there is no sailor with a companion in a boat in the Biblical versions of God’s battle with δeviathan. In the Book of Psalms 74μ14, God brings the sea to an uproar as He crushes the dragon heads of Leviathan: he masters the floods, masters day and night, gives places to the sun and moon, sets the boundaries of Earth, and creates the seasons (Book of Psalms 1992, 74:14). In the Book of Psalms 104:25, the poet simply mentions the sea and Leviathan in conjunction, along with the humans sailing on the ocean and the animals in it, praising God for having created the ocean. The story of God and Leviathan is in its essence entirely different from the visible elements of the story of the two anthropomorphic beings that are sailing in a boat, fishing for a sea creature on the Scandinavian picture-stones. This is not a vision of a cosmic struggle as much as it is the image of two fishermen or travelers dealing with the creatures that dwell in the sea. Is the raised hammer a representation of the celestial god crushing the skull of the chthonic and aquatic monster, or is it an image of a sailor having baited a large sea animal preparing to beat it over the head as he hauls it in? Why would a celestial god be humbled to a place in a fishing vessel, when he started out by floating above the waters? There are several reasonable questions that can be drawn from the assertion that Þórr and J rmungandr should be derived from the Biblical tale of God and δeviathan. In fact, the conclusion that the fishing trip is derived from the Biblical narrative raises more questions than it answers, the most important of which is: if it is derived directly from a Biblical narrative, why is it only the motif that is shared, and not the names of characters, the original context of the tales and their function in a cosmological sense? Why would the activity of fishing have been introduced in the first place? It must therefore be concluded that even if this tale was originally conceived under influence from the battle of God and Leviathan, it found an entirely new purpose and place in the story-world of the North Atlantic. A similar critique can be made of the later patristic interpretations of the images, where the crucifixion is represented as Christ fishing for the Devil, using the cross as a hook (cf. Meulengracht 2002, 119–20 [foreword by Carolyne Larrington] and 122; Clunies Ross 1989, 10). The picturestones focus on the sailing characters—in the case of Ardre VIII, it is the only element—and they seem to indicate that the fishermen are the important element; the image of the god/monster confrontation is secondary to the image of the sailors at sea. Furthermore, the foot through the hull, the presence of a second character with a hook or knife, and the raised hammer are not explained by the interpretation of Christ fishing for the Devil, nor by the battle of God and Leviathan in the Bible.
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The composite image of the picture-stones tells a wordless tale of two fishermen in a boat. These men are engaged in an important and iconic activity to Scandinavian culture of all times: they are collecting food at sea. The image is perfectly understandable in an independently-formulated, native context which relies only on the features of life in tenth century, pre-Christian Scandinavia. Since that is the case, the scene may not necessarily have much to say in terms of a cosmic struggle that symbolizes the dichotomy of cosmos and chaos, as Meulengracht suggests (p. 134). The myth as it appears in picture-stones may belong to a much more mundane, yet fundamentally more significant, realm: the everyday action of procuring food and combatting the elements to survive. The two fishermen on the picture-stones are not dispensing the order of things, or upholding the cosmos, any more than they are catching their supper—but that is in itself a cosmological commentary. If we approach the written sources, this notion may become much clearer. In the skaldic sources, Meulengracht sees an effort to create a so-called ‘word-picture,’ a description of the singular scene in which Þórr and J rmungandr are face to face, staring at each other (p.123). In Bragi’s version this scene is expressed thusμ “Hamri forsk i hœgri h nd þar er allra landa œgir
flugbarða *endiseiðs *of kendi” ( flugbarði’s terrifier heaved his hammer in the right hand,
when he saw the end-thread of all lands [Skáld. IV]). It is indicated that the critical moment of the myth, which the skalds wanted to capture in this word-picture, was the situation where the god and the monster of the sea meet face to face and glare into each other’s eyes. εeulengracht points out that in Húsdrápa stanza 4, it says that Þórr’s eyes “skaut œgisgeislum” (shot rays of terror) and the serpent stared with flashing eyes (Meulengracht 2002, 128). This singular focus on the meeting of Þórr and J rmungandr eye to eye was seemingly the most important element to the skalds. The images conjured by these sources hardly seem to interest themselves with a similar type of cosmic struggle as the one we hear about in a Biblical and Christian context. Here rather, it is a face-to-face confrontation between the god and the creature of the sea. Of course, the skalds do employ circumlocutions with cosmic overtones, especially those used for the serpent. Thus Bragi calls J rmungandr “allra landa endiseiðr” (the end-thread [of] all lands),
lvir hnúfa calls him
“umgjorð allra landa” (the encircler [of] all lands), and Eysteinn Valdason calls him “jarðar seiðr” (the earth-thread). These kennings suggest that J rmungandr represents a spiritual quality of the ocean. In his doctoral thesis Gand, seid og åndevind (2006, 260–4), Eldar Heide argues for the interpretation of the name of the world serpent J rmungandr as “den kjempestore tråden” (the giant thread). Heide sees this name as parallel to *gandreyðr, which is derived from some disputed forms (p. 28). According to Heide this word or name means trådfisken (the thread-fish) or trådkvalen (the thread-whale). The kenning *gandreyðr landa from Hrafns saga, in the view of Heide, thus means
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verds-trådfisken (the world-thread-fish) (p. 264), and this is consistent with the above kennings for J rmungandr (p. 262). Heide’s overall conclusion is that the semantics of seiðr and gandr conflate with one another. He notes that both may mean ‘thread,’ but gandr may have multiple meanings, among which are åndeutsending (literally: sending-out-[of-]spirit) and (ånde)storm ([spirit-]storm) (p. 312), and—as others have noted before him—the core semantic of gandr is “utsend ånd / sjel” (released spirit/soul) (p. 308). It seems reasonable to suggest then, that ‘the Giant Thread/Spirit’ or ‘the WorldThread/Spirit-Fish,’ which is otherwise known as ‘the One Who Encircles All δands,’ or as ‘the Earth-Belt,’ is the spirit of the sea—the embodiment of the sea. The word-picture then, is that of the sailor who glares into the depths of the sea as he is fishing in his boat. The living body of the sea swells its salty waves to the gunwale and sprays its spindrift at the man staring fearlessly back. This word-picture of the skaldic poetry is fully consistent with the images of the picture-stone. Both types of sources express the same conception of a human’s, or an anthropomorphic being’s, encounter with the aquatic element. Meulengracht supposes that it is an aesthetic difference between the sources that results in another representation of the myth in skaldic poetry, where the moment of a dramatic eye to eye meeting between Þórr an J rmungandr is favored over the narrative sequence that expounds the fishing activity in the way that it is seen both on the picture-stones and in the other types of literature (Meulengracht 2002, 123). But in this interpretation, the sources are aligned and express the same idea: the sea is a dangerous and powerful element that man must negotiate in order to procure food. εeulengracht’s interpretation of the myth is that it is essentially a story of cosmic proportions (p. 131–4). There is no reason that it should not be so, and that the myth should not indicate cosmic relations, but there is much to suggest that the cosmic implications of this myth in all senses are engaged with themes particular to the immediate factors of human existence rather than ideas of eschatology and cosmic order in the sense of ‘the big picture’ that is offered in the universal perspective of existence in the Christian worldview. Both Hymiskviða and the version of the myth in Gylfaginning can shed light on this subject. The narrative situation in Hymiskviða 17–27, where Þórr goes fishing for J rmungandr, occurs as part of a series of competitions between Þórr and Hymir, which follow a pattern of Þórr competing with different j tnar (cf. εcKinnell 1λλ4, 58–86, especially 74–5; Clunies Ross 1989, 10). Þórr and Týr have journeyed to the Élivágar “at himins enda” (at the end of heaven [Hkv. 5]) to fetch a cauldron big enough for the æsir’s brew. In Gylfaginning III–IV, the Élivágar are icy rivers flowing from Hvergelmir in Niflheimr. This interpretation is combined with the catalogue of rivers mentioned in Grímnismál 27–8, and it seems to rely on Vafþrúðnismál 30–1. In Gylfaginning, the primeval j tunn Aurgelmir is understood to be the same as Ymir who is created from the Élivágar gushing
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‘venomously’ cold ice from the waters, building a hrímþurs. Gylfaginning probably relies on the information from Vafþrúðnismál 16 that the never-freezing river Ífing separates the æsir from the j tnar, though it does not mention this name (see Simek 2007, 172). In this interpretation, the Élivágar of Hymiskviða 5 seem to be the ice-cold proto-sea surrounding the world (p. 73). It is also in Hymiskviða 5 that Týr says his father Hymir lives to the east of Élivágar at the end of heaven. When Hymir is introduced in the poem we are told that his beard is frozen with icicles hanging from it (Hkv.10). The theme of cold in Þórr’s and Hymir’s meeting is not further expanded upon in the poem, but from the version of the Fishing Expedition in Gylfaginning, we learn that the coldness is a theme in this myth, as Hymir says that Þórr will freeze out on the ocean (Gylf. XLVIII). To Clunies Ross in Snorri Sturluson’s use of the Norse origin-legend of the sons of Fornjótr in his Edda (1983), there is no doubt that Hymir is firmly linked with the quality of coldness (p. 50). When Þórr has fought Hrungnir in their duel and comes to Gróa to have her chant the piece of the whetstone out of his head, he tells her that he waded south across Élivágar back from the J tunheimar with her husband Aurvandill in a basket. The man’s toe had been sticking out of the basket and became frozen, so Þórr broke it off and threw it into the sky to make a star (Skáld. XVII). This situation is mirrored in Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns, where the hero Þorsteinn, derived from Þórr, crosses a river that is so cold that it causes his toe to freeze. This river is the border to Geirr ðr’s lands and it is related how its freezing temperatures make any limb that touches it immediately gangrenous (Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns 1954, V). These are the later interpretative traditions of the Élivágar, consequently understood as ‘the stormy waves,’ and thus associated with the sea or rushing rivers. In the following chapter on volcanism in Iceland, we will explore how the early image of the Élivágar in Vafþrúðnismál 30–1 seems to share a connection to volcanism, rather than the cold sea, but in this context the interpretation of the Élivágar as the sea is a reasonable disposition. There is nothing to hinder a dual association of the Élivágar both with the sea and with a volcanic event, especially given that volcanism is often described in water analogies (see below in chapter IV, pages 133-141). In Hymiskviða, Hymir announces that he and Þórr will have to go hunt for food in order to sustain them all while Þórr and Týr are visiting. This is because of Þórr’s great appetite, which prompted the god to gorge down two oxen at dinner. Þórr then proclaims that he wishes to go fishing, and the j tunn tauntingly says that he can go get his bait among the ox herd (Hkv. 17–8). Stanza 19 describes how Þórr tears the head off an ox to use it for bait, and Hymir commentsμ “Verc þiccia þín verri myclo, kióla valdi, enn þú kyrr sitir” (Your deed seems much worse to the ruler of ships, than if you sit still [Hkv. 19]).
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In Gylfaginning, the object is not a contest between Hymir and Þórr: Þórr has gone to the sea to purposefully confront the Miðgarðsormr and avenge the humiliation that he suffered at Útgarðaloki’s hall—and he has done so “svá sem ungr drengr” (as a young boy [Gylf. XLVIII]). Meulengracht interpolates this into the temporal frame of the Rangar k eschatology. In Bragi’s poem, it is mentioned that Þórr’s confrontation with J rmungandr took place snimma (early), and to Meulengracht this means that the fight takes place early in the mythic sequence of cosmic time (Meulengracht 2002, 133–4). This may well be, but the indications of age both in Hymiskviða and in Gylfaginning reveal an interesting relational dynamic between Hymir and Þórr. It must also be pointed out that, regardless of the formulation “svá sem,” Þórr is dealt with as a young boy in both narratives. Hymiskviða indicates a generation gap between Þórr and Týr on the one side, and the j tnar they are visiting on the other side. In stanza 8, Týr is greeted in Hymir’s hall by his grandmother, and he is referred to as sonr (son) in stanza 11. In stanza 10, it is indicated that Hymir is bearded as wouldbe an older man, coming inside the hall with frost in his beard, and in stanza 16 he is referred to as grey-haired. In Gylfaginning this generation gap is openly expressed when Hymir calls Þórr small and just a youth, and says that he will get cold out on the journeyμ “En Hymir sagði at lítil liðsemð mundi at honum vera er hann var lítill ok ungmenni eitt. ‘Ok mun þik kala ef ek sit svá lengi ok útarliga sem ek em vanr.’” (But Hymir said that he would be of little use since he was so small and a young man. “And you will get cold if I sit as long and as far out as I am used to” [Gylf. XLVIII]). In light of this articulated age difference and thus the suggestion of unreliability and weakness, the fact that Þórr tears the head off an ox has great technical implications: it is the expression of the young man’s (provoked) desire to prove himself. In his attempt to prove himself, he kills a very expensive animal with great economic potential, both in terms of producing more cattle and in terms of its own food-value. Therefore, Hymir, unaware of (or unwilling to recognize) Þórr’s might and status, comments as he does in Hymiskviða 19 (Gylfaginning leaves it out). Þórr’s action is foolish; the killing of an ox to provide bait for fishing is a pointless expenditure. You get less reward at greater cost and it is a horrible deed in the eyes of the fisherman, the ruler of ships (Hkv. 19). The pattern of the young man’s desire to prove his worth continues as they row further and further out. Hymiskviða 20 states simply that Hymir is not eager to go further out at seaμ “enn sá i tunn sína talði litla fýsi at róa lengra” (but the j tunn said for his part that he was uneager to row further [Hkv. 20]). Gylfaginning is more expansive: Þórr gekk á skipit ok settisk í austrrúm, tók tvær árar ok røri, ok þótti Hymi skriðr verða af róðri hans. Hymir reri í halsinum fram ok sóttisk skjótt róðrinn. Sagði þá Hymir at þeir váru komnir á þær vaztir er hann var vanr at sitja ok draga flata fiska, en Þórr kvezk vilja róa myklu lengra, ok tóku þeir enn snertiróðr. Sagði Hymir þá at þeir váru komnir
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svá langt út at hætt var at sitja útar fyrir Miðgarðsormi. En Þórr kvezk mundu róa eina hríð ok svá gerði, en Hymir var þá allókátr. (Þórr went onboard the ship and sat himself in the well, took two oars and started rowing, and Hymir thought that his rowing had momentum. Hymir rowed in the prow and the rowing went fast. Then Hymir said that they had come to the place where he usually sat and dragged flat fish, but Þórr said that he wanted to row much further out, and they took another spurt. Then Hymir said that they had come so far out that it was unsafe to sit further out because of the Miðgarðsormr. But Þórr said that he wanted to row a bit more and so he did, but then Hymir was very unhappy [Gylf. XLVIII]). The will to prove himself inspires Þórr to row far out beyond the usual fishing grounds that Hymir is familiar with. At this point a second relational element is introduced: fear. Hymir has, presumably because of Þórr’s appearance as a young boy, underestimated Þórr’s courage and his willingness to take chances. Now Hymir is paying the price of his pride by having his limits challenged by someone whom he thought less able than himself. In Hymiskviða Hymir is simply uneasy with the situation and stanza 25 tells that after Þórr caught J rmungandr and they were rowing back, Hymir was very unhappy. Gylfaginning tells a different versionμ “Þá er sagt at j tunninn Hymir gerðisk litverpr, f lnaði, ok hræddisk er hann sá orminn ok þat er særinn fell út ok inn of n kkvann. Ok í því bili er Þórr greip hamarinn ok fœrði á lopt þá fálmaði j tunninn til agnsaxinu ok hjó vað Þórs af borði, en ormrinn søktisk í sæinn.” (Then it is said that the j tunn Hymir changed color, became pale and became scared when he saw the serpent and that the sea fell in and out of the boat. And in the same instance as Þórr took the hammer and raised it aloft, then the j tunn grasped for the bait-knife and cut Þórr’s catch from the gunwale, and the serpent sank into the sea [Gylf. XLVIII]). Both in Hymiskviða and in Gylfaginning there is a human-to-human relational dynamic based on age, skill, and courage, which centers on the activity of catching fish at sea. In Hymiskviða stanza 21, Hymir hauls two whales aboard and subsequently Þórr surpasses him in skill by catching the Miðgarðsormr, not only the largest fish in the sea, but the sea itself. The sequence in stanzas 17–27 is a comment on the activity of gathering food at sea, as it outlines the proportional relationship between daring to complete a task, being capable of it, and successfully completing it, in the context of the fishing trip. In Two of Þórr’s Great Fights (1989), Clunies Ross points out that the gods live only as hunters, while Hymir and his world also includes pastoral activities. She sees the events of Hymiskviða as an exploitative situation in which the gods as a superior hunter-gatherer aristocracy act as opportunists using their wits, strength, and mobility to appropriate the goods of the pastoralists (p. 21). It is an image of cunning nomads preying on sedentary dwellers. While the overarching purpose of Þórr’s journey is certainly to obtain the cauldron that Hymir harbors, it seems unlikely that Scandinavians of the Viking Age and medieval period, living off a mixed economy of farming and pastoral activities
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supplemented by hunting and fishing (Bender Jørgensen 2002), would formulate a disposition for a tale in which a hunter-gatherer society would prey on farmers and pastoralists, and not function as the antagonists of the narrative. With such a mixed economy, the image based on antagonism between modes of resource exploitation would not accurately represent their society. In fact, if Hymiskviða sets forth a representational modality other than one that can be aligned with Christianity (Clunies Ross 1989, 23), which is to say a pagan one, it seems unlikely that, unless that paganism in Hymiskviða is understood as otherness in a polemic Christian discourse, the dichotomization of the hunter vs. the pastoralist farmer seems more likely to be a comment on how to make use of food as a scarce resource in an economical way. As mentioned above: it is foolish and a waste to catch fish with ox-meat. This distinction between hunters and agricultural pastoralists expressed as otherness in connection with paganism is in fact found elsewhere in Old Norse literature. A primary example would be the dichotomy of Þorfinn karlsefni and Þórhallr veiðimaðr in Eiríks saga rauða. The antagonism between the two men—who both have Þórr-names—is expressed in religious terms, but also in a strife over food and sustenance. During a food crisis, Þórhallr prays to Þórr for food and he receives a whale. The whale turns out to be rancid and the men become sick. Matters worsen as Þórhallr tells them that he has obtained it through help from Þórr. This makes the largely Christian traveling party throw the rest of the meat out (Eiríks saga rauða 1935, VIII). Þorfinn’s epithet ‘karlsefni’ (man’s ability/quality) as opposed to Þórhallr’s ‘veiðimaðr’ (huntsman) suggests a dichotomy between civilized agricultural or pastoral activities, and the more primitive activity of hunter-gatherers. The pagan huntsman is a marginalized figure, a denizen of the periphery. The rich, Christian explorer who establishes civilization (builds houses) in Vínland, on the other hand, is the social epicenter, hence his epithet ‘karlsefni.’ This dichotomy is further underscored by Þórhallr’s preference for going north in search for food. Þórhallr only convinces nine of the men to follow him, while the rest follow Þorfinn to the south to establish the Vínland civilization (cap. IX). These directional preferences refer to the tendency of placing otherness in the North. In this tale, the dichotomization between pastoralists and hunters is completed when Þorfinn and his company bring with them a large bull that scares and sparks enmity with the natives who represent a similar hunter-gatherer culture as the pagans (cap. XI). The natives in Vínland and the pagans inhabit the same conceptual space in the rim of the cosmos alongside giants and pygmies. The underlying mythic pattern of Þórr and Hymir is clear in Þorfinn’s journey to Vínlandμ the appropriation of a large sea creature by a pagan huntsman who receives it from Þórr is contrasted
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with a Christian héros civilisateur, who brings pastoralism48 and housing to Vínland–and fights the native hunter-gatherers. In this tale, however, a choice has been made in terms of association: agriculture and pastoralism are civilized and belong to proper Christian men, while relying on the gods to bring you food from the sea is pagan. This is a comment on the tale of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition.49 Here, this exposition simply serves to note that the dichotomy between hunters and pastoralists that Clunies Ross sees in Hymiskviða only can be functional if paganism is accepted as a complete otherness, as it is the case in Eiríks saga rauða. One may assume that it is generally a different situation in eddic poetry, where the æsir are largely positively portrayed as protagonists. Rather it seems that what has indeed been turned into a cultural and civilizational strife in Eiríks saga rauða may have started out as a myth about fishing in Hymiskviða and to some extent in Gylfaginning. It is clear that Gylfaginning contextualizes the Fishing Expedition in the Christianized eschatology of Ragnar k, and that, as a continuation of the preceding narrative events in Útgarðar, it functions as a comment or criticism of paganism and the æsir (Meulengracht 2002, 134; Clunies Ross 1989, 22). This new aspect of criticizing paganism seems to be carried over to other related tales. This will be examined below, but before we do so, it seems appropriate to return to the picture-stones to understand the above-described relational dynamics between Þórr and Hymir. The only possible pagan pre-medieval/Viking Age source, the Hørdum picture-stone, depicts the figure that is interpreted as Hymir attempting to cut the fishing line. As one man is fishing, the other man seems to be rushing towards him with a hook in his hand. From the story in Gylfaginning, as given above, we speculate that this is the panicking Hymir who is cutting the line with a bait-knife. But the information about the instrument is quite different from the image on the Hørdum stone. The rounded hook-shape that the person is holding in his hand on the Hørdum stone is not comparable to what Gylfaginning describes as an agnsax (Gylf. XLVIII). Rather, the Hørdum stone seems to intentionally depict a hook, and given the fact that a hook certainly would not be the first choice to quickly cut a fishing line with, it seems reasonable to question whether the character with the hook actually intends to cut the line. Perhaps it is his intention to use a hook to haul in the catch, rather than to cut the line. In Prolonged Echoes vol. 1, Margaret Clunies Ross argues that the Fishing Expedition is ingrained in a narrative frame that anticipates Ragnar k. She links the three main narratives of Gylfaginningμ the Journey to Útgarðaloki, Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, and Baldr’s Death, to the frame of Ragnar k and states that it is significant that Hár favors a version of the Fishing εyth in which
In this context it should not be overlooked that “hvalr” can be used in kennings for oxen (εeissner 1λ21, 111). Kabell (1976) has also noted this dichotomy of a monster and an ox, but he relates it to Jewish tales that may have spread to the North. 48 49
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Þórr loses his catch (Clunies Ross 1994, 265). The only reason Þórr loses his catch in this telling is because Hymir cuts the line with a bait-knife. Yet in the only pre-medieval source, the only tool that appears other than the fishing line is a hook. It thus seems perfectly valid to question the supposition that Hymir foiled Þórr’s attempt to catch the εiðgarðsormr in order to save the cosmic order (Meulengracht 2002, 133–4), and simply see this notion as a product of the applied frame of Ragnar k in the eschatology of Gylfaginning. It is in Gylfaginning, with its primary source of Vǫluspá, that the overall ‘bird’s eye perspective’ on Old Norse mythology is developed, and J rmungandr is assigned the same type of cosmic role as the deep sea demon δeviathan, when it is postulated that Alf ðr cast him into the sea (Gylf. XXXIV; cf. von See 1988; Holtsmark 1964; Baetke 1950). Taken out of the cosmological and eschatological frame, the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition is a tale that may have much more immediate significance to an audience of tenth century Scandinavians, but certainly also to an audience of thirteenth century Icelanders. The central theme of the myth is that of the sailors’ and fishermen’s negotiations with the open sea. Hymiskviða states initially that the purpose of the Fishing Expedition is to catch food, and in the images on the picturestones this is certainly affirmed by the depictions of fishing lines and bait. Even the skalds, although more concerned with the scene of the dramatic encounter between the god and the sea, recognize the fishing activity as a strong element. Also in the myth, the subject of too little, enough, and too much courage is addressed. Similarly, the practical subject of too little, enough, and too much bait is also addressed. The subject of courage sets focus on the dangers at sea, while the subject of bait adds the focus of procuring food and using resources wisely. Þórr and Hymir each play their part as representatives of two extremes. Þórr is young, eager, and insensitive to caution at sea, while Hymir is old, hostile, and too overwhelmed with caution in his dealings with the sea. Fear plays a strong role in the narratives, and it is underlined by comic relief: when Þórr tears the head off the ox in Hymiskviða and Hymir says it would be better if he had just sat in his seat, it is a comically underplayed response to a ridiculous hyperbole. Likewise, it is a comic double standard that Hymir taunts Þórr for being young and small and sensitive to cold, when he is himself afraid of going further out than his usual fishing grounds. The fishing grounds where Hymir would normally sit and catch flatfish may be the shallows nearest to land, where Scandinavians would usually encounter such flatfish as dabs and types of flounder. It is only the halibut and the turbot that are known to go into the deep sea. There is of course the possibility that the myth takes this into account, and therefore by assuming that the j tunn, who takes in whales, is afraid of going further out than the very deep sea, the distance that Þórr reaches is so far out to sea that the depths are unthinkable. Regardless of the scale in terms of depths and distance, the difference between Hymir’s and Þórr’s preferred fishing grounds is the essence of this scene, and it demonstrates the comic double standard of the narrative.
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With its theme of apprehension, the myth addresses two types of fear that the fisherman must relate to and negotiate in his dealings with the sea: the fear of losing your life at sea and the fear of hunger. The first type of fear will promote cowardice and prevent the fisherman from taking chances, while the second type of fear may lead to being imprudent and promote reckless and daring behavior in times of distress. Daring and reckless behavior can be both good and bad. We see Þórr being reckless when he tears the head off the ox, but in turn he capitalizes immensely from his daring behavior at seaμ he rows further out and “við vélar vað gorði sér” (cunningly laid out his line [Hkv. 21]). While Hymir may catch a couple of whales, Þórr catches the largest creature of the sea—its spirit. In this way, this myth addresses the most important factors of journeying and collecting food at sea, which a maritime or partially maritime society will wish to preserve. The subject of too little, too much, or enough fear in hunting, fishing, and food gathering is the most basic subject in a preindustrial context, where the acquisition of food relies on individual skills rather than trade and mass production—and the need to address this correctly is possibly the epitome of the hunter-gatherer’s and early farmer’s mindμ the appropriate portion of fear combined with the appropriate portion of daring leads to good results. That such a mindset was regarded as wise in context of Old Norse mythology is attested in Hávamál. Stanza 48 warns against being an “ósnjallr maðr” (cowardly man) who is afraid of everything, and stanzas 54–6 extol the “meðalsnótr maðr” (averagely wise man) as the desirable male archetype. This mindset may be illustrated thus: Enough: no death from hunger; no death from accidents.
FEAR Too much: risk of death from hunger Figure 8: The three aspects of fear of hunger.
Too little: risk of death from hunger; risk of death from accidents.
On the basis of this interpretation, it seems reasonable to conclude that the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition may have played a central role in Viking Age and early Scandinavian society. It may even have been the most important myth to a large part of the Scandinavian population. It is a formidable
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example of the preservation of Cultural Memory and an eco-myth in the Mythical Charter of Tradition. The myth is a cornucopia of technical knowledge that can be applied directly to living conditions in the North Atlantic. With the mention of the flatfish it even indicates where a certain type of fish can be located in the space of the sea. It is in no way surprising to apply this myth to a mundane situation, rather than the context of eschatology that it is assigned in Gylfaginning. When one compares it with another myth of the events leading up to Ragnar k in Gylfaginning, the search for Loki after he caused the death of Baldr, the technical, mundane function seems right at hand. As Loki had escaped the æsir and found his way to a secluded area, he sat by the fireplace and tied linen together into a net. By doing so he invented the fishing net. Realizing that the gods had spotted him and were on their way, he threw it into the fire and jumped into the Fránangrsfors and tried to escape in the shape of a salmon (laxlíki). Kvasir50 recognizes the shape of the net in the fire and the gods make a net just like the one Loki made. Then the story goes: Ok er búit var netit þá fara Æsir til árinnar ok kasta neti í forsinn. Helt Þórr enda ðrum ok ðrum heldu allir Æsir ok drógu netit. En Loki fór fyrir ok legsk niðr í milli steina tveggja. Drógu þeir netit yfir hann ok kendu at kykt var fyrir ok fara í annat sinn upp til forsins ok kasta út netinu ok binda við svá þungt at eigi skyli undir mega fara. Ferr þá Loki fyrir netinu, en er hann sér at skamt var til sævar þá hleypr hann upp yfir þinulinn ok rennir upp í forsinn. Nú sá Æsirnir hvar hann fór, fara enn upp til forsins ok skipta liðinu í tvá staði, en Þórr veðr þá eptir miðri ánni ok fara svá til sævar. En er Loki sér tvá kosti—var þat lífs háski at hlaupa á sæinn, en hitt var annarr at hlaupa enn yfir netit— ok þat gerði hann, hljóp sem snarast yfir netþinulinn. Þórr greip eptir honum ok tók um hann ok rendi hann í hendi honum svá at staðar nam h ndin við sporðinn. Ok er fyrir þá s k laxinn aptrmjór. (And when the net was done then the æsir went to the river and cast the net out into the waterfall. Þórr held one end and all the æsir the other and they dragged the net. But Loki went in front of it and tucked himself between two stones. They dragged the net over him and realized that there was something alive down there and the second time they went up to the waterfall they cast out the net and held it down so heavily that nothing could pass beneath it. Then Loki went in front of the net and when he saw that there was only a short distance to the sea, he jumped over the net and swam up into the waterfall. Now the æsir saw where he was going, they went back up to the waterfall and separated into two groups, but Þórr waded after them in the middle of the river and they headed towards the sea. And when Loki saw that he had two choices—to risk his life in the sea or to try once more to jump over the net—this is what he did: he jumped quickly over the net. Þórr reached out for him and gripped around him and he slithered in his hand so that the hand grasped by the tail. And this is why the salmon is thinner by the tail [Gylf. L]).
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In the chapter on volcanism, we will see that Kvasir plays the primary role of the embodiment of Cultural Memory in connection with volcanism, see chapter IV, pages 159-167.
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This story of the æsir’s search for δoki is in essence Þórr’s second fishing trip, as it is primarily Þórr who leads the hunt. Interestingly, this narrative not only instructs in the making of a fishing net, it also gives detailed instructions on how to fish for salmon in a river. It details how it is useful to weigh down the net so that nothing can slip under it; it gives indications as to where it is useful to stand when fishing for salmon (waterfall); it details salmon behavior in rivers (jumping); and it indicates a technique of wading in the water, perhaps to scare the fish in a certain direction. It also retains the important information that the salmon will not turn back out to sea (because they are going upstream to spawn). There may even be a detail hidden in this story concerning the behavior of bears catching salmon in Þórr’s wading in the water. The bear will wade into the water and snatch the salmon when it jumps, either with its mouth or with a paw. Þórr is also known under the name Bj rn in the þulur (Den norsk-islandske skjaldedigtning 1973 I, 660). This is another example of an eco-myth that retains technical knowledge about catching fish under certain circumstances. Þórr and Loki both seem to have their place in this complex of gathering food at sea, and it seems to reach further into the legendary myths, considering the pre-history of the Sigurðr Fáfnisbáni story. The events that lead to Fáfnir becoming a greedy dragon in possession of a gold treasure begin with Loki catching a salmon and afterwards an otter by throwing a rock. The otter turns out to be the son of the farmer Hreiðmar and the brother of Regin and Fáfnir. They demand wergild for him, and Loki is therefore sent by Óðinn to Svartálfheimr where he catches the dwarf Andvari, who lives in a lake there in the guise of a fish (Skáld. 39; Rgm. 1–5). For this mythical tradition to preserve several narratives that associate with fishing activities and their technical aspects is not surprising given the many fishing opportunities there are in Scandinavia and Iceland. The myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition takes its place in the Mythical Charter of Tradition among these technical myths that preserve important Cultural and Collective Memory. The fact that it is represented in picture-stones from the Scandinavian diaspora in Britain all the way to Gotland in modern day Sweden, and that it occurs in literary forms in medieval Iceland, suggests that it was a myth that Scandinavians could relate to and seamlessly reproduce in various forms over centuries, regardless of social changes. In fact, it seems that this myth was so important and carried so much meaning in early medieval Scandinavia that it, along with its main character Þórr, was chosen to carry the most important social change in medieval Scandinavia: the conversion to Christianity. In the following we shall examine how the memory of Þórr as a fishing god and provider of food and good weather conditions at sea seems to have played an important role in other literary sources. Above, it has already been noted that it seems the stories of the Vínland expeditions carry an echo of the Fishing Myth. This echo also resonates with Christian moralizing against the old religion, and given the widespread complex of narratives involving Þórr, sea journeys, and the theme of
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paganism in opposition to Christianity, this is no surprise. It seems that not only was it important to reject Þórr specifically in certain conversion narratives, it was also an obvious choice to construct conversion narratives in direct relation to his exploits at sea. ÞÓRR’“ RELATIONSHIP WITH THE SEA IN OTHER SOURCES
The association of Þórr with the sea occurs in several medieval literary sources of varying genres. The earliest source that connects Þórr with seafaring is Dudo de St. Quentin’s Gesta Normannorum seu de moribus et actis primorum Normanniae ducum from c. 1015. Dudo writes about the Norman Vikings and claims that they sacrificed to Þórr for favorable winds (Gesta Normannorum 1996, II). Landnámabók provides four examples of an association of Þórr with journeys at sea. The most famous example may be Helgi inn magri Eyvindarson, who was a Christian but relied on Þórr at sea and in times of hardship (Landn. 1968 II, CCXVIII [S]). Þórr guides the landnám of Þórólfr Mostrarskegg (vol. I, cap. LXXXV [S]; LXXIII [H]; XXV [M]) and Kráku-Hreiðarr Ófeigsson (vol. II, cap. CXCVII [S]; CLXIV [H]), but in the Hauksbók version of Landnámabók there is an instance of him failing to do the same for a man named Kollr (vol. 1, cap. XV [H]). The obviously Christianbiased (Perkins 2001, 23) story of Kollr pits Þórr against ‘biskúp Patrekr’ as patrons of seafaring. Kollr invokes Þórr to guide him at sea while Ørlygr Hrappsson calls on Patrekr. Kollr is shipwrecked and Ørlygr is safely guided to Patreksfj rðr. Among the saga material there are three cases where Þórr holds sway over seafaring. Eyrbyggja saga retells the landnám of Þórólfr (Eyrb. 1935, IV) with no notable deviations from Landnámabók. As mentioned earlier, Þórr—hinn rauðskeggjaði (the red-bearded)—acts as a provider of food for Þórhallr veiðimaðr, causing strife among the pagans and the Christians in Eiríks saga rauða. In Flóamanna saga (Flóam: ÍF 13 1991, XX-XXII), the hero Þorgils used to make sacrifices to Þórr, but when Christianity came to Iceland, he converted to the new faith. This angered his old patron, causing Þórr to persecute him. Þorgils gets tidings from Eiríkr rauði and decides to go to Greenland, but Þórr comes to him in a dream and threatens him with a storm at sea. This does not, however, deter Þorgils from leaving Iceland. At sea, the wind drops and Þorgils and his men are stranded for three months. They begin to starve and run out of water. At this point, some of Þorgils’s men suggest that they could make offerings to Þórr, but he refuses this and threatens to avenge such an act (cap. XXI). Eventually Þorgils and his men wash ashore on a desert beach in Greenland.51
Another highly interesting comparison between the case of Þorgils and Þórr’s Fishing Expedition is in chapter eleven, which tells how Þorgils rowed far out to sea as a young boy at the age of nine and caught a big flatfish (Flóam. XI). This narrative seems to have some comparison with the rowing scene in Gylfaginning. 51
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These different narratives combine Þórr with the ocean, seafaring, and not least the matter of staving off hunger and thirst at sea. Dudo’s account tells of a situation where Þórr receives human sacrifices for favorable winds, and in Landnámabók, Þórr’s role is to guide seafaring Icelanders, sometimes in competition with Christian icons. In the saga literature the matter becomes a bit more complex as Þórr seems to master the bounties of the sea in Eiríks saga rauða, and to some extent also in Flóamanna saga where he causes hunger and thirst. There are two traditions in the literary sources: one that seems to recollect the role that Þórr has played for seafarers in the Viking Age, and another— Christian—tradition of the medieval period that purposefully deconstructs Þórr’s abilities as a god of seafaring and fishing. The cases of Kollr, Þórhallr and Þorfinn, and not least Þorgils, certainly indicate that Þórr was a force to be reckoned with at sea (i.e. Perkins 2001, 18–26), and subsequently one to be discredited in tales biased towards the Christian mission. A notable feature of several of the tales about seafaring Icelanders and their dealings with Þórr as a sea god is that the protagonists have Þórr-names. These Þorsmenn seem to be archetypal worshipers of Þórr, appearing in narratives to process, in literary form, what may be termed the Christian religious trauma of an early Icelandic belief that Þórr, because of his role in the myth of the Fishing Expedition, was instrumental in the landnám. In Eiríks saga rauða, we have even seen the Þórr character split in two, as if it were the case that early Icelanders told a tale of Þórr having guided them and sustained them on their journeys to Vínland, inspiring later storytellers of the Christian persuasion to split the Þórr character in two, as Þórr-the-huntsman who goes north and as Þórr-thecolonist who goes south. Another set of narratives attach themselves to this complex. These are the tales that directly or indirectly connect with Þórr mythologyμ the tale of Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki and Saxo’s tale of Thorkillus. In the following these narratives will be examined in relation to the Fishing Myth and the mythic complex of Þórr as a sea god. ÞÓRR’“ JOURNEY TO ÚTGARÐALOKI
Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki is the longest narrative about a god in Edda. Clunies Ross and εeulengracht regard the narrative as an “elaboration of the idea at the centre of the story of Þórr’s fishing-expedition” (Clunies Ross 1λ8λ, 22), and “a variant of the fishing-trip myth” (εeulengracht 2002, 131). As noted earlier, Clunies Ross (1λλ4, 265) sees Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki, Snorri’s version of Þórr’s unsuccessful Fishing Expedition, and the tale of Baldr’s Death as a trio of carefully selected narratives that in different ways expose the fallibility of the æsir. Prior to the tale of the Journey to Útgarðaloki, the æsir have told tales of the best horse among them, Sleipnir, and the best
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ship Skiðblaðnir. Gylfi thus asks if Þórr—the strongest of the æsir—has ever been overcome by magic or strength (Gylf. XδIII), and this prompts the three æsir to produce the tale of Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki. This is a consequence of the motif of the head-ransom, which Beyschlag has argued is at the root of the literary form in Gylfaginning, presumably taken from Vafþrúðnismál (Beyschlag 1λ54; δindow 2000, 173). The Journey to Útgarðaloki, the Fishing Expedition, and Baldr’s Death, arguably the heart of Gylfaginning (Frog 2011, 18), thus constitute the beginning of the end. After the story of the Fishing Expidition, where Þórr has failed, the æsir relate the tale of Baldr’s Death, which is essentially the story of the death of the perfect god (Gylf. XXIII). Baldr’s Death leads directly to the destruction of the æsir’s society in Ragnar k. Together, the three stories form an exposition of the æsir’s inability to control natural forces and death. In the Journey to Útgarðaloki, Þórr and his company face wildfire, sea, thought, and old age as adversaries. With the exception of thought, these are natural forces beyond social control, and the æsir are proven to be powerless in this novelistic tale (Mogk 1923; see also Liberman 1992, 94–9), which seems to have as a later thematic analogue the fourteenth century English poem of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. In this poem, Sir Gawain travels to a land of giants, ruled by the Green Knight, and here he discovers that he is a mere human bound by the same laws as everyone else. Even if Þórr might not, then most certainly the reader may take the same lesson from the Journey to Útgarðaloki (Clunies Ross 1994, 266–7): Þórr is a mere human. As noted earlier, it seems that Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki shares a common story pattern with Hymiskviða and Þórr’s Visit to Geirrøðr (εcKinnell 1994, 59). John McKinnell argues that where Hymiskviða may have been the popular version and Þórr’s Visit to Geirrøðr—especially in the skaldic form—could have been an aristocratic version of this common story pattern, the Journey to Útgarðaloki seems to have been a satiric version (p. 67–8). As with Hymiskviða and Þórr’s Visit to Geirrøðr, the Journey to Útgarðaloki is constructed around the plot of Þórr visiting a j tunn’s hall (Frog 2011, 19). The narrative has a tripartite structure where Þórr and Loki first encounter a peasant and his family, next they cross the Úthaf and meet the giant Skrýmir, and at last Þórr and his company come to Útgarðaloki’s hall and are tricked there (p. 18; δindow 2000, 173–80).52 The journey is a series of tests that the god endures in the worlds in which he travels. The first one to test Þórr is Þjálfi, the representative of the human world, who breaks the bone of one of Þórr’s goats. This is described in the narrative as a situation where Þórr has to manage his fierce temper: “Eigi þarf langt frá því at segja, vita megu þat allir hversu hræddr búandinn mundi vera er hann sá at Þórr lét síga brýnnar ófan fyrir augan. En þat er sá augnanna, þá hugðisk hann falla mundu fyrir sjóninni einni samt. Hann herði hendrnar at hamarskaptinu svá at 52
On the tradition and structure of this tale, see also Chesnutt 1989.
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hvítnuðu knúarnir, en búandinn gerði sem ván var ok ll hjúnin, k lluðu ákafliga, báðu sér friðar, buðu at fyrir kvæmi allt þat er þau áttu. En er hann sá hræzlu þeira þá gekk af honum móðrinn ok sefaðisk hann ok tók af þeim í sætt b rn þeira Þjálfa ok R sku ok gerðusk þau þá skyldu þjónustumenn Þórs ok fylgja þau honum jafnan síðan” (There is little reason to say much about this, everyone knows how terrified the peasant must have become when he saw Þórr’s brows sink before his eyes. And when he saw the eyes then he thought that he would crumble under his glance. He hardened his grip around the handle of the hammer so much that the knuckles went white, and the peasant and his household did as would be expected and pleaded for grace, and offered to atone with all their belongings. And when he saw their terror then his anger left him and he calmed down and took instead of them their children Þjálfi and R skva and he made it so that they would be his servants and they have followed him ever since [Gylf. XLIV]). In his article Thor’s Visit to Útgardaloki (2000) John Lindow argues that Þórr is reacting in a manner that is fully consistent with his nature as a protector of humans. If Þórr had killed the peasants he would have reacted like a j tunnμ instead he enters an agreement, accepting Þjálfi and R skva as his servants (p. 174). This situation is in two ways completely the opposite of the next test that occurs across the Úthaf, where Þórr meets Skrýmir. When he is in Miðgarðr, the potent god is able to provide the humans with food, his hammer is a fearsome weapon, and he can restrain his temper. When Þórr and his companions enter the foreign world, after having journeyed through the J tunheimar and crossed the deep sea, he faces challenges that are impossible for him to overcome: his abilities to provide food are foiled, his powerful weapon loses its might, and as a result of his powerlessness he becomes increasingly hysterical. As Skrýmir playfully tests Þórr while they journey through the woods, it becomes apparent that those elements which are in the god’s command in the world that he came from are out of his control in the otherworld. Lindow points out that when Þórr and Loki sought a place to stay in the world of people, they found an inhabited house where hospitality was immediately offered, but what they believe to be a house in the otherworld is not only uninhabited, it is merely Skrýmir’s glove (p. 175). In addition, δindow sees a “Snorronic joke” in the belief of Þórr and his companions that Skrýmir’s snoring is an earthquake. This is a contradiction to the information later in Gylfaginning that reveals that earthquakes are caused by the bound Loki beneath the earth (p. 176). 53 Both instances are examples of how the familiar—that which is in Þórr’s control—is turned upside down on the opposite side of the Úthaf. Prior to this narrative, Gylfaginning has described the world of the gods in detail, and it has given indications of certain norms among gods and humans, such as hospitality. But the world beyond the Úthaf is another world altogether and so an earthquake, like hospitality, is not controlled by the 53
It is, however, not in harmony with the linear perspective to the eschatology of Gylfaginning. It is late in the progression towards Ragnar k that δoki is bound.
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gods. This is also indicated in the fear that Þórr apparently feels when he means to defend himself. When he sees the size of Skrýmir, he is no longer eager to attack him (Gylf. XLV). Þórr’s ability to provide food is taken away from him soon after he meets Skrýmir. When they come ashore it is Þjálfi who carries the food, and it is told that he is the quickest among menμ “Þjálfi var allra manna fóthvatastr. Hann bar kýl Þórs” (Þjálfi was the fastest of all men. He carried Þórr’s knapsack [Gylf. XLV]). But when they decide to go with Skrýmir through the forest, it is the giant who takes over carrying the knapsack, and the æsir have a hard time keeping up with him because he takes long steps (cap. XLV). Þjálfi and Skrýmir are thus parallelized, the latter taking over the responsibility that was relegated to the former, Þórr’s servant. And Skrýmir proves to be much more difficult to deal with in this capacity. Lindow notes that Þórr becomes almost impotent in his meeting with Skrýmir, because the giant steals the food from the æsir and εj llnir is ineffective against him. In fact, εj llnir is compared to leaves and twigs (δindow 2000, 176–7). This is a strong contrast to the situation with the peasant and his family in the beginning, in Miðgarðr where Þórr was powerful. Before heading off, Skrýmir warns Þórr about Útgarðaloki and his men: “Heyrt hefi ek at þér hafið kvisat í milli yðvar at ek væra ekki lítill maðr vexti, en sjá skuluð þér þar stœrri menn ef þér komið í Útgarð. Nú mun ek ráða yðr heilræðiμ látið þér eigi stórliga yfir yðr. Ekki munu hirðmenn Útgarðaloka vel þola þvílíkum k gursveinum k puryrði” (I have heard that you have been whispering among yourselves that I am not of small size, but if you go to Útgarðr you will see men there who are even bigger. Now I will give you advice to your healthμ don’t act too big with them. Útgarðaloki’s warriors will not tolerate such things from children [Gylf. XLV]). The narrative has been building towards this, and now it is finally revealed that Þórr is in over his head; he is in a different world than he is used to, and his ways and abilities are useless there. The narrative establishes a dichotomy between the world from which Þórr and his companions came and the world in which they now are. The world that consists of Ásgarðr, εiðgarðr, and J tunheimar, which is described in the mythology of Grímnismál and Vafþrúðnismál, and not least in the preceding chapters of Gylfaginning, belongs to gods like Þórr. The world beyond the Úthaf though, belongs to a different type of beings whose powers supersede those of the æsir. Back in the known world Þórr has a retainer, he can provide food, and can use his hammer. There Loki is the cause of earthquakes. In this world Skrýmir takes the place of Þjálfi, takes away the food, and removes the usability of the hammer. He even (seemingly) makes earthquakes. This is a literal belittling of Þórr, the most powerful áss. With the stage set in this way, Þórr and his companions then squeeze through the bars into the hall of Útgarðaloki and face the final humiliating series of tests. In the hall of Útgarðaloki, Þórr and his
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companions are subjected to different tests: Loki competes with Logi (fire) in an eating contest, Þjálfi competes with Húgi (thought) in a race, and Þórr competes with Útgarðaloki in three trials. First, he attempts to lift the cat Grábakr (the Miðgarðsormr), then he tries to drink the vítishorn (the sea) and third, he wrestles the old lady Elli (old age). There are different opinions among scholars as to the nature and purpose of these tests. As mentioned above, Margaret Clunies Ross sees in them a division of those forces that are within the sphere of control for the æsir as opposed to those that are not, basically relegating the dominance of the æsir to the social sphere—the world that is encircled by the Úthaf—arguing that Þórr and his companions are faced with insurmountable natural forces in Útgarðr (Clunies Ross 1994, 265–7). In Snorri qua Fulcrum (2011), Frog argues that these tests are allegories of the interpretation of poetic language. Logi, Húgi, and Elli have transparent names but the two other tests to which Þórr is subjected are intricately designed kenningsμ the giant grey cat (grábakr = snake, k ttr = j tunn) is a kenning for the Miðgarðsormr, and the vítishorn filled with the sea is the Mead of Poetry. When the word ‘drink’ or ‘cup’ is associated with Óðinn, the gods, a j tunn, or a dvergr it is a conceptual metaphor for the Mead of Poetry. Poetic synonyms for the sea such as brim, unnr, or vágr also mean ‘drink,’ and so the kenning isμ ‘the sea in the drinking-horn of the giant-host.’ This is the εead of Poetry (p. 19). Clunies Ross, Frog, and McKinnell agree that in these contests the æsir—and especially Þórr— are a failure. Frog sees a contrast of Þórr and Óðinn in the drinking contest where Þórr’s failure to empty the horn in three draughts, as opposed to Óðinn’s three draughts of the εead of Poetry, means that Þórr is unable to interpret the poetic language (ibid). εcKinnell sees a “total failure on Þórr’s part” (1λλ4, 84), and in Útgarðaloki he finds a courteous, well-mannered, and even chivalrous host (p. 84–5). In contrast to this notion, John Lindow finds Útgarðaloki to be a poor host who does not fulfill the requirements of hospitality. To Lindow, the world of the Útgarðar is negative and lacks the basic elements for human life in the sense that food and drink is denied the guests. Loki, Þjálfi, and Þórr are in fact the victors of the competitions because they stick to the common rules of social conduct (p. 177–8). Finally, Lindow arrives at the conclusion originally posited by Folke Ström that Útgarðaloki must be a doppelgänger of Óðinn (p. 180). While there are some common features that link the interpretations of these four scholars together, their conclusions lead in many different directions. McKinnell and Lindow both see social processes as the primary fabric of this tale, but disagree on whether or not Þórr is a failure. Frog disagrees with δindow on the subject of Þórr’s success, but in turn he recognizes the Odinic pattern behind the tale, which δindow proposes, if for no other reason than the tale’s fixation on poetic
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language. Clunies Ross sees no social processes in the narrative per se, but agrees with Frog and McKinnell that Þórr fails, and with Lindow she seems to agree that this narrative is an integrated part of Old Norse mythology, in the sense that she is not immediately willing to discard it as ‘foreign’ or ‘fictitious.’ The question of whether or not this tale is foreign or fictitious has been discussed by many scholars (cf. deVries 1970, 141). Dumézil has identified the glove/cave motif in Ossetian folklore (1930, 146), and von Sydow (1910) identified Skrýmir as originally an Irish invention, while he also seems to have a counterpart in the giant Svyatogor of Russian folklore (Chadwick 1961). The argument for Irish origin seems to be the most pervasive one (e.g. Bugge 1907 and 1908; deVries 1933; Krappe 1937; van der Leyen 1938; Rooth 1961). While this discussion shall not be elaborated further, there are some important realizations to take from the discussion of the genesis of the narrative, which are valuable to the purpose of discussing Þórr’s relation to the sea, and ultimately to the conceptualization of the sea in the mythology: it seems there is a direct line of association from the goat sacrifice, over Skrýmir’s behavior in the Útgarðar, to Útgarðaloki’s strange inhospitable castle. In Two of Þórr’s Great Fights according to Hymiskviða, Clunies Ross ruminates over the possibility “that Snorri got the idea of juxtaposing Þórr’s visit to Útgarða-δoki with the god’s fishing expedition from his knowledge of a version of Hymiskviða in which there was already an allusion to the episode of the laming of the goat” (1λ8λ, 22–3). It would seem then—at least according to Clunies Ross—that stanzas 37–8 in Hymiskviða, which refer to the laming of Þórr’s goat, may be the cause of the tale of the peasant in Gylfaginning. According to Hymiskviða it was δoki who caused Þórr’s goat to get lame, and it was also δoki who paid for it with his children: “Fóroð lengi, áðr liggia nam hafr Hlórriða hálfdauðr fyrir; var scirr sc culs scaccr á banni, enn því inn lævísi δoki um olli. Enn ér heyrt hafið – hverr kann um þat goðmálugra gørr at scilia –, hver af hraunbúa hann laun um fecc, er hann bæði galt born sín fyrir” (They had not gone far before Hlórriði’s goat lay half-dead before them; the shackle-beast shook in its bones, the cunning Loki had caused this. But you have heard this—anyone with more god-speech can make that clearer—how he got wergild of the lava-dweller, how he paid with both his children” [Hkv. 37–8]). This difference between Hymiskviða and Gylfaginning suggests that the tradition of Gylfaginning deliberately relates an alternate interpretation. Hymiskviða 7 tells how Þórr and Týr journeyed for a whole day out of Ásgarðr until they came to a herdsman named Egill. The herdsman,
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a denizen of the frontier between civilization and the wilderness,54 secures their goats on the pasture there and the two gods proceed to Hymir’s dwelling—a farm setting comparable to any other in the world of the gods (Løkka 2010, 237). These three stanzas of Hymiskviða represent a different version of the beginning of the same pattern (Clunies Ross 1989; McKinnell 1994) as that of the Journey to Útgarðaloki: Þórr and Loki reside with the farmer, they give him food, and they perform the goat ritual. Afterwards, because the one goat was harmed from Þjálfi breaking its bone, they leave the goats behind to travel to the J tunheimar and beyondμ “δét hann þar eptir hafra ok byrjaði ferðina austr í J tunheima ok allt til hafsins, ok þá fór hann út yfir hafit þat it djúpa” (He left his goats there and began the journey east into to the J tunheimar and all the way to the ocean, and then he went out over the deep sea [Gylf. XLV]). Þórr’s journey to the east and the deep sea is consistent with the information that Hymir “býr fyr austan Élivága” (lives to the east of Élivágar [Hkv. 5]). It seems, then, that a certain interpretative modus has formulated a sequence of events which takes Þórr out to sea (Élivágar), corresponding to the three stanzas of Hymiskviða:
Hymiskviða St. 7: Þórr and Týr leave the goats with the shepherd Egill and enter Hymir’s farmstead.
St. 37: The goat carrying Þórr collapses because of δoki’s malice.
Gylfaginning 45 Þórr and Loki (with Þjálfi and R skva) leave Miðgarðr without the goats, because one of them is lame on its leg. Þjálfi breaks the bone of one of the goats during an episode where his father—the farmer corresponding to the shepherd Egill—gives lodging to Þórr and Loki, who are on their way to the Úthaf. This is a situation where Þórr offers the farmer and his family his goat to eat, and afterwards revives it in a pagan ritual.
For his breech of the ritual taboo of destroying the bones, Þjálfi and his sister are taken by the god, and the goats are left behind. The farmer thus pays for this food with his children. Figure 9: The goat-motif of Hymiskviða and Gylfaginning.
St. 38: Loki pays the price for this with his children.
Lindow interprets the goat scene as a ritual structure where Þjálfi violates a ritual procedure, invoking the god’s anger. Þjálfi is subsequently forced to atone for it. The result is a binding of the two children, Þjálfi and R skva, to the god in a similar manner as Odinic warriors such as Starkaðr (Lindow 2000, 173–5). However, Lindow misses an important aspect in this supposed ritual structure: the gods leave
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Compare with Skírnismál 11: the first person Skírnir encounters on his journey to Gerðr is the herdsman on a mound. The pasture and the mound are situated in the periphery of the inhabited space (Gunnell 2006, 240).
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the two goats with the peasant. If this is indeed a ritual structure it seems to express an exchange in which the pagan gods require humans in turn for food: the peasant receives food, the son—quite naturally—breaks a bone to eat the marrow and this leads to the son being offered to the god as atonement. Leaving the goats behind and travelling to Útgarðar with only the children and a knapsack, Þórr is out of luck. Earlier we encountered another example of Þórr failing to provide edible food on a journey with a strong Christian overtone, namely the case of Þórhallr in Eiríks saga rauða. This situation is basically the same in Gylfaginning when Þórr is confronted with Skrýmir and Útgarðaloki. Food becomes a scarcity when the æsir enter the Útgarðar: Skrýmir actively withholds food from Þórr, and Útgarðaloki does not offer any food until the various trials have been completed. At this point, as soon as the æsir have left the known world, Þórr is incapable of supplying them with food. This situation makes the goat sacrifice in the beginning of the story all the more significant. As Clunies Ross points out, it does indeed seem as if the Journey to Útgarðaloki reproduces and elaborates the central idea of the Fishing Expedition: first, there is a sacrifice of a pastoral animal (the ox, the goat); then there is a journey ‘at sea’ with an antagonistic being (Hymir, Skrýmir); finally there is a confrontation with the ‘the sea’ (J rmungandr, Útgarðaloki’s trials). The subject of procuring food is as much part of the Journey to Útgarðaloki as it is in the Fishing Expedition, but in the case of his Journey to Útgarðaloki, Þórr is unsuccessful. Þórr is also unsuccessful in his attempts to overcome the aquatic element that he is otherwise known to skillfully negotiate in Gylfaginning. We may even read into the scene of Þórr staring angrily at the peasant and his family a parody of the staring contest between Þórr and J rmungandr in the skaldic poems and Hymiskviða. Furthermore, it seems as if Skrýmir’s warning to Þórr about being too little to venture into Útgarðar echoes Hymir’s assertion that Þórr is too young to go out on the boat. All in all, this narrative is the antithesis to the original Fishing Expedition. Just as in the case of Kollr in Landnámabók, this journey demonstrates how Þórr is unable to navigate at sea, and just like Eiríks saga rauða it demonstrates how Þórr fails to provide edible nutrition on a journey. Finally, just like Dudo’s account, Þórr demands human sacrifices for his favors. Dudo’s description of these sacrifices seems even more important to this complex, as a connection to cattle is reiterated in the instrument with which the victims are killed. An ox-yoke is used: “[sed] sanguinem mactabant humanum. holocaustorum omnium putantes preciosissimum eo quod sacerdote sortilogo predestinante. iugo boum una uice dirtier iacebantur in capite. collisoque unicuique singulari ictu; sorte electo cerebro. sternebatur in tellure. perquirebaturque leuorsum fibra cordis scilicet uena. Cuius exausto sanguine
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ex more sua. suorumque capita linientes librant caeleriter nauium carbasa uentis. illosque tali negotio putantes placare uelociter nauium insurgebant remis.” ([but] sacrificed human blood, the most valuable of all offerings. It would proceed thusly: the divinatory priest would predetermine the course. The victims were viciously struck in the head with an ox-yoke, with one single blow; when the brain of each victim, who had been selected by a lot, had been crushed by another blow, he was spread out on the ground and the fibers of his heart, that is the veins, were carefully examined on the left-hand side. After exhausting the blood, according to their custom, they would smear it in their own head and in their comrades’ head, and immediately spread the sails of their ships for the winds, thinking to placate them by such actions. Then they would rapidly ply the oars of their ships [Gesta Normannorum 1996, II]). It is likely that Dudo is dramatizing his tale of the sacrifices, to follow in the footsteps of so many of his peers who readily discredit the pre-Christian Scandinavians as bloodthirsty savages, but nonetheless he joins in a widely accepted discourse about human sacrifices to the pagan gods. To this complex belongs the first episode of Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki that tells how the false god snatches men’s children and performs rituals of necromancy (cf. Lassen 2011, 252–65): if one receives food from Þórr, one must pay the price of one’s children. These are the tenets of demonology: one must pay a high price for making deals with the agents of the Devil, here presented as the pagan gods. This is described in Guta saga from c. 1350μ “Firi þan tima oc lengi eptir siþan. troþu menn a hult. oc a hauga. wi. oc. stafgarþa. oc a haiþin guþ. blotaþu þair synnum oc dydrum sinum Oc fileþi. miþ matj oc mundgati. þet gierþu þair eptir wantro sinnj” (Before that time and long after men believed in groves and mounds, sanctuaries and stave-yards and in pagan gods. They sacrificed their sons and daughters and gathered with food and drink. This they did according to their infidelity [Guta Saga 1999, V (p. 4)]). In light of this, the apparent mercy that Þórr shows the peasant by taking only his children, when he is offering everything he has, seems highly ironic, and it is hard not to see this literary construction of Gylfaginning as a critical comment on a previously existing tradition of votive offerings to Þórr before seafaring. In the following, we shall see how this notion also unfolds in Saxo’s stories of Thorkillus.55 THORKILLU“’“ JOURNEYS TO GERUTHUS AND UG ARTHILOCUS
The enigmatic character Thorkillus undertakes his journeys to Geruthus and Ugarthilocus in Saxo’s eighth book of Gesta Danorum. Denmark has suffered from a natural catastrophe—a prolonged winter due to King Snio—and much of the land has been overgrown by forests (Saxo 2005 I, VIII 11, 1–13, 3). Snio is followed by Biorn, then Haraldus and his son Gormus (lib. VIII 14,1). Gormus is a
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On the treatment of mythic narrative in Edda and Gesta Danorum, see Clunies Ross 1992a, 47–59.
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different type of king from his predecessors because his interests are not in warfare but in new discoveries of the natural world—he is an explorer (Skovgaard-Petersen 1987, 182). In her dissertation Da Tidernes Herre var nær (1λ87), on Saxo’s view of history in Gesta Danorum, Inger Skovgaard-Petersen identifies in the journeys a theme of the revelation of the impotence of the pagan gods (p. 185). This revelation is part of the process towards the introduction of Christianity in Denmark (p. 186), and Saxo seems to be modeling these narratives on the theme of Ragnar k and resurrection as it is known from Vǫluspá (p. 187–90). Aside from Vǫluspá, Skovgaard-Petersen recognizes that the Thorkillus Journeys somehow are indebted to Odysseus’s journeys, particularly his encounter with Circe, although the classical version seems to have been unknown to medieval scholars (p. 184). She summarizes that the material on which this narrative has been modeled must originate in the same medieval narrative tradition as Dante’s story of Odysseus’s last journey past Hercules’s columns, although with approximately 100 years between them there is nothing to suggest that the works of Saxo and Dante are related (p. 185). The characters Thorkillus, Geruthus, and Ugarthilocus are reminiscent of the mythic figures Þórr, Geirrøðr, and Útgarðaloki, while Guthmundus or Guðmundr, the brother of Geruthus, is, along with Geirrøðr, also a character of Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns, but it seems unlikely that Saxo’s narrative had any Norse prototype (Liberman 1992, 98). In later Icelandic saga literature, the fornaldarsögur, Guðmundr rules over the Elysian realm of Glæsisvellir in the far North (Simek 1986, 264–6). It is also in the Norse material that we find the narrative tradition to which the Thorkillus Journeys belong. McKinnell treats the Thorkillus Journeys in Both One and Many as cognates of Hymiskviða and Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki, but it is uncertain to him whether Saxo’s version is derived from the Norse versions or they simply belong to the same tradition (1994, 60). That Saxo’s narrative deviates from the Norse tradition, to which it so obviously is closely related, has also been pointed out by Mats Malm in his article The Otherworld Journeys of the Eighth Book of Gesta Danorum (1992). Malm finds the literary inspirations for Saxo’s narrative in the medieval visionary literature, and argues that the Thorkillus Journeys display many features of medieval moral philosophy (p. 163–5). Saxo interprets Danish history typologically in accordance with sensus allegoricus (p. 166), thus he infers apocalyptic features in the Thorkillus Journeys, expressing the eternal truth of salvation (p. 171–2). εalm’s perspective seems overall to be convincing. Thorkillus undertakes two journeys for King Gormus. The first journey goes to Geruthus’s hall in Byarmia in the far north (Saxo 2005 I, VIII 14,6). On this journey, the pagan Icelander Thorkillus takes the role of a guide for the passive Gormus, who hardly speaks throughout the voyage. As an
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Icelandic pagan, Thorkillus is a mediating figure between the pagan otherworld that is the goal of the journey, and the more civilized parts of Europe whence Gormus comes. Thorkillus is the Vergil of the tale. As Denmark is ripe for Christianization at this point, it may be assumed that the area, from a Christian point of view, can be considered to be nearly included in the civilized world. To Saxo, the subarctic nation of Iceland is both much further north (“ultimę Tyles” [Saxo 2005 I, VIII 2,2]), much less civilized (Praef. 2,7), and the source of many wondrous tales about pagan gods (lib. VIII 14,1).56 In this perspective, it is natural to have Thorkillus lead the king and take on the role that Vergil, for example, has in Dante’s La Divina Commedia, as a guide well-acquainted with the realm of the otherworld. The guide is indispensable in visionary literature, as he or she ensures a safe journey and, familiar with the scenery, interprets the otherworldly specters for the guest. This type of visionary quest is in Old Norse as a leizla. Presumably a neologism of the twelfth or thirteenth centuries, the term is derived from leiða ‘to lead’ and thus underlines the importance of the guide (Wellendorf 2008, 138). In his article True Records of Events that Could Have Taken Place (2012), Jonas Wellendorf explains that the genre of the visionary literature begins with St. Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians, where he states that he was taken to the third Heaven to learn the secret words that no man should utter (Corinthians 12:2–4). The vision quest known as Apocalypsis Pauli, a fiction based on St. Paul’s statement, is most certainly very old as St. Augustine knew a version of it, but its age is disputed. It relates how St. Paul was led by an angel to Heaven to see, among other things, the City of Christ. St. Paul is then led across the ocean that encompasses the earth to a ghoulish and dark world where the sinners are tormented. Afterwards, he sees Paradise (Wellendorf 2012, 141–2). From around 1200 the later version Visio Pauli is known in Northern Europe, and the rubric Visio sancti Pauli apostoli in the Norwegian book of homilies demonstrates some knowledge of the tale in the Norse world (p. 143). It is possible that the circulation of this text as well as another, Visio Tnugdali, from 114λ have inspired Saxo’s tale of Thorkillus. Visio Tnugdali (ON: Duggals Leizla) belongs to the youngest generation of visions and it represents an expressly horizontal perspective that formulates a ‘terrestrialization’ of the visionary voyage, letting the visionary journey in corpore to the otherworld, across the ocean where Hell and Purgatory seem to be situated (Wellendorf 2006, 52). Indeed, Thorkillus and Gormus do seem to journey to a world that has much in common with that Hell which is described in certain examples of the visionary literature. Initially, Saxo explains thatμ “sed iter omni refertum periculo ac pene mortalibus inuium ferebatur. Ambitorem namque 56
On the subject of the Icelandic cultural capital in Saxo, see Gottskálk Jensson: Thylensium thesauri: Den islandske kulturkapital i Gesta Danorum og Heimskringla (2009).
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terrarum Oceanum nauigandum, solem postponendum ac sydera, sub Chao peregrinandum ac demum in loca lucis expertia iugibusque tenebris obnoxia transeundum expertorum assertione constabat” (but the journey there was full of dangers and nearly impossible to complete for mortals. For one may understand from the assertions of experts that it was so that one had to cross the Earth’s Ocean, leave the sun and the stars behind and journey through the Abyss in order to reach the lands of no light [Saxo 2005 I, VIII 14,1]). The dark and misty city that Thorkillus and his men reach by undertaking this journey is a similar kind of Hell as the one that is described in Visio Tnugdali where, as Mats Malm has pointed out, Roman mythology plays an integrated part in the scenery. Volcanus has been transposed there to function as a tormentor of souls (Malm 1992, 163). The misty city is guarded by fierce dogs (“Eximię ferocitatis canes” [Saxo 2005 I, VIII 14,12]), which Thorkillus manages to calm by giving them a horn with fat on it to lick. Both the vision of Cerberus and the bloody Hel-hound of Baldrs draumar 3 seem appropriate analogues to this scene, and as Skovgaard-Petersen remarks, the obvious analogy to the impaled Geruthus—who Thorkillus says was punished by the mighty Þórr (Saxo 2005 I, VIII 14,15)—is Prometheus, who was punished by Zeus-Jupiter (Skovgaard-Petersen 1987, 189). The dilapidated stone house in which Thorkillus and Gormus find Geruthus when they venture further into the misty city, is ripe with pagan symbolism. Here sits the ghoulish retinue of bloodless shadows on iron benches, railed with lead gratings, and the roof of the house is made of spears and arrows (Saxo 2005 I, VIII 14,14). This echoes the arrangement of Óðinn’s hall in Grímnismál 9: “sk ptom er ran rept, ski ldom er salr þakiðr, bryniom um bekki strát” (spear-shafts as rafters, the hall thatched with shields, mail-coats strewn on the benches [Grm. λ]). Saxo’s description of Geruthus’s hall is obviously designed to remind the reader of Óðinn’s hall. This is seen elsewhere in his Gesta Danorumμ in the story of Haddingus’s trip to the underworld, the einherjar appear, not as Óðinn’s merry warriors who eat and drink in the festive Valh ll, as it is told in Gylfaginning (Gylf. XXXVIII–XLI), but as tormented souls of warriors who are doomed to an eternity of acting out the fights they engaged in, when they were alive (Saxo 2005 I, I 8,14). This mirrors the changed attitude in the royal family of Denmark: as noted above, Saxo explains that Gormus is more interested in the study of the natural wonders of the world than he is interested in warfare and the glory of battle (cf. lib. VIII 14,1). What Haddingus saw on his short trip to the underworld was a pagan afterlife teeming with energy, but Gormus sees inactive and bloodless (“exanguia”) monsters confined to the aging, dirty abode of a punished ruler (lib. VIII 14,14). This narrative is a robust critique of paganism based on the same tenets as Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki—and thus ultimately to Þórr’s Fishing Expedition. The comparable motifs are identifiable from the beginning.
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After having reinforced the ships with ox-hides, the three hundred man expedition sets off and journeys as far as Halogia, but when they have passed Halogia they lose the good winds and are cast about in the sea with no bearing. Soon their supplies run out and they begin to starve (lib. VIII 14,3). δuckily they spot a lone island populated only with cattle and the sailors, ignoring Thorkillus’s warnings against taking too much, start gorging on the animals (cap. 14,4). At night the sailors are attacked by howling monsters led by a giant with a club: Nocte insequenti monstra littori inuolantia ac toto concrepantia nemore conclusas obsedere puppes. Quorom unum cęteris grandius ingenti fuste armatum profundum passibus emetiebatur. Idem propius admotum uociferari coepit non ante enauigaturos, quam fusi gregis iniuiriam expiando uiris pro nauium numero traditis diuini pecoris damna pensassent. (In the following night the beach swarmed with monsters, their howls resounded in the forest, and they surrounded the ships. One of them, who was larger than the others and armed with a club, stomped with big steps into the sea. It came all the way out to them and roared that they would not be allowed to leave until they had paid for the animals that they had killed and delivered one man for each ship in exchange for the holy cattle [cap. 14,5]). This situation of extortion bears some similarities to the preceding cases that have been examined so far: oxen are slaughtered or killed in a context, or for the purpose, of seafaring; there is a sense of excessiveness combined with the killing of the oxen; starvation at sea is retained as a theme; human sacrifices for a favorable wind are preserved as part of a causal complexμ “Quo facto optato uento excepti” (As soon as this was done they gained the wind they needed [cap. 14,6]). The passage concerning the slaughtered cattle shares with Hymiskviða and Gylfaginning the problematization of excess, but it does not use the theme in the same way. Where Hymiskviða seems to point to a genuine Scandinavian tradition of weighing expenses against gains in the context of collecting food at sea, and Gylfaginning seems to use the motif to display Þórr as an irrational and brash character who is seeking conflicts with forces that are too great for him, Saxo uses this motif to moralize and ultimately assert that the mortal sins of greed and human sacrifice were at the heart of the pagan religion. This is developed even further in the following visit at Guthmundus’s house, where Saxo articulates this moralizing as some of the Danes fall for the vices offered by Guthmundusμ “Qui si mores suos intra debitos temperantię fines continuissent, Herculeos ęquassent titulos, giganteam animo fortitudinem superassent perenniterque patrię mirificarum rerum insignes extitissent auctores” (If they had restrained themselves to the limits of moderation they would have been able to match Hercules in fame, conquered the might and courage of the giants, and forever been great men who did the most wondrous deeds for the patria [cap. 14,10]). A part of Saxo’s purpose of telling this tale is to demonstrate Christian moral philosophy (Malm 1992, 165), and in particular to show how paganism
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deviates greatly from these virtues. As a result, his narrative addresses the subject of trading food and sacrifices with the pagan gods in the same way as the story of Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki in Gylfaginning. Although the Gylfaginning narrative is much more ironic and much more subtle in its display of divine extortion, it expresses the same notion of having to trade the people in your care for food when dealing with pagan gods, regardless of whether they be irrational sorcerers battling the wind and sea, or howling giants in the far North. At the heart of this is the same sentiment that is expressed in Guta saga: the pagan practice of giving sacrifices to the gods in turn for prosperity, known by the formula “at blóta til árs ok friðr” (to sacrifice for good year and peace [cf. Ström 1λ67, 81–2]), is based on the mortal sins of greed and gluttony, and to nurture this condition, pagans are willing to sacrifice those who are in their care. In Gylfaginning and Guta saga it is the children of the humans, in the case of Thorkillus it is the men of his ships. In this way, the Thorkillus Journeys join the other sources which represent Þórr as having close relations with the sea: a theme of each one of them is sacrificial ritual either for good weather for passage or for food at sea. On different levels and in different capacities, the sources display common elements throughout. These elements are: (1) Þórr controls sea passage; (2) Þórr controls food and drink at sea; (3) the protagonist has a Þórr-name (a Þórsmaðr); (4) the protagonist is Þórr; (5) Þórr crosses or sails on the ocean; (6) rituals for passage, food or drink are conducted, mentioned, or implied; (7) the protagonist is subjected to trials; (8) there is a complex related to the lack of food, which is beyond the control of Þórr or a protagonist with a Þórr-name; (9) the story is biased towards Christianity; (10) Þórr fails as a god. The themes combine in the following manner:
Figure 10: The motif of the Fishing Myth 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 Gesta Nor. x x Helgi inn magri x x Þórólfr Mostrar. x x x Kráku-Hreiðarr x x Kollr x x Eiriks s. x x x x Flóamanna. s. x x x x x x1 Saxo 1* x x x x Saxo 2* x x x x Hkv. x x x x3 x Gylf. 1* x x x x x Gylf. 2* x x x x3 x *Saxo 1 = Thorkillus’s Journey to Geruthus; *Saxo 2 = Thorkillus Journey to Ugarthilocus; *Gylf. 1 = Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki; *Gylf. 2 = Þórr’s Fishing Expedition.
9 x
10
x x x x x
x x x2
x x
x x
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The protagonist with a Þórr-name suffers from lack of food, but it is the god Þórr who denies him the food, because Þórr is an anti-Christian antagonist. 2 Þórr does not exactly fail as a god, but due to his quality as antagonist (cf. note 3) he denies the protagonist that which he would otherwise provide: food and guidance at sea. 3 Þórr rips the head off the ox. Furthermore, it should not be denied that the myth of the god fishing for the sea creature conceptually corresponds to acts of ritual and prayer to said god for food and nutrition of the sea. 1
In this chart it can be observed that of the twelve individual narratives belonging to the complex of sources indicating a relationship between Þórr and the sea, every one of them displays a theme of rituals for food or sea passage. Gesta Normannorum is the oldest account and, as related above, it indicates that humans were sacrificed to Þórr for sea passage. The cases of Landnámabók indicate that Þórr protects at sea (Helgi) and guides at sea (Þórólfr and Kráku-Hreiðarr), except for the youngest example, which is biased towards a Christian interpretation and thus deconstructs Þórr’s ability to guide at sea (Kollr). Like the Hauksbók case of Kollr versus Ørlyggr, the two incidents in the saga literature are favorable towards a Christian representational mode. Flóamanna saga reflects Þórr’s abilities as a controller of seafaring and fishing, but conversely represents him as a demonic figure. Eiríks saga rauða, on the other hand, takes the middle ground by acknowledging Þórr’s abilities to provide food, but then it shows that his food is not good enough. As mentioned above, Eiríks saga rauða also displays an embedded structure of equating paganism with wilderness in contrast to a Christianity equated with civilization, which seems to be modeled in concert with the myths of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition. The most basic statement of the two saga accounts and the case of Kollr is that Þórr fails as a god (10), and he is thus not a god, he is either superstition or a demon. This is contrasted in the cases of Þórólfr and Kráku-Hreiðarr, where Þórr’s status as a pre-Christian god seems unproblematic. Dudo’s account is obviously biased towards a Christian representational mode that displays the pagan Vikings as savages with bloody rituals, but he does not take part in the same polemic discourse as Flóamanna saga, Eiríks saga rauða, and Hauksbók. Presumably this is because he is not invested in rejecting a pagan past that belongs to his ancestors in the same way as the Icelanders. Based on this overview it seems possible to detect a development in the source material, which begins with an early association of Þórr with seafaring and navigation at sea (Dudo, Þórólfr, KrákuHreiðarr) that is in some capacity consistent with the picture-stones of the Viking Age. As a result of Christianization in the North, this association is deconstructed in narratives polemics against paganism (Kollr, Flóamanna saga, Eiríks saga rauða). Saxo’s Thorkillus Journeys take their place among these polemics in an effort to rationalize the existence of paganism in a Christian world order. With the Journey to Útgarðaloki and its version of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, the tradition in
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Gylfaginning does the same. In addition, it seems that the tale of Útgarðaloki only relies on references that are available in the other sources. Saxo’s narrative can only be devised if there is a preexisting conception of the seafaring Þórr (picture-stones and Hymiskviða) and journeying Vikings associated with Þórr (Þórólfr, Þórhallr, Þorfinn, Þorgils, Eiríkr), who are led to new discoveries in the North Atlantics (Þórólfr, Þorfinn/Þórhallr, Eiríkr) and are saved from hardship at sea by Þórr. This last subject is addressed in the critique of rituals and sacrifices in relation to Þórr as a god, and it is displayed in the structural parallel of the killing of oxen, cattle, and goats:. This is a recurring theme: (1) Dudo associates ox yokes with human sacrifices to Þórr; (2) in Hymiskviða Þórr kills (sacrifices) Hymir’s ox and there is a vague reference to the ‘goat sacrifice’; (3) when Þórr and Loki journey to Útgarðaloki, the story begins with the goat/child sacrifice; (4) in the version of the Fishing Expedition in Gylfaginning, Þórr rips the head off Hymir’s ox; (5) Thorkillus and his men slaughter cattle, sacrifice some men to the monsters and gain favorable wind, and; (6) Thorkillus and his men oversee the goat ritual in Geruthus’s houseμ “Quorom alii consertis fustibus obstrepentes, alii mutua caprigeni tergoris agitatione deformem edidere lusum (Some of them were rattling bundles of sticks, others were playing a hideous game where they were throwing a goat-skin between each other [Saxo 2005 I, VIII 14,14]). The allocation of the goat sacrifice to Geruthus’s house seems to be part of Saxo’s agenda to represent the old unity of kingship, warrior customs, and paganism as obsolete. The goat-skin seems reminiscent of the same ritual situation that is expressed in the Journey to Útgarðaloki, and the rattling bundles of sticks may perhaps be meaningfully interpreted as a variant of the hlautteinar “þat var svá g rt sem st kklar” (that were made as bundles of twigs [Heimskr. 1979 I: Hákonar saga góða, XIV]) and which seem to have been part of the common, normative description of rituals in Old Norse literature (cf. Hultgård 1993). This reference to the hlautteinar also occurs in Eyrbyggja saga in connection with the temple that Þórólfr Mostrarskegg erects after having taken land with the help of Þórr (Eyrb. 1935, IV). Indeed all the signifiers of typical Viking kingship are there in Geruthus’s neglected house, and the situation where some of the men, including Thorkillus, succumb to their greed underscores this association with kingship by lining up the ornate buffalo horn, the heavy, golden arm-ring, and a tusk from an unknown animal (Saxo 2005 I, VIII 14,16). Coincidentally, at least two of these items have metonymic affinity to the εiðgarðsormr if juxtaposed with the selected trials for Þórr in Útgarðaloki’s
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hall: the horn refers to the sea and the vítishorn, and the golden arm-ring metonymically refers to J rmungandr as the world’s circumscriber insofar as the importance of the snake to kennings for gold is commonly understood (cf. Meissner 1921, 112–16). As such, this narrative forebodes the end of the Viking Era, the end of paganism, and the coming of Christianity. But that is not all. This foreboding is represented as a physical journey through the northern seas, which results in the alteration of the mental state of the head of Denmark and thus the country itself. While Gormus is curious about the world, and unlike his forefathers is not a petty warlord, he has still much to learn. This is demonstrated in the second journey that Thorkillus undertakes, this time without the king. THE FISHING EXPEDITI ON: FROM STOMACH TO SOUL
In the analysis of complex of the Fishing Expedition and its related narratives, we have seen how the subject of hunger and food is a reccurring theme. The picture-stones undoubtedly relay a tale of two men fishing—there can be no question of that, though other aspects and connotations may be discussed. Similarly, the saga reconfigurations of the Fishing Expedition consistantly stress the subject of food or hunger, with the only deviation being the cases in Landnámabók that focus on the journey to Iceland—and this is no wonder considering that it is the primary theme of the book. The theme of food is also a very strong undercurrent in Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki, where it is combined with a comment on human sacrifice and the sharing of food as it is known from other Nordic traditions, including Saxo and Guta saga. In Saxo this theme is given extra attention and concern, as it is first set up similarly to—although in a much more transparent demonological context than—the case of the peasant and Þórr in Gylfaginning. Here, it is stressed that it is greed, the excessive expenditure of meat, which is the cause of human grief and the ‘pagan monsters’ coming to claim victims. Saxo plays on this theme once more in the hall of Guthmundus, where food and drink (and women)—whatever appeals to the nether regions of the human body—are the causes of the madness that is paganism, and which will condemn the soul. This is the basic materialism that is mentioned as the original cause of paganism in Prologus to Edda (Prol. I). The interest taken in worldly matters such as food and riches is described as the direct cause of why mankind lost faith and obedience to Godμ “þá var þat allr fj lði mannfólksins er elskaði ágirni fjár ok metnaðar en afrœktusk guðs hlýðni” (then it turned out the way that all the kinds of Man who cultivated prosperity and fame neglected obedience to God [Prol. I]). In the same manner, it is argued that it was the contemplation of the world’s natural wonders that caused the early pagans to deduce wrongly that the earth was similar to a human being and therefore a god (Prol. I–II). We will return to this below, but in this context it is worthy to note the direct similarity between the causes for paganism that are described
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in the Prologus to Edda, and the interests and behavioral patterns of the pagans in Saxo’s narrative. The worst kinds of pagans are the ones who only think with their stomach, while the more acceptable, yet still damnable, pagans are the ones like Gormus, who cannot see the world’s true existence, but wonder about its mirabilia—the noble heathens (Lönnroth 1969). In this manner, there is a development in the narrative from the desires of the stomach to the desires of the soul. Gormus sees the calamities that gluttony, vanity, and pride cause and steers clear of them, but he is still curious about the world and oblivious to the threats of having condemned his soul. As Gormus escapes the chaos of the north and is cast adrift on the ocean once more, he prays to Ugarthilocus for favorable winds. The prayer is successful, and Gormus and Thorkillus come safely back to Denmark (Saxo 2005 I, VIII 14,20). When Gormus has grown old, some men “cum probabilibus quorundam argumentis” (with some plausible arguments [lib. VIII 15,1]) succeed in persuading him that the soul is eternal and will never perish. This makes him wonder if this Ugarthilocus can help him, presumably by saving his soul in the same manner as Christ, and thus Thorkillus is sent on a mission to find Ugarthilocus. Although the tale of Thorkillus’s Journey to Ugarthilocus is much shorter than the tale of his Journey to Geruthus, it is a repetition of the same story pattern. Thorkillus journeys out to sea and gets lost in the northern ocean. He and his men suffer from eating raw food because they have no fire. While on their previous journey they only suffered from hunger, this time their ailments are described as a sickness of the stomach that spreads to the vital parts of the bodyμ “Primum enim paulatim stomachis inusitato partus edulio languor irrepsit, deinde latius manante contagio uitalia morbus appetiit” (The unfamiliar food slowly caused discomfort in the stomach, but soon it spread until the illness reached the vital parts [cap. 15,3]). Eventually they reach an island on which Thorkillus sees an inhabited cave. He spots it because they have fire within. Inside the cave he meets “dous eximię granditatis aquilos” (two colossally giant eagles [cap. 15,4]).57 After answering some riddles he is supplied with both fire and directions to Ugarthilocus’s cave, and he is on his way. In Ugarthilocus’s filthy cave Thorkillus finds Ugarthilocus in a disgusting, unwashed state, with coarse hair, chained to a rock. Thorkillus pulls one hair out from the god’s face and they leave as they get attacked from all sides by venomous snakes in the pit. On their way back, they are once more adrift at sea and they pray to different gods. When Thorkillus prays to “uniuersitatis deum” (the god of the universe [cap. 15,10]), they see light and come back to the world—to Germany, that is. Here, Thorkillus converts to Christianity and sets off on his journey back to Gormus. When he comes back, Gormus suspects that Thorkillus has bad news, so he tries to have him assassinated. Thorkillus averts this attempt on his
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One recognizes in the catalogue of monsters in the Thorkillus Journeys, the protective vættir of Iceland: the giant with the club; the cattle; the eagles and the dragons (these follow Thorkillus and his crew on their way home).
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life, and confronts Gormus. When Thorkillus reveals the hideousness of Ugarthilocus to Gormus, the king dies of grief (cap. 15,13). Thus the king receives his due pay for his cowardice and paganism. Saxo’s narrative plays on the subject of hunger at sea. In this version there is little to connect the tale with Þórr’s Fishing Expedition except for the underlying theme of sea journey and hunger, but there is another Old Norse myth that is active in this complex, and it also relates to the subjects of food, hunger, and the sea: the myth of Þjazi’s Theft of Iðunn. We recall in the beginning of Skáldskaparmál that Óðinn, Hœnir, and δoki are out exploring the world, crossing both fjall and eyðimǫrk (mountains and wastelands [Skáld. GLVI]). As they become hungry on their journey, they encounter a herd of oxen in a valley, and they try to cook one of them. This, however, does not succeed, and as they ponder why, an eagle in the oak tree above them declares that he is using his magic to prevent the ox from cooking. By making a deal with the eagle, agreeing that he can have the first share, they manage to cook the ox. But then it happens that the eagle snatches the best, most meaty parts, and Loki gets angry. As Loki beats the eagle with a stick, the stick becomes attached to the eagle and the bird flies off with him. The eagle extorts Loki and makes him help steal Iðunn and her apples. Once he does so, the æsir realize that they are growing old and need Iðunn and her appels to ward off old age. In other words: it is the apples that keep the gods alive. The subject is again a matter of food. Like the eagle-giants in Saxo’s narrative, Þjazi is the key to solving a food crisis. And like Þórr, Skrýmir, and Útgarðaloki in the tales of the Journey to Útgarðaloki, as well as to Guthmundus and the monsters on the island with cattle in Thorkillus’s first journey, he is a tricky bedfellow in that respect: he demands more than a fair share for letting the humans or protagonists eat. Þjazi snatches “the child, the life source” (de Vries 1λ61, 283), Iðunn, from the æsir. This is comparable to the child-snatching of Þórr, the loss of the sailors in Thorkillus’s care, and the combination of feasting and child sacrifice in Guta Saga. As has been established, this is a commentary on paganism, but in being just that, it is an interesting construction, seeing as the main analogy is that physical hunger and disease of the stomach is comparable to the spiritual hunger that causes Thorkillus to convert. It is from eating raw meat that Thorkillus and his crew fall ill and search for fire. As such, they have the same realization as Þorfinn karlsefni and his Christian colonizers in Vínland: the primitive (pagan) life is not for them. Fire is a building block of civilization. The eagle-giants supply Thorkillus with the fire he needs for his journey, and we must ask ourselves why Saxo associates these creatures with eagles. The reasonable answer to this is the association with the eagle Þjazi. As Thorkillus journeys north to find the eagles, so does Loki fly “norðr í J tunheima” (north into the J tunheimar [Skáld. GLVI]), when he is sent to retrieve Iðunn from Þjazi. Although his daughter Skaði hates the sea (Gylf. XXII), Þjazi seems to be associated with the sea, or at least the northern wind coming from across the sea. Þjazi is out sailing when Loki arrives
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in Þrymheimr, and when he sees δoki flying away with Iðunn, it is said that he “dró arnsúg í flugnum” (dragged a storm-wind as he took off [Skáld. GLVI]). The term arnsúg literally translates to ‘eaglesuck’ and it is comparable to Hræsvelgr at the end of the world, who, like Boreas, sits there “í arnar ham; af hans vængiom qveða vind koma alla men yfir” (in the shape of an eagle; from his wings, it is said, come all the winds that blow over men [Vfm. 37]). We are able to spot in this complex an intricate web of intertwined elements that align towards a certain idea: the northern wind is treacherous and threatens food supplies and the continuation of life.58 This is fully -realized in the Þjazi narrative, but it is virtually impossible to deduce if the other narratives are not brought in for comparison. The revelatory narrative of Thorkillus’s Journey to Ugarthilocus is naturally not as focused on this aspect of being safe from weather conditions as much as on the issue of Christianity. In that respect, it is peculiar that Saxo deconstructs the central pagan myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition along with several other known mythic narratives in order to create a tale where an Icelander brings Christianity to Denmark, and—in a manner comparable to the reappearance of the world after Ragnar k in Vǫluspá 5959—a new world emerges out of the sea before the eyes of the journeying pagansμ “Iamque alium sibi orbem atque ipsum rerum humanarum aditum perspicere uidebantur” (And it was as if they were looking into another world, and saw the entry to the land of Man itself [Saxo 2005 I, VIII 15,10]). After having seen this and come to Germany, Thorkillus undergoes a transformative scene where all the dirt from the otherworld is washed off him, and he is as such reborn. This realization of new land and the rebirth that comes after having been tossed around in the stormy sea of the North Atlantic, is in no way coincidental. It is the result of experience. It is the result of new discoveries in the North Atlantic, made by generations upon generations of Scandinavians traversing the waves for fame and fortune. The fact that Thorkillus undergoes his cognitive transformation at sea, which prepares him to convert and ‘take new land,’ is based on the same revelation and experiential frame that is contained in the landnám. The landnám was, with its new discoveries of islands in the North, a mind-expanding experience to the Scandinavian cultures. It brought with it new realizations about the world. It is for the same reason that it is an Icelander that introduces proper Christianity to the Danish court. As an inhabitant of the newly discovered northern region, his mind is the most receptive to change. With this development in Saxo’s narrative, the myth has progressed from cares of the stomach to cares of the soul. Where the Fishing Expedition originally was a myth of seafaring and food 58
This also indicates a certain relationship of Þórr to Hræsvelgr as two cosmic forces, who creates two types of winds. Þórr guards against the dangerous northern wind. 59 A notable feature of this stanza is the eagle that hunts fish from the mountain. It does not seem to be a coincidence considering the role that Vǫluspá seems to have had in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. As Stefanie Würth points out in her article The Role of V luspá in the Perception of Ragnar k (2003), it seems to be purely a political statement (2003, 230).
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collection at sea, it has been reformulated and recast as a foundation myth of conversion to Christianity—a myth that reinterprets the physical journey over the northern sea as a spiritual journey with the same terms as a vision journey; and it reinterprets the hunger and the subject of food as a spiritual hunger that will lead to its fulfillment in the conversion. In the images of Thorkillus meeting the eagle-giants, it even reappropriates the eagle of the northern wind as a force to be negotiated with, only in this respect on the terms of riddles in the dark.
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CHAPTER CONCLUSION: THE FISHING MYTH AS AN ECO-MYTH The myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition is originally an eco-myth about the economics of catching food at sea. It is the most widespread myth in early Scandinavia and the Viking diaspora, with several sources to account for it. The picture-stones indicate its relevance in a very wide cultural context, from England to Sweden, and given the subject of the myth, it is perhaps no coincidence that these depictions are all located close to the sea. As society, mythopoesis, and literature developed in Scandinavia, the Fishing Myth took on new forms. With around 126,000 kilometers of Scandinavian coastline and thousands of islands in the Baltic Sea and the North Atlantic Ocean, the sea was a constant force to be reckoned with for the Vikings and early medieval Scandinavians. As such, the ocean is continuously a factor in the cultural narratives of these peoples, and the Fishing Myth is a primary example of that. It is a myth that has been formulated in direct response to the ecosystem and the disposition of the surrounding natural environment. As a core foundation myth of the sea in early Scandinavian culture, the Fishing Myth undergoes great evaluations evolutions and changes, but it retains its cultural prominence, it seems, throughout the ages.60 THE EARLY ASPECTS OF THE FISHING MYTH
It seems that in its earliest form, the Fishing Myth was formulated as an eco-myth about negotiating the sea when fishing and seafaring. Where the picture-stones clearly indicate a focus on the activity of fishing, Hymiskviða and Gylfaginning both address issues that are useful in relation to venturing out at sea and collecting food. The eddic sources indicate that part of the tradition of the Fishing Myth associated excessive baiting with foolishness, and advocated a proportionate dispensation of caution and daring to one another in relation to choices of fishing grounds and when to go to sea. This tradition places Þórr in the leading role as the fishing god and assigns him the office of providing food in context of fishing as well as controlling the favorable winds. This is essentially congruent with the tradition that is known from Adam of Bremen’s account of the temple in Uppsala. Here, it is said that Þórrμ “praesidet in aere, qui tonitrus et fulmina, ventos ymbresque, serena et fruges gubernat” (presides over the air, the thunder and lightning, the winds and rains, fair weather and crops [Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum 1917, XXVI]). It is likely that with expanded activity at sea, Þórr’s government over the winds and the sky, as well as his control over the crops is directly transposed upon the sea, too. It is for the same reason that he is the primary protagonist in the search It is noteworthy that the late Danish ballad derived from a version of Þórr’s search for the hammer as it is known in Þrymskviða, is entitled Thord aff Havsgaard (cf. DgF 1966 I, 3—7) and thus retains the memory of the Þórr character’s connection to the sea.
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for Loki, which describes directly applicable methods for fishing in rivers and catching salmon. As Þórr is placed in this mythic situation, he is effectively assigned control over the sea. However, the tradition recognizes the anthropomorphic character of the god, associating him closely with humans as “verjandi εiðgarðs” ([guardian of εiðgarðr] Skáld. IV), not as an element or natural phenomenon, and for that reason his offices are shared with J rmungandr as the spirit of the sea, and Hræsvelgr/Þjazi as the spirit of the northern wind. Considering that Þórr in later sources is euhemerized to the extent that he functions as the human protagonist of several tales, it is perhaps not too far of a leap to say that in his early form in these myths, he is the spirit of man who confronts the spirits of the sea and the northern wind. When the ships set their sails towards the new lands in the North, it was once again the tale of the human god’s—Þórr’s—encounter with the raging sea of the North Atlantic that was used to express conceptions, details, and routes to the distance destinations. The skalds carried the memory of man’s encounter with the waves, and of the unforgiving sea reaching out for the sailor, who fearlessly stared back at it, defying its might. The tales of the landnám also kept the memory of Þórr’s guidance of the early settlers, making him the primary god of Landnámabók, indeed of Iceland. In fact, the narrative of the sea journey and Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, “umgjorð allra landa,” as a memory narrative was so useful that the first stories of the Vínland journeys used its parameters to carry knowledge of how to reach the far lands in the west. It became in every sense of the term a foundation myth. This is an early eco-myth of Scandinavia, where the cultural significance of the sea is fully formulated. The sea represents a massive force, both as a natural phenomenon and as a concept in the life of the Scandinavians. It provides food, goods, bounties, and riches, but it takes lives, and brings storms and enemies. When the sea is mild and generous, it is beloved and wondrous, but when it is stormy and steals from you, either goods or families and friends, it is a strong force to be reckoned with. This is fully expressed in a Scandinavian context in the stanzas of Haddingus and his wife in Gesta Danorum. First Haddingus praises the sea and the life as a Vikingμ “Officiunt scopuli rigentes difficilisque situs locorum mentibus ęquor amare suetis. Nam freta remigiis probare officii potioris esset, mercibus ac spoliis ouare, aera aliena sequi locello, aequoreis inhiare lucris quam salebras nemorumque flexus et steriles habitare saltus” (Steep and defiant rocky terrains, wild, trackless places deter everyone who loves the great seas. Indeed, to scour the ocean’s bays, rejoice in joy over stolen goods, to fill the coffers with someone else’s money, to gaze covetously at the spoils of the sea; that would be a more precious achievement than to live in these sinister woods, to live in these desolate and barren lands [Saxo 2005 I, I 8,18]). Then his wife comments with the exact opposite evaluation of the seaμ “Hinc sonorus ęstuosę motionis impetus ex ocello dormientis mite demit ocium, nec sinit
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pausare noctu mergus alte garrulus auribus fastidiosa delicatis inserens, nec uolentem decubare recreari sustinet tristiore flexione dira uocis obstrepens” (The resounding roar of the wave and the clashing combers rip the sleeping one from his sleep, permits him no rest. The gull cries loudly all night, allows no peace and calm, it fills my sensitive ears with ghastly noise, gives me no rest even though I long for sleep, because its cries bring dark omens with its horrid voice [cap. 8,19]). If these two very different statements are taken to be expressions of a broader Scandinavian discourse on conceptions relating to the sea in the same manner as the Fishing Myth, they could be said to convey a cultural message that sets certain parameters for how the sea is perceived. Haddingus attributes positive notions to the pirate life of a Viking at sea, and he expresses outright love for the ocean as an environment of great opportunity. In contrast, he sees the land with its mountains and forests as desolate and barren. His wife opposes this view, finding the sea disturbing to the sedentary life. The waves and the movements of the sea keep agriculturalists like herself alert and make them uneasy. The gull, the representative of the life at sea, screaks in a manner that is foreboding to her: it heralds the coming of war, Vikings, storms, famine, and similar calamities. We recognize in this exchange the same narrative as that of Gylfaginning XXIII, where the failed marriage of Nj rðr and Skaði is decribed (Dumézil 1970, 20–2). Nj rðr rules over Nóatún, the “ship-enclosure” (p. 21), and Skaði is consecutively associated with the high mountains and activities there, another name for her being
ndurdís (ski-goddess [Hál. 4]). Nj rðr loves the sea and Skaði the mountains, and they
eventually decide to live apart, because as much as they love their own home, they hate its opposite. But where Haddingus is a king and Nj rðr is known as “manna þengill,” who rules over “hátimbroðom h rgi” (prince of men; high-timbered sanctuaries [Grm. 16]), the institutions of society itself, the lands that Skaði and Haddingus’s wife praise are characterized as the habitat of wolves and ferocious animals of prey (Saxo 2005 I, I 8,18; Gylf. XXII).61 Haddingus is in Saxo’s view a real Viking warrior, but glorious as he may be, he is condemnable as a pagan. The life of the Viking solely in search of material wealth will eventually lock him in an eternal battle in the underworld, and he will not receive salvation. This is the lesson that is drawn from Haddingus’s trip to the underworld and Thorkillus’s Journey to Geruthus. As Haddingus is to Saxo the epitome of a Viking warrior king—one like those whom Gormus is so different from—he represents everything that belongs to the pre-Christian worldview. We may therefore understand that according to Saxo—and, I would argue, the narrative tradition as a whole—the pre-Christian worldview of Scandinavia recognizes the sea as the most important space in the realm of the world. It is the sea that is the source of food, wealth, and power. This is contained in the narrative of the Fishing Myth and it is directly expressed
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One also easily recognizes the dichotomy of male/female and associated values in this. The male is associated with society and riches, the female with the wilderness and fear.
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by the male proponent of Viking society, Haddingus, and the proponent of religion, Nj rðr, the lord of the temples. As such the Fishing Myth is in its core also a foundation narrative for Scandinavian society. LATER DEVELOPMENTS IN THE FISHING MYTH
We have traced the development from this pragmatic view of the sea as a source of food and the primary space for journeys to the conceptual embodiment of societal foundations themselves. We have also seen how these conceptions are expanded with new meaning in highly Christianized narratives. The journey to Vínland imposes the diametrically opposite dichotomy, associating the untamed, wild and pagan with the fisherman, and the civilized order with the pastoralist and agriculturalist, even though it makes use of the same motif and structure as the Fishing Myth. This tale, along with the tale of Ørlýgr Hrappson and Kollr in Landnámabók, is an example of the need in the post-conversion era to deconstruct the association of Þórr, the Fishing Myth, and civilization itself, with the sea. The conceptual status of the sea in the pre-Christian worldview is a problem, because it is undeniable that the society of the early medieval period in Scandinavia functions largely on the same terms, and therefore, the sea as part of the ecosystem occupies the same conceptual position in this worldview. Regardless of social change and upheaval, the daily needs that are supported by fishing activities will still be relevant. For this reason, the tales of Þórr’s encounter with the Miðgarðsormr, or sea-spirit, are reconfigured and reconstructed. Similarly, the god who would originally have been assigned the function of guide and savior at sea is now assigned the role of a vicious demon that persecutes sailors who reject him. The tales of Þórr and his function as a protector and provider at sea did not die out with the coming of Christianity (cf. the case of Helgi inn magri), undoubtedly because of the continued importance of the sea to the culture, and thus it seems at some point that it became necessary to deconstruct and appropriate the myths into a Christianized context. Gylfaginning ridicules Þórr for his inability to complete the tests of Útgarðaloki—tests which should have been transparent to him if he were able to see the true nature of the world and not just its material appearance. Saxo, however, is more shrewd in his development of the narrative. Where Gylfaginning only allots the ocean a minor narrative role, as an undercurrent of signifiers referring to the Fishing Myth, Saxo exploits the cultural role and ideological potential of the sea and cunningly attributes to it a new dimension. Þórr is no longer the demon that harasses sailors at sea in a crude reversal of his original role, but neither is he the foolish man who believes himself to be a god and is tricked by the mirages of an otherworldly
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being. For Saxo, Þórr is again the positive protagonist, and his exploits at sea bring Christianity to Scandinavia. The sea is thus transformed from the conceptual root of societies, wealth, and power in the Viking Age to a space of discovery and recognition—the road to insight. Saxo introduces Christianity in Scandinavia by way of the sea—a journey that transforms the parameters of the ancient Fishing Myth to aspects of spiritual longing, with the Icelandic Þórr hypostasis, Thorkillus. He skillfully associates the physical hunger of the sailors with the spiritual hunger of the nation of Denmark, and essentially presents the same argument or precaution that the early Fishing Myth did, recast in spiritual terms: moderation is the best virtue. While Hymiskviða and Gylfaginning assert that moderation is useful to the fisherman because it can mean the difference between life and death, Saxo argues that moderation in life is the one virtue that is needed to fill the spiritual void of pagan materialism. In doing so, the sea that binds Scandinavian culture together is equated with the social space in which a journey towards revelation can—and must—be undertaken. This association only becomes possible if the eco-myth of the sea already contains the building blocks of themes such as hunger, death, caution, discovery, and new realizations. The first three of these themes are present from the beginning. The themes of discovery and new realizations are supported by the gradual movement of the Scandinavians towards the West, especially in context of the settlement of Iceland. It seems possible that early conversion narratives in Scandinavia—if Vǫluspá is counted among them—may have recognized the potential of the sea as conveyer of new social ideas and societal change, giving us the image of a new world emerging from the sea after Ragnar k. CONCLUDING REMARKS
It is the conclusion of this chapter that the dichotomized mythic landscape presented by Kirsten Hastrup in Island of Anthropology (1990, 29) is an insufficient model of the conceptual world of Old Norse mythology for any given point in time. It cannot be derived from the above analyses that peoples impressed by either the pre-Christian worldview or the post-conversion worldview were more or less inclined than the other to transpose upon their natural habitat a conceptual zoning based on a binary in-group–out–group dynamic. While there is an expression of the binary opposition land/sea, civilized/wild, it is not based on associating fixed phenomena with fixed zones. Rather, the system of associations is fluid and may be employed differently according to the needs of the narrative and the perspective of the culture. It is the conclusion here that the ecological significance of the sea is a constant factor in Old Norse–Scandinavian mythology and culture. It is not the Úthaf as much as it is a realm of resource appropriation, acquisition of wealth, and most importantly the foundation of
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society itself: without the ocean and its bounties, early Scandinavian culture would not have developed towards the Viking culture. This means that the sea should be understood more as a unifying force of the culture than only a distant space of danger and peril. The sea even represents a cognitive force that can alter human perception of the world in some of the Old Norse and Scandinavian narratives. The guiding light of a spiritual quest can be recovered in the farthest away place, among eagle-like monsters in a cave. In fact, the association of the eagles of the northern wind with the underground, which seems to have had wide currency (see below in chapter IV on Boreas Aquilo and earthquakes, page 167), indicates that even the vertical dichotomy in Hastrup’s model is inadequate as a description of the conceptual worldview of Old Norse mythology. This does not, however, mean that there are no polarizations or that a sharp division of protagonists and antagonists cannot be distinguished in Old Norse myths. On the contrary, the myths are full of such polarities. It just means that the division of Ásgarðr/εiðgarðr vs. J tunheimar/Útgarðar (p. 28) is a stale metaphor for a rigid notion of the worldview that is not applicable when the mythology is scrutinized in depth. In that respect it should also be kept in mind that the term Útgarðr/Útgarðar linguistically seems to be a late addition to the cosmology (Vikstrand 2006, 355). At this point it would be prudent to ask whether Nanna δøkka’s conclusion (2010, 248–9) is appropriate: that there is no dualism to be found in Old Norse mythology that is not a result of Christian influence. Løkka argues that the worldview of pre-Christian Norse mythology is based on monism. Her argument for a monistic worldview in relation to Old Norse mythology is based on the idea that everything is the result of fate, and that both j tnar and gods have their origins in Ymir (p. 260–2). For this same reason the gods are nothing more than the agents of fate. It seems, however, that this conclusion is based on a narrow interpretation of the eschatological system alone. We have seen above that an entirely different worldview appears once a myth of Old Norse mythology is removed from the eschatological and cosmological frame in which it is found in the medieval context, primarily of Gylfaginning, and associated instead with the immediate ecosystem of the cultural unit. This pragmatic view of the Fishing Myth as an eco-myth that takes its place in the Mythical Charter of Old Norse–Scandinavian Tradition in order to relate useful knowledge of daily existence in the North indicates a much wider perspective than the one applied by Løkka. In that light, it seems implausible that a monistic causal complex would be ingrained here in the pagan context. It seems more realistic to search for a monistic causal complex and an all-embracing fate in Saxo’s version of the Fishing Myth given that he is operating with a notion of a divine plan behind all the events described in his history of Denmark. In addition to that, it may be noted that in the day-to-day pragmatic application of the eco-myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition to Viking Scandinavian life and culture, very little seems to correspond to this sense of fatedness that Løkka describes. As a guide and
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provider of food at sea, it seems rather that Þórr assists Scandinavians in taking control over their existence and fortune. In fact, this seems to be exactly the sentiment ingrained in Haddingus’s praise for the sea. When fate does come into the picture in relation to the character of Haddingus, it is in the context of Saxo’s eschatology and the plight that this Christian cleric believed his Viking ancestors suffered in Hell. As such, it may be said that the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expidition and the catalogue of associated narratives and mythology, in their conceptualizations of life in the Scandinavian ecosystem, exceed the limitations set by fixed models and structures. This was a narrative that could be charged and recharged with mythic energy and interpretation throughout the Viking and Medieval Era, because of its profound relationship to the regional ecosystem. In the next chapter we will see how the Creation Myth and the myth of the Mead of Poetry have functioned in the same way, although much more closely in concert with the ecosystem of Iceland in particular. These myths have also undergone evolutions in mythopoesis that have been set in motion by human reflections upon the ecosystem, and in that way they have become key myths of the Mythical Charter of Tradition of Icelandic society, as mythical conceptions of the land in a region with highly active volcanoes.
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THE CREATION MYTH, THE MYTH OF THE MEAD OF POETRY, AND VOLCANISM
© Stefnisson 山は生 います 筆者はその本の序文に書い い 山はそれを見る角度 刻 あるいは見るものの心持 ひ らり その姿を変え しまうの す 従 に山の一部分 ほんのひ けらし 把握し はいないの いう認識を持 こ ましょう
季節 時 我々は常 肝要 あり
Mou tai s are li i g e tities , it said i the fore ord of the ook. Depe di g o the perspe ti e, the time of the year, the time of day, the mood of the beholder, or any other factor, mountains will actually change their appearance. It is therefore essential to understand that one can never know more than one side of a mountain, one tiny aspe t [Muraka i 4 II, 9]
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CHAPTER INTRODUCTION
In this chapter, we will address the subject of volcanism in Old Norse mythology as an integrated part of conceptualizations of land in the Icelandic and Norse Mythical Charter of Tradition. When searching for Old Norse conceptions of the land under the premises set by the method and perspective of eco-mythology, it can be difficult to locate narrative examples that are safely associated with a specific ecosystem, especially in the Old Norse myths. Without a specific point of focus, the discussion may quickly become generic rather than specific. If, for instance, one would discuss mountains in relation to land, it would be hard to distinguish between a Scandinavian and a North Atlantic landscape, and we would lose track of the specific evolution of the narratives. We would lose the cultural unit that consumes these texts and whose worldview we are examining. A solution that has often been imposed on this issue, though with little success, is to focus on where the myths in question come from: are they from Iceland? Are they Norwegian? Are they Germanic or IndoEuropean? Arguments for and against each position will draw forth aspects of language, places of text production, and features of the contents of the texts, such as catalogues of animals and trees. As we are discussing the evolution of these myths in relation to ecosystems as part of the general examination of the Old Norse mythical worldview, we should not seek to resolve these questions, but instead focus on where the myth places itself in a Mythical Charter of Tradition which extends over a long period of time. It is irrelevant to fix the myth in a national or regional perspective, but it is conducive to our discussion to associate it with landscapes, and in that respect there is one aspect of the Icelandic landscape that stands out from the rest of Northern Europe: its volcanoes. We will therefore treat the two cosmic myths of the Creation Myth and the myth of the Mead of Poetry in Skáldskaparmál in terms of how they are cultural narratives about volcanism and about existing as a society in an Icelandic landscape marked by extensive volcanic activity.
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THE RESEARCH BACKGRO UND OF EARLY ICELANDIC VOLCANISM IN MEDIEVAL LITERATURE
The subject of volcanism in relation to Old Norse mythology has not been fully investigated. It simmers as an undercurrent in different scholarship, but the full importance of volcanic imagery and motifs in the mythology has not yet been brought to the surface. Bertha Phillpotts (1905) was one of the first scholars to investigate the impact of volcanism on Old Norse mythology. She composed a nearly exhaustive interpretation of Surtr as a volcanic j tunn, one that is still accepted today (Simek 2007, 303–4). Sigurður Nordal (1927, 100–4), referring generally to Phillpotts, saw this interpretation as completely natural and added only a few details to it in his interpretation of Vǫluspá. Hilda R. E. Davidson added to this discussion the obvious points of reference to descriptions of actual Icelandic eruptions in the eldrit (1964, 208–9). She briefly compares the events of ragnarøkkr in Vǫluspá to the 1783 description of the Laki eruption, and notes how well the imagery of the poem fits with the features of this eruption. Since then very little has been added to the discussion of the imagery of Old Norse mythology in relation to Icelandic volcanism, except for Oren Falk’s comment in The Vanishing Volcanoes (2007) that the volcanic imagery in Vǫluspá and Bergbúa þáttr may “represent a naturalising, or even paganising” adaption of the obviously Christian moralistic conceptions of subterranean fires revealed in such authoritative works as Konungs Skuggsjá (Falk 2007, 9).62 In 2013, Heimir Pálsson wrote a short article on Surtr and Þórr’s role in the eruption of Hallmundarkviða called Surtur og Þór Hallmundarkviða túlkuð. This interpretation is closely linked with the presentation on Hallmundarkviða and Hallmundarhraun given by the geologist Árni Hjartarson at Hið íslenska náttúrufræðifélag on the 28th November 2011, which the author refers to in the article. Surtr is connected to the Eldgjá event in the Katla system in 934–8 and the poem Hallmundarkviða is associated with Hallmundarhraun in the bottom of Borgarfjörður. Lastly, it should be mentioned that Bo Gräslund and Neil Price in Twilight of the gods? (2012), provide an archaeological angle to ragnarøkkr, arguing for a Migration Age catastrophic event related to volcanism as a source for the concept of the Fimbulvetr. Very little written material comparable to the later eldrit survives from the medieval period. The eldrit, the first of which was written by Þorsteinn Magnússon in 1625 about the Katla eruption, are highly methodical reports that meticulously document the eruptive events (Þór Þórðarson 2010, 289). Their style seems to have prompted scientists in search of historical records of Icelandic volcanism to primarily search records with a seemingly comparable discourse for information about early Icelandic conceptions of volcanism, leaving the mythological sources unexplored. In Perception 62
As will become apparent below, this notion seems unacceptable in light of the prevalence of volcanic imagery in Old Norse mythology.
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of Volcanic Eruptions in Iceland (2010), the geologist Þór Þórðarson focuses on Landnámabók for one example of an eruption and on Kristni saga for another. According to him, the early Icelandic attitude to volcanism was “remarkably to the point and strictly a matter-of-fact” (Þór Þórðarson 2010, 288), and he believes this is evidenced in the Icelandic annals, where the minimalistic recording of events leaves little room for interpretation. Þór Þórðarson compares the Icelandic accounts with the account of Herbert the monk of the Clairvaux monastery, who is presumably writing about Icelandic volcanism in his Liber Miraculum in 1178–80 (ibid). Herbert’s account, he says, is “overpowered by the religious overtone and insinuations, whereas the Icelandic one is a “matter of fact” (p. 28λ). In the account of Kristni saga, Þór Þórðarson sees an expression of the supposed fact that “the pragmatic perception recurs consistently and prevails […] Even though the matter-of-fact perception revealed by written sources may be biased towards the official or authoritarian view, the connotation is that it is representative of the view held by the majority in Icelandic society” (p. 293). This is an unacceptable assertion. The account in Kristni saga of the formation of Kristnitökuhraun and Snorri goði’s dismissal of the pagans’ claim that the gods burned this hraun because they were enraged, is more likely to be tied to the saga’s soteriological agenda (Falk 2007, 5), and Snorri goði is more likely being represented as a noble heathen (cf. Lönnroth 1969) in the process by dismissing the power of the pagan gods. One must expect that the authoritative Old Norse view is expressed in such a text as the Konungs Skuggsjá, since it is a handbook of standardized knowledge for the Norse upper class. Konungs Skuggsjá firmly associates Icelandic volcanism with the same religious overtones and insinuations as Liber Miraculumμ “og er mier suo sagt j dialogo at hinn helgi Gregorius hafi suo mællt at pijslar stadir sie j sikil ey j þeim elldi er þar er. Enn draga þo meiri lijkindi til þess. j þessum elldi er a islandi er at þar sie vijst pijslar stadir (and I have been told in the Dialogus that St. Gregory has said that there are places of torment in Sicily in the fire that burns there. But there is thus the more reason to assume that in the fires of Iceland there are certainly places of torment [Konungs Skuggsjá 1945, XIV]). This view on volcanism is based fully on continental teachings, just as is the case with the seemingly pragmatic view of Kristni saga. But what of the indigenous Icelandic view? Phillpotts, Sigurður Nordal, and to some extent Davidson argue that the volcanism they find in Vǫluspá is Icelandic. The imagery, however, is unclear. Only a few stanzas may be interpreted with an eye to volcanism and as long as there is little comparative reference outside Vǫluspá, we are left with only postulates. Phillpotts knew of Bergbúa þáttr and its poem Hallmundarkviða as a source to compare to, but she was seemingly so focused on arguing that Vǫluspá was originally an Icelandic creation (1905, 26) that she overlooked the fact that Hallmundarkviða, from which she picks out only one stanza in her entire article, has abundant descriptions of volcanism.
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Bergbúa þáttr (ÍF 13 1991, 441–50) is preserved in the AM 564 a 4to vellum, but the manuscript is in poor condition, so the text has been reconstructed by the use of paper versions that are no older than 1686. These were copied by Árni Magnússon from Vatnshyrna (p. ciii–iv). Suggested dating ranges between the twelfth and the mid-thirteenth century, and Guðmundur Finnbogason has even suggested that it describes the eruption in Sólheimajökull in 1262 (p. ccv). Hallmundarkviða may, on the other hand, be much older than its prose frame in Bergbúa þáttr. Another suggestion connects it with the formation of Hallmundarhraun in the first decade of the tenth century (p. ccix), and this is also the view held by geologists. The name of Hallmundarhraun is first attested only in 1844, but it may be older (p. ccvii). Regardless of its age, the poem draws upon mythic imagery to describe volcanism. Whether it is a thirteenth century poem or much older, Hallmundarkviða describes Icelandic volcanism in the traditional authoritative voice of Old Norse culture: the skaldic meter. It is completely different in style and content from the medieval authoritative source of Konungs Skuggsjá. As such, it is an entirely indigenous source to volcanism, and this source involves the gods and demons of Old Norse mythology in its conceptions of geothermal acitvities in the Icelandic underground. THE ANALYSES IN THIS CHAPTER
In the following chapter, I will analyze the Creation Myth of the world from Ymir as it is related in Gylfaginning. This analysis involves some contemplation of the role of Surtr and Muspell, and the factors by which their relation to the creation have been established. After the treatment of the Creation Myth we proceed to the myth of the Mead of Poetry in Skáldskaparmál. Here, I examine the tradition of the Mead Myth and how the versions of Skáldskaparmál and Hávamál fit together. Both myths are reviewed in light of the mythic tradition as it can be detected in medieval and classical literature. I perceive both the Mead Myth in Skáldskaparmál and the Creation Myth as early Icelandic adaptations of the Mythical Charter of Tradition to the challenging aspects of the local ecosystem: seismic activity and volcanic eruptions. These are eco-myths that have been formulated as responses to the experience of volcanic events in the early period of the Icelandic settlement. Throughout this chapter, I will compare mythic elements with the volcanic eruption described in Hallmundarkviða. I will also draw upon other elements of the mythology, such as eddic and skaldic poetry. The applied theory necessary for volcanological interpretations in this chapter comes from Barber and Barber’s book on mythopoesis, When They Severed Earth from Sky (2004). This comparative study of mythopoesis from geological and biological processes is not unproblematic,
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claiming too often that behind obscure myths of various cultures there are natural explanations and historical events that can be identified. A certain level of caution is best in these instances; but on the other hand, there is something to be said for an interpretative strategy built around mythic references to geological activity, especially in the case of Old Norse mythology. Throughout their book, Barber and Barber refer to Nordic myths and treat parts of Old Norse mythology in relation to their theory, but I find that their knowledge of Old Norse mythology is generally superficial (compare: p. 65, 143– 4, 204, and 227–9). It is with such reservations that I apply their theory to Old Norse mythology. Beyond the scope of theoretical usefulness, Barber and Barber also provide comparable examples from other cultures that are highly enlightening when juxtaposed with Old Norse mythology. This is also true for other scholars, archaeologists, and geologists. I include several comparative examples, of which the article of Beaudoin and Oetelaar entitled The Day the Dry Snow Fell (2006a), is highly useful. Beaudoin and Oetelaar examine the impact of the 7,627 year old Mazama eruption on the cultures of some of the Canadian First Nations tribes, and compare archaeological data with human response in oral narratives, or Collective Memory. Unfamiliar with volcanism, the tribes of the Canadian plains had no vocabulary to express what they saw, and their tales may therefore function as applicable analogies to how the first settlers to Iceland may have tried to develop a vocabulary based on cultural luggage from homeland Scandinavia. The scientific data of the geologists, on the other hand, provides a strong foundation for discussing the relationship between mythic imagery and volcanism in a more concrete sense. The result is an analysis of central myths of Old Norse mythology in light of the habitat they were reproduced in, with a strong focus on the different cultural sources of inspiration, from a pre-Christian Scandinavian environment to the Medieval Era where Latin literature and continental teachings provide a new frame of reference. This chapter has two primary sectionsμ “Creation from Ymir,” and “The Convulsions of Kvasir and the Odinic Eruption.” The sections are followed by a conclusion which summarizes the arguments and contextualizes the analysis in relation to the overarching focus of this presentation. The first section analyzes the creation of Ymir in relation to the very common low-scale effusive volcanic events of Iceland. The second section analyzes the Mead Myth in Skáldskaparmál as a narrative about an explosive-eruptive volcanic event. It is argued that these myths have been constructed on the basis of a much older tradition from Scandinavia and the European continent, which does not discriminate strongly between notions of ‘Christian’ and ‘pagan,’ but is in its essence syncretic. The object of this type of mythopoesis is to relay patterns of premodern human response to problematic places and spaces in the surrounding ecosystem and larger environment.
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CREATION FROM YMIR THE YMIR MYTH
The status of Ymir in Old Norse mythology is an interesting one. Gylfaginning gives an account of cosmogony that is fully based on the figure of Ymir, but Vǫluspá only includes him as far as a mention in stanza 3, when the vǫlva commemorates the beginning of the worldμ “Ár vas alda, þar er Ymir byggði” (It was the dawning of time, there where Ymir lived). Gylfaginning tells of the killing of Ymir committed by the sons of Bor: Óðinn, Vili, and Vé, but in Vǫluspá these same Bors synir seem only to ‘lift’ (yppa) the ground63 and subsequently go about their business. The passage concerning Ymir is opaque and we are forced to infer, referring to the story of Gylfaginning and the references in Vafþrúðnismál 21 and Grímnismál 40–1, what happened with Ymir in the time that passed between when the cosmos was void and when Bors synir lifted the ground in stanza 4. The result of their ground-lifting is not that the missing elements of the world appear, but rather that plants grow from the ground. We may then surmise that the missing elements of the world, the sea, earth, and trees, have appeared in the meantime by some other means. The effect of the Bors synir lifting the ground to create εiðgarðr in stanza 4 is that the sun then shines “á salar steina” (on the hall’s stones [Vsp. 4]), and green plants grow from the ground. This activity of lifting the foundation of the earth may then refer to the agricultural activity of plowing barren fields to make them fertile. Earth appears over the course of stanza 3 into the beginning of stanza 4, and in stanza 5, the seemingly chaotic movement of the celestial bodies indicates that heaven has become part of the cosmos (it does not exist in stanza 3).64 Vafþrúðnismál 21 reveals what the Bors synir apparently did to Ymirμ “Ór Ymis holdi var i rð um sk poð, en ór beinom bi rg, himinn ór hausi ins hrímkalda i tuns, en ór sveita siór” (From Ymir’s flesh earth was created, and from the bones the mountains, heaven from the skull of the ice-cold giant, and from the blood the sea [Vfm. 21). Grímnismál 40–1 supplement this with the information that Ymir’s brains became the hard clouds of the stormy sky, his hair became the trees and from his eyebrows the gods created Miðgarðr. In this respect, Gylfaginning adds to the tale of creation the vivid images of a process of ice and fire coming together to create the matter that would later become the world. In the beginning there was Niflheimr, where the well of Hvergelmir was to be found.
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Schier argues in Die Erdschöpfung aus dem Urmeer und die Kosmogonie der Völospá (1963) that they are lifting the earth out of an ancient ocean, but as Simek notes in his Dictionary of Northern Mythology (2007), this would be the only evidence for such a cosmogony in the entire mythology, and it is therefore unlikely that such a notion can have played a strong role. 64 On this subject, see Sigurður Nordal 1927, 27–30.
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Niflheimr was ice-cold and located in the north. Conversely, to the south there was a place called Muspell or Muspellzheimr, a place of fierce heat inhabited by the fire-demon Surtr (Gylf. IV). This myth has been analyzed with critical scrutiny by mythologists throughout the twentieth century. Anne Holtsmark takes the descriptions of Muspellzheimr as evidence that the author of Gylfaginning was influenced by the Christian teachings of Elucidarius. The vocabulary of the text points towards a notion of Heaven and Hell, making use of such formulations as “logandi ok brennandi” (smoldering and burning), associated with both realms of the Christian cosmology and fused into one by the use of the Surtr figure, who, with his flaming sword, takes on the role of a cherub. She arrives at the conclusion that the convergence of the heat and cold from the two realms must be a derivation of the widespread teachings of the classical four elements (1964, 29–30). Klaus von See dismisses this relationship with the four elements and instead argues that since there is only ‘warmth’ and ‘cold,’ the underlying principle must be the neoplatonic notions of dualism propounded by Guillaume de Conches and Lactantius (von See 1988, 53). To de Vries, the notion of Muspellzheimr as a demonic location in the south contradicts the idea that otherwise seems widespread in the North, namely that the southerly region of the world is inhabited by people of culture, and thus he concludes that the placing of Surtr in this region must be an entirely non-original concept (de Vries 1970, 374). Regarding Ymir, Holtsmark writesμ “εyten om urjotnen er utvilsomt norrøn hedendom. Men Gylfaginnings nøyaktigere utmaling av hvordan det har foregått, bør stå for Snorres regning” (The myth of the ancient giant is undoubtedly Old Norse paganism, but Gylfaginning’s precise images of the process is on Snorri’s own accord [Holtsmark 1λ64, 31]). Holtsmark identifies the line in Gylfaginning that offers an alternative to Vǫluspá 3 “þat er ekki var” (there was nothing), as opposed to “þar er Ymir byggði” (there where Ymir lived), with the teachings of Elucidarius. These teachings state that God created the world “af engu efni” (from nothing), thereby suggesting that the Creation Myth of Gylfaginning is in alignment with contemporary thirteenth century doctrine. This fashions Ymir as matter that is formed from the ice in Élivágar, which has been melted by the evil Surtr—a product of evil from which the gods will create the world (Holtsmark 1964, 28–9). The creation of the world from Ymir is thus explained in a frame that recognizes this myth fully pagan and preChristian. Holtsmark is convinced that the myth is pre-Christian, since it is prevalent in the mythology of skaldic diction, and thus, because skaldic poetry was one of Snorri’s sources, his object was to explain this myth as heresy (p. 32). Believing that the Prologus to Edda is an argument for a far-reaching anticipation of Christianity in native tradition, Peter and Ursula Dronke in The Prologue of the Prose Edda: Explorations of a Latin Background (1977, 173–4) argue that the pagan idea expressed in Prologus
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that all things were created from a substance is a substrate of neoplatonic philosophy (p. 172). The body–earth analogy that is extant in the Ymir Myth is identified by Anthony Faulkes in his article Pagan Sympathy: Attitudes to Heathendom in the Prologue to Snorra Edda (1983) as widespread in European literature with possible origins in the works of, among others, Guillaume de Conches, Peter Comestor, and Ovid (Faulkes 1983, 288). According to Faulkes, nature worship and the notions of the body as a microcosm expressed in Prologus seem to reach back to Lactantius, Isidore, St. Augustine, and Plato (p. 289–90). However, there is evidence for the conception of the world as a giant body in the Ṛgveda, and it may be that the notion is as old as some of the first Indo-European peoples (deVries 1970, 367–8). There may also be a cult myth present where the dismemberment of Ymir corresponds to the dismemberment of a sacrificial victim during rituals (Simek 2007, 377–8). The more recent study of the Ymir Myth by Guðrún Nordal in Tools of Literacy (2001) establishes the influence of Plato’s Timaeus on Edda through the neoplatonists (p. 273–7). Guðrún Nordal points out that skaldic poetry contains very little that refers to the Creation Myth of Gylfaginning and writesμ “It is, however, a fact that there is no trace of the story of Ymir’s role in the creation of the world in pagan skaldic verse outside Snorra Edda, the oldest example being Arnórr jarlaskáld’s eleventh century stanza preserved only in Snorra Edda” (p. 281). Skaldic verse knows no kenning for the earth as “Ymis hold” (the flesh of Ymir). Eyvindr skáldaspillir refers to the corpse of J rðr once and uses hold as a heiti for earth in another instance, though without including Ymir (p. 282). Ormr Barreyjarskáld uses “Ymis blóð” (the blood of Ymir) in a single instance (ibid), but beyond that there is little in skaldic verse that refers to the Ymir Myth at all. Guðrún Nordal is, however, cautious, and instead of dismissing the myth as a pure construct of the thirteenth century, she writes: The myth of the creation of the world out of Ymir’s body may have old roots in Scandinavian paganism, even though it left little trace in the skaldic diction of the early poets, but its popularity with the writers of mythography and skaldic poetics in the thirteenth century is well attested and was most probably induced by its analogy to current trends in philosophical thinking (p. 283). This is a reasonable disposition given the external evidence for a myth of anthropogenesis from a being that has grown out of the earth in Germania (Germania. 1959, II; de Vries 1970, 363; Martin 1981, 368), and the prevalent conception of the world as a human body throughout Indo-European mythologies (de Vries 1970, 364–5; Martin 1981, 369). The idea of a primordial being that delivers the building materials for the cosmos is so widespread that Schjødt in his Initiation between Two Worlds (2008a) simply sees the Ymir Myth as the Scandinavian variant of a more or less universal phenomenon (Schjødt 2008a, 93). Guðrún Nordal demonstrates how cosmological imagery and body
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imagery are intimately linked in skaldic verse in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Carefully, she suggests that this enduring simile between the human body and the world-body is, if not generated from the influence of neoplatonic philosophy, then at least kept alive by its popularity. As she puts it: “[t]he circumstantial evidence presented in this chapter may seem rather persuasive” (Guðrún Nordal 2001, 307). Two trends thus currently prevail in scholarship: one points to obvious relationships between literary motifs, while another makes a persuasive case for a deeply rooted phenomenological relationship between Ymir as the world-body and similar myths throughout European and Central Asian history. There is nothing to hinder the possibility that Guðrún Nordal cautiously keeps the door ajar to, namely that both circumstances are the reason that the myth is related in Gylfaginning and elsewhere. If we accept this notion, then the question of how this myth of the world-body came to Iceland—which seems to boggle the minds of several of the above-mentioned scholars—must take the back seat to the more pressing question of why? If the World-Body Myth is older than the advent of neoplatonic philosophy in Iceland, why would it be reproduced and written down? This question will be explored in the following. THE PUZZLE
There are several inconsistencies in the Creation Myth in Gylfaginning which have been pointed out by the various scholars who have dealt with it. The three most important elements of the Creation Myth that puzzle scholarship are: (1) Why is Muspell or Muspellzheimr involved in the Creation Myth (Holtsmark 1964, 29; Sigurður Nordal 1927, 100; Clunies Ross 1994, 65 and particularly p. 155)? (2) Why is Surtr involved in both the Creation Myth and in the ragnarøkkr (Holtsmark 1964, 29; Sigurður Nordal 1927, 101–3)? (3) What is the image of the eitr referring to (Holtsmark 1964, 30–1)? These questions are the subject of the following analysis. They relate to the Ymir Myth insofar as they explain the origins of Ymir. If the neoplatonic and Christian interpretation is stripped away from the description of the natural process of creating Ymir, another very interesting image emerges. This is an image of a volcanic event.
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EITR, ÉLIVÁGAR AND AURGELMIR
In conjunction with the above questions, Holtsmark also wonders about the convergence of heat and cold and why the process of the quickening of the flowing eitrár is seemingly reversed. 65 Gylfaginning explains that before the earth was created there was the realm called Niflheimr, which contains the well of Hvergelmir, from which eleven rivers flow. Muspellzheimr is in the South. It is a realm of extreme heat that burns and is very bright. This place is guarded by Surtr (Gylf. IV). From Hvergelmir in Niflheimr, these rivers flow towards the great void in Ginnungagap, and thus Gylfaginning explains the process of the flow and quickening of the Élivágar: Þá mælir Hárμ ‘Ár þær er kallaðar eru Élivágar, þá er þær váru svá langt komnar frá uppsprettunni at eitrkvikja sú er þar fylgði harðnaði svá sem sindr þat er renn ór eldinum, þá varð þat íss, ok þá er sá íss gaf staðar ok rann eigi, þá héldi yfir þannig úr þat er af stóð eitrinu ok fraus at hrími, ok jók hrímit hvert yfir annat allt í Ginnungagap.’ (These rivers that are called Élivágar, when they had come far enough away from the source, so that the poisonous flow that followed hardened like the cinders that run out of the fire,66 then it turned to ice, and when this ice stopped and did not run, then the vapor that stood off the poison froze to rime on top of it in the same direction, and this rime increased in layers all over Ginnungagap [Gylf. V]). In order to make more sense of this image, it will be beneficial first to examine the term eitr, which gives Holtsmark some grief. She has some difficulties reconciling the terminology surrounding eitr with the described process of smelting, quickening, and freezing. She writes: Naturbilledet er ikke slående: elver som fryser til is, frostrøk over isen som rimer, det går an; men rim over hele Ginnungagap som senere blir beskrevet som hlætt sem lopt vindlaust er merkelig; det spørs om isen og eitrdropar fra Élivágar ikke tar omveien om rimet bare for å forklare navnet hrímþursar (The nature image is not obvious: rivers freezing over, rime over the ice, that is reasonable; but rime over the whole of Ginnungagap which is later described as hlætt sem lopt vindlaust is strange; one wonders if not the ice and eitrdropar from Élivágar take a detour over the rime only to explain the name hrímþursar [Holtsmark 1964, 30– 1]). Holtsmark proceeds to attempt an explanation based on examples of the use of eitr in other instances. Eitr does not only mean ‘poison,’ but may also denote the pus in a wound. It is also used in the word
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Klaus von See does not consider this in the above reference to his explanation for the origins of heat and cold in the Ymir Myth. 66 The fire of a smelter. Faulkes translates ’eldinum’ to ’a furnace’ (Faulkes 1λλ5, 10). The word sindr is firmly associated with the cinders or slags from the smelting process in a smithy (Zoëga 2004, 360; ONP http://www.onp.hum.ku.dk/, search ‘sindr’).
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for a special type of glaciers both in Norway and Iceland, which are called eitrár. The use of eitr can then be explained as an image that refers to a frozen waterfall coming over a cliff (p. 31). It would therefore seem that there is some reasonable explanation for the use of the term eitr in this context. Holtsmark goes on to discuss the term sindr. Similarly, while she accepts the image of the sindr as reasonable to anyone who has seen the process of iron ore smelting, she goes on to wonder: Men der kommer jo motsetningen inn igjen, Élivágar er kalde, og en blåstermile er varm, og sindr størkner når det kommer i kaldere luft, mens eiter-elvene skulle fryse til is når de kom fra selve kulden ut i det varmere strøk, i Ginnungagap. (But here comes the contradiction again, Élivágar are cold and the wind gust is warm, and the sindr quicken when it comes into colder air, while the eitr-rivers are supposed to freeze when they come from the cold itself into the warmer region of Ginnungagap [ibid]). The image is that of the eitrár that flow from a cold source and then freeze when they have flowed far enough from their spring. From this flow of eitr rises vapor which turns to rime that builds layer upon layer over Ginnungagap. This rime persists in Ginnungagap even though the region is as mild as a windless sky, and the flow of the eitr is likened, not to water freezing over, but to the cinders that flow from a smelter. As such, the image is ripe with ambiguity and this begs the question of why. To answer this question, it is worthwhile to revisit the theories on analogic descriptions in mythopoesis posed by Barber and Barber: “Analogy pervades our thinking.” Thus begins the chapter on metaphoric reality in Barber and Barber (2004, 97). Knowledge and information are continually transmitted in metaphors and analogies, especially in circumstances where there is no ready vocabulary to address phenomena. Analogy is one of the most active tools in mythopoesis (p. 35–40). It is ubiquitously used, especially in situations with seismic occurrences. For example, Barber and Barber recount that “a woman who witnessed the great Alaska earthquake in 1968 from her house on a hillside reported that the ground opening up in multiple furrows looked like something being raked open by an invisible giant’s claw” (p. 36). When the simile in the description is lost, a new level of metaphoric reality is reached, as the distinction between representation and referent becomes blurred over time or as a result of interpretation. Volcanism, Barber and Barber note, is one of the most prevalent themes of human mythmaking (p. 87–8), yet one of the more complicated phenomena for humans to convey. It is in instances like these that analogies like the one above become highly useful. Descriptions of the 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens abound with analogiesμ “[It was] like sticking your head in the fireplace and stirring up ashes”; “[…] the blast ‘sounded like artillery’” (p. 73). Adding a temporal lapse and
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the interpretations of posterity, the description of such an event becomes subject to metaphoric reality. Barber and Barber point this out: Then the eruption is artillery fire – an enormous battle – or the most horrendous of all storms (depending on what zone you are in). Add a dash of Willfulness and we find the Storm God engaged in an apocalyptic battle with some other, very ill-willed force […] “It’s like, therefore it is”. Red liquid trails down a mountain “like red hair”, “like snaky locks”, “like blood”; presently it is the red hair or snaky locks or blood of a giant (p. 97). As the examples show, human attempts to describe seismic events and volcanism make ample use of analogies—even in relation to very recent events. Quite easily, the referentiality of these analogies will become blurred and a new metaphoric—or mythological—reality is created. A lava flow from an effusive eruption behaves just like water turning to ice. To understand this image of analogy, it is useful for us to consult a scientific description of the behavior of certain eruption types. In explaining the process of lava shield formations in Iceland, the geologists Þór Þórðarson and Larsen write: Lava shields are the principal representatives of low-discharge (≤ 300 m3/s) flood lava eruptions. These eruptions produce vast pahoehoe flow fields (up to 20 km3) that are fed by a lava lake residing in the summit crater. The lava cone of each shield is essentially constructed by fountain-fed flows and overspills from the lake, whereas the surrounding lava apron is produced by tube-fed pahoehoe where insulated transport and flow inflation enables great flow length (up to 70 km; e.g. Rossi, 1996; Thordarson, 2000). The highdischarge (> 1000 m3/s) flood lava events, such as the 1783–1784 A.D. Laki and 934– 38 A.D. Eldgjá fissure eruptions, represent some of the greatest spectacles of Icelandic volcanism (Thordarson & Larsen 2007, 131). Lava flows from a lake in the crater and advances upon an area where it quickens, resulting in the build-up of a hraun, a lava field. It is the rubbly pahoehoe caused by pulsating discharges that characterizes the most common basalt flow types of Iceland (ibid). From the decade just before the landnám until the mid-fourteenth century there are roughly fifty-six verified eruptions. Thirty-nine of these occurred before 1220, the approximate time of the writing of Edda. Out of these, four were effusive events, an additional four were of a mixed effusive and explosive nature, and twenty-four were explosive events (p. 137). In the period from 1179 to c. 1200, both an explosive and an effusive event occurred in the Katla system (p. 134), and in the period 1201–1220 two mixed eruptions and one explosive one were recorded to have occurred ‘somewhere in Iceland’ (p. 137). This is evidence that every generation of Icelanders, from the time of landnám to the time when the mythology is recorded in writing, would have experienced volcanic eruptions and that, in these eruption types, there is sufficient material to inspire the imagination of Icelanders attempting to describe the subterranean
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processes particular to Iceland. Even if one is inclined to ascribe the entirety of the mythology of Gylfaginning to the creative genius of Snorri Sturluson alone, there is sufficient volcanic activity in his lifetime to suggest that an eruption could have inspired him to describe the process of the creation of the world on these terms. Strip the description of the formation of a hraun from its scientific-geological discourse and the description may be reduced to: a liquid substance flows from a reservoir, freezes, and creates a hraun. But the liquid itself must then be described: it is poisonous (eitr), it flows (at renna) from its source (uppspretta), and it becomes hard like the slags (sindr) from the smelter (eldr). Vapor (úr) rises from the flow, it lands—or freezes (at frjósa)—on top, becoming rime (hrím) that builds in layers. The Old Icelandic vocabulary is surprisingly poor when it comes to terminology pertaining to volcanism. There is no discernible single word for ‘volcano’; ‘lava’ is hraun, the Scandinavian word for a rugged stone formation; ‘eruption’ is merely eldzuppkváma (coming-up-of-fire) and in some instances jarðeldr (earth-fire).67 Ash fall is commonly referred to as sandvetr (sand-weather) or aska (ash) (cf. Storm 1888). If one attempts to describe the process of a lava flow that quickens, there is little but water and ice analogies available in the language. The term eitr is ambiguous. It refers both to poison and to ice-cold rivers, the eitrár. But from Holtsmark’s information, it does not seem to refer to the quality of being cold in relation to the eitrár, so much as it refers to the yellow color and a thick, flowing substance. Holtsmark herself mentions that the common referent between the frozen ice and the pus seems to be the color (Holtsmark 1964, 31). Eitr is thus poisonous and yellow just like lava.68 If the eitr is in fact lava, there should be nothing contradictory in the notion of it flowing from a well69 and freezing up when it flows too far, even though, as Holtsmark wonders, it flows into a warmer climate. Neither is there any conflict between the image of the eitr-rivers and the image of the slags flowing from a smelter: they are analogous. The vapor that freezes and turns to rime did not as such cause any distress for Holtsmark, but there is one problem with this image: the rime builds layer upon layer as if it were ice. Rime is an Cf. the Icelandic Annals in Storm’s Islandske Annaler indtil 1578 (1888). The annals consistently use the term eldzuppkváma. Jarðeldr is only used once in the annals of Flatey. The term iarðeldr seems to be reserved for a select group of texts, whose connectivity is not clear. ONP lists 11 notations of the word, where four occur in the Sturlubók and Hauksbók editions of Landnámabók. It occurs once in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar, in Trójumanna saga, in Barthólómeuss saga postula, in Kristni saga, in Stjórn, and in the Alfrǿði. See ONP ‘jarðeldr’μ http://www.onp.hum.ku.dk/ 68 That the volcanoes and related phenomena could be poisonous (from gasses) was known to Icelanders. This is attested in Konungs Skuggsjá (1945, XIV). The emission of hydrogen flouride gasses over long periods of time has been observed both in relation to Laki 1783–5 and the various eruptions in Hekla (EOV 1985, 1003). In describing volcanism in Iceland, Saxo also mentions that there are wells in Iceland which contain water that will kill you as if it were poisonμ “Illic etiam fama est pestilentis undę laticem scaturire, quo quis gustato perinde ac ueneno prosternitur” (It is also told that there are springs up there with water that is so dangerous that if you taste it you die instantly, as if it were poison [Saxo 2005 I, Praef 2,7]). 69 The base word spretta in uppspretta is also used to describe the eruption in Hallmundarkviða 6. 67
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accumulation of already frozen moisture particles in the air and does not generally build in layers. Ice may do so, and when one interprets this image as a process of ice formation, this inconsistency is easily overlooked. I will presumptuously suggest that if the author was looking for a frozen, watery substance to build in layers across Ginnungagap, the image of snow would be more suitable. Where rime would start depositing on the surface and keep accreting in a leeward direction, snow builds layers upon layers across any exposed surface. But snow melts in the warmth, and Holtsmark pointed out the inconsistency between Ginnungagap being mild as a windless sky and the rime being able to build layers there. This is not an unresolvable inconsistency: when the secondary meaning of hrím is considered, it vanishes. Hrím has a secondary meaning of ‘soot,’ and the j tunn Hrímnir’s name may mean ‘sooty’ or ‘the one that causes soot’ (fire) (ODNS 1λ66, 284–5). Hrímnir is also mentioned in Hallmundarkviða in connection with the volcanic disaster described in the poem. 70 This poem also describes the ashes as mjǫll (newly fallen snow [Halkv. 11]), confirming the analogy between the ejecta from a volcanic eruption and frozen precipitation. Unlike rime, soot—or ash—builds up layer upon layer when ejected in an eruption, and unlike snow (and rime), it persists even though it enters a climate that is milder: it cools down rather than heats up. Beaudoin and Oetelaar (2006a) provide some interesting points of comparison with the image of rime, vapor, and eitr. The First Nation peoples of the Alberta and Saskatchewan provinces in Canada relate a tale of the 7,627 year old cataclysmic Mazama eruption in Oregon. The Mazama event is remembered by the First Nation peoples as “the day the dry snow fell” and it tells how the ‘dry snow’ (cf. hrím, mjǫll) fell for days from a darkened sky. It built up in layers, and when you walked in it, dust (úr) would rise up and choke you (eitr), and the rain would turn the dust into a thick and slimy substance that eventually dried to a crust (sindr, aurr, íss) (p. 41–3). This comparison may explain the apparent inconsistencies that Holtsmark noticed in the ice and rime that did not behave as those elements are supposed to. The Creation Myth of Gylfaginning draws upon images of ice and water because there is nothing in the vocabulary to provide an independent description. In the same way that the falling tephra became ‘dry snow’ to the First Nation peoples in Alberta and Saskatchewan, the ashes of an Icelandic eruption became hrím and úr. Such a description is provided as a consequence of the principle of analogy in mythopoesis. The principle of metaphoric reality may blur the referent so that analogies soon become actualities, and the descendants of the first generation to tell the myth simply forget or misunderstand the proper context and referents of the analogies.
For polysemic reference in skaldic diction, I refer to εeulengracht’s brilliant analysis of Egill skallagrímson’s stanza in honor of King Æþelstān, see εeulengracht 2006, 10λ–13.
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I believe this shift from analogy to actuality is evident in the introduction of the Élivágar into the myth. We learn that Niflheimr is the site of Hvergelmir from where the rivers flow,71 and that one of these rivers flows past the Hel-gates. At this point, it is not even mentioned that Niflheimr is cold, but the text proceeds to describe the southern realm and its guardian Surtr as warm. After this description and a citation from Vǫluspá inn skamma, we learn about the Élivágar that flow from some place (Gylf. V). The phrasing “Ár þær er kallaðar eru Élivágar” (These rivers, which are called Élivágar [Gylf. V]) naturally leads to the assumption that these rivers must be the same as those that flow from Hvergelmir, even though this has not been stated in the text. This is also most likely the intention, but it is important to note that Niflheimr is not yet described as cold, the description of the Élivágar is not precisely pinned to Niflheimr, and most importantly, the Élivágar do not seem to be an original name for these rivers. The individual names of the rivers come from Grímnismál 27–28 and their association with Élivágar is entirely a result of the narrative tradition in Gylfaginning (Simek 2007, 73). We saw earlier that the Élivágar, possibly a term for the stormy sea (ODNS 1966, 117), seem to be associated with extreme cold (see chapter III, page 38). However, this association is not exclusive of other uses and interpretations in other cases. If the process of the eitr is supposed to be silmilar to a lava flow that freezes and forms a hraun, it is admittedly a paradox that the rivers bringing the eitr are named after the Élivágar, which are generally described in the tradition as the cold, stormy waves. There are, however, a few aspects of the above-mentioned myths that provide an explanation as to why the Élivágar are broadly represented here. The Élivágar are represented as a body of extremely cold water in Hymiskviða, and this is also the case in Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns. According to John Mckinnell (1994), the shared story pattern of Hymiskviða and Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns is ultimately comparable to the narrative of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition (1λλ4, 5λ-68). Interestingly, Hallmundarkviða actively takes part in this complex too, but it shapes this image of the Élivágar in quite different terms. The bergbúi describes the volcanic eruption as a ‘fight in Élivágar’ (“bág, í Élivága”) (Halkv. 7). In this way, there is a direct association between the Élivágar and volcanism in one mythological situation. This does not, however, explain the apparent inconsistency in naming lava flows after the extremely cold Élivágar. However, this too can be resolved. It is possible to connect the Élivágar to volcanism in another instance: Óðinn asks Vafþrúðnir in Vafþrúðnismál 30 where Aurgelmir came from. Vafþrúðnir answersμ “Ór Élivágom stucco eitrdropar, svá óx unz varð ór i tunn” (From Élivágar sprang poison drops, so they grew until there came a j tunn from them). This stanza is also included 71 Given the information from Grímnismál 26 that water flows from Eikþyrnir’s horns into Hvergelmir and from there come all flows of waters, the association of Hvergelmir with a body of water in Niflheimr is not unreasonable.
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in Gylfaginning, but it is interpolated after we learn that Niflheim is cold. This may be because of the reference to Aurgelmir’s offspring as hrímþursar in stanza 33 of Vafþrúðnismál, using the term for ‘ice demons,’ but as it has been noted above, hrím may well refer to soot, not rime. If we stay with the volcanic image of the flowing eitr from Gylfaginning, the image in Vafþrúðnismál 30 fits this well. The eitr in this instance springs from its source, the Élivágar. It is a description of a flow of ‘stormy waves’ that eject their poisonous material, which then coalesces into a human figure. This is a description of a gushing effusive eruption comparable to the ones that are so common in Iceland. Vafþrúðnismál is one of the most prominent sources for Gylfaginning (SnE I 2011, xxv), and is most probably the oldest source to the Élivágar, yet it does not give any clear reason to assume that the Élivágar are cold. In fact, it tells of two separate figures related to creation imagery. Stanza 31 tells of the j tnar being made from the gushing eitrdropar. Aurgelmir is formed from the quickening of the eitrdropar and becomes the ancestor of all the terrible j tnar. Stanza 21 tells of the world being made from Ymir, his flesh becoming earth, his bones becoming the mountains, and “himinn ór hausi ins hrímkalda i tuns” (heaven from the skull of the rime-cold giant [Vfm. 21, italics mine]). It is only in Gylfaginning that these two figures are postulated to be one and the same, and there are strong indications that this association of the two figures is a conscious construction. It seems to be a construction to introduce into the Creation Myth what has been expressed by Clunies Ross as a “polarization of the giant race into representatives of hrím and hiti” (Clunies Ross 1λ83, 51). This would, in accordance with von See’s theory (1λ88, 52–55), be an attempt to reconcile elements of a seemingly pagan complex of mythos with medieval, neoplatonic theories. Underneath this attempt we find a widespread terminology that can be associated with volcanism: the first part of the name Aurgelmir is probably aurr- ‘wet sand, gravel’ (Simek 2007, 24). Vafþrúðnismál 29 tells that Aurgelmir fathered Þrúðgelmir, who fathered Bergelmir. Þrúðseems to mean ‘power’ (p. 32λ), and the first part of Bergelmir, ber(g)-, may be interpreted as meaning ‘bear’ (ODNS 1λ66, 44) or ‘mountain’ (Simek 2007, 34). The last part of these names, -gelmir, seems to mean ‘roarer’ (p. 24). This word is also associated with wells and rivers such as Hvergelmir (of hverr- meaning ‘kettle-roarer’ [ODNS 1λ66, 300]) and Vaðgelmir (ODNS 1λ66, 587). If -gelmir refers to the roaring, churning violence of the rivers and wells of the underworld, the image of the roaring, churning, violent gravel and sand is highly interesting, as it is so readily applicable to a jökulhlaup and to volcanic ejecta. The powerful roar of Þrúðgelmir and Bergelmir, regardless of the latter meaning ‘bear-roarer’ or ‘mountain-roarer,’ is similarly easy to apply to volcanism, but the association of these names to volcanism should not rest on this assumption alone.
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The bergbúi of Hallmundarkviða mentions Aurnir as someone to whom he sends a boat of stone.72 Aurnir is involved in the last stanza of the poem as well, where the bergbúi closes the poem and puts an end to the eruption, saying that Aurnir’s well is dry (Halkv. 12). Here Aurnir, whose name is probably derived from the same aurr- as Aurgelmir (cf. Simek 2007, 252),73 seems to preside over a well that provides skaldic abilities and so ‘Aurnis brunnr’ may mean the εead of Poetry (Bergbúa þáttr: ÍF 13 1991, 450, fn.), but given the analogy that is being drawn between the skáldskapr of the bergbúi and volcanism throughout this poem, it is not unreasonable to assume that it also refers to the well from which all the volcanic terrors come. In fact, this notion coincides with stanza 7, where the bergbúi describes the eruption of lava with the term aurrμ “aurr tekr upp at fœrask undarligr ór grundu” (a strange new clay begins to flow from the ground). The poem simply establishes metonymic reference between the Mead of Poetry and lava, using the term aurr (but a strange kind) as the primary word for describing the lava. This word is already known to the tradition from its association with Aurgelmir as the man who was built from the eitr of the Élivágar. And so we return to the Élivágar. These ‘stormy waves’ produce a thick substance that flows or springs from their source, a brúðr or uppspretta in Hvergelmir, the ‘kettle-roarer.’ They freeze and accumulate wherever they end. They bring with them fumes and depositions falling in layers. According to Vafþrúðnismál, their growth produces a giant called Aurgelmir. It is at this point, when the author of Gylfaginning chooses to interpolate a neoplatonic interpretation of the creation of the world as a process of ice and fire, that the interpretation of these processes as thawing and quickening ice becomes relevant. With the neoplatonic dichotomy of fire and ice, the author utilizes a known image of volcanism in a new context to describe a new version of the creation of Ymir and the world: Ginnungagap, þat er vissi til norðrs ættar, fyltisk með þunga ok h fugleik íss ok hríms ok inn í frá úr ok gustr. En hinn syðri hlutr Ginnungagaps léttisk móti gneistum ok síum þeim er flugu ór εuspellsheimi […] Svá sem kalt stóð af Niflheimi ok allir hlutir grimmir, svá var þat er vissi námunda Muspelli heitt ok ljóst, en Ginnungagap var svá hlætt sem lopt vindlaust. Ok þá er mœttisk hrímin ok blær hitans svá at bráðnaði ok draup, ok af þeim kvikudropum kviknaði með krapti þess er til sendi hitann, ok varð manns líkandi, ok var sá nefndr Ymir. (Ginnungagap, the part that faces north, was filled with the weight of the ice and rime and into it blew vapor and dampness. But the southern part of Ginnungagap cleared towards the sparks and embers that flew out of εuspellzheimr […] Just as there came coldness and everything evil from Niflheim, so was that part facing Muspell hot and glowing, but Ginnungagap was as mild as a windless sky. And when the rime and blowing heat met, then it thawed and dripped down, and these quickening drops
The boat motif will be treated in the following section “Kvasir’s convulsions”, pages 15λ-167. It serves to mention here that there seem to be several j tunn names derived from the association with aurr- and berg(cf. ODNS 1966, 24 and 44–5) 72 73
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quickened from the power they were sent from the heat, and that became a man’s likeness, and he was named Ymir [Gylf. V]). This quotation assigns Muspellzheimr the role of adding fire to ice. As we have seen earlier, Muspellzheimr is introduced in the beginning of the Creation Myth, and it is told that it has a guardian called Surtr, who has a flaming sword. In the poetry this guardian of Muspellzheimr, Surtr, is primarily associated with the destruction of the world in ragnarøkkr. In Fáfnismál 14, it is stated directly that the æsir will meet Surtr exclusively—no one else—at the end of the world. The grounds for this confusion of the primary destructive power with the process of creation will be investigated in the following, where we will discuss the association with Muspell, too. SURTR AND MUSPELLZHE IMR
The word Muspell has cognates in Old High German and Old Saxon. It occurs in the poem Muspilli74 and in the Old Saxon gospels Heliand, in both cases as a term for the apocalypse (Simek 2007, 222– 3). In Old Norse, apart from the term Muspell and Muspellzheimr, it also occurs in the formulation of Vǫluspá 51, “εuspellz lýðir” (εuspellz’ People), as well as “εuspellz synir” (εuspellz’ Sons) in Lokasenna 42. Gylfaginning also has “εuspellz megir” (εuspellz’ Powers) (Gylf. XIV and LI). Anthony Faulkes comments in the index to his edition of Edda that the word was probably an abstract noun that was personified in eddic poems and through misunderstanding became a place, Muspellzheimr, in Edda (SnE I 2011, 173, index). It is Sigurður Nordal, though, who in 1927 hits the nail on the head with his comment in Völuspá: “Angående εuspell er det bedst ærligt at bekende, at det endnu ikke er lykkedes at forklare ordet, til trods for alle de forsøg, forskerne har gjort derpå” (With regards to Muspell, it is best to be honest and confess that the word has not yet been satisfyingly explained, despite the many attempts from scholars to do so [Sigurður Nordal 1927, 100]). Suffice it to say, the history of the word Muspell is opaque. Its earliest occurrence is, as mentioned, in Muspilli: … gotmanno, daz Elias in demo uuige aruuartit uuerde. So daz Eliases pluot in erda kitriufit, so inprinnant die perga, poum ni kistentit enihc in erdu, aha artruknent, muor varsuuilhit sih, suilizot lougiu der himil, mano uallit, prinnit mittilagart, sten ni kistentit, uerit denne stuatago in lant, uerit mit diu uuiru uiriho uuison: dar ni mac denne mak andremo helfan uora demo muspille. Denne daz preita uuasal allaz uarprinnit, enti uuir enti luft iz allaz arfurpit, uuar ist denne diu marha, dar man dar omit sinen magon piehc? Diu marha ist farprunnan, diu sela stet pidungan, ni uueiz mit uuiu puaze: so uerit si za uuize 74
The poem is a fragment that was named after the occurrence of this word in the text.
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(God-men [believe] that Elias in this battle will be injured, so that Elias’ blood on the earth drips, so the mountains burn, no tree stands back anywhere on earth, water dries up, the moor swells itself, slowly burns the heaven, moon falls, Middle-Earth burns, no stone stands back during these signs in the land, during the day of judgment, it comes with fire to punishμ then no person’s kin can help him before the muspille. Because when the whole existence is burned up, and fire and air sweeps everything away, where is then the field that man fought for with his kin? This field is burned away, the soul stands there not knowing how to [make] amend[s]: so it will be punished [Musp. 1994, 88]). Here Muspell is fully associated with the destruction of the world in the Christian apocalypse of fire: the mountains burn, heaven burns, fire sweeps the land. It cannot be established that Muspilli (or Heliand for that matter) were known in Iceland, though the occurrence of the word in these German texts and in the Icelandic mythology of Gylfaginning as well as Vǫluspá indicates that there must have been some cultural exchange with the continent, which has brought the word to the North. This notion is only strengthened in light of the word’s associations in both cultural contexts. Given their subject matter, it is not unreasonable to assume that texts like Heliand and Muspilli were in the curriculum when Icelanders went abroad to study in Saxony and the Rhineland. Iceland’s second bishop, Gizurr Ísleifsson (d. 1118) received his education in Saxony and Sæmundr inn fróði (d. 1130) studied in ‘Frakkland,’ which may well have been the Rhineland (Vésteinn Ólason 1λλ8, 44–5). They and their peers could have learned about muspille at the continental schools and may have brought the term with them to Iceland. In the Icelandic context, the People or Sons of Muspell are assigned a role in the apocalypse of ragnarøkkr. Gylfaginning tells that amidst the eitr-spewing of the Miðgarðsormr and the advance of the mouth-gaping Fenrizúlfr with fire burning from its eyes and nostrils, the Muspellz megir will come out of the torn sky, with Surtr to lead them, and thatμ “fyrir honum ok eptir bæði eldrbrennandi” (before and after him fire is burning [Gylf. LI]). In Vǫluspá 51, the Muspellz lýðir are not directly associated with Surtr, but will instead advance on Naglfar with Loki as the steersman. As will become apparent below, this too is a volcanic image. Gylfaginning relates that Surtr will fling fire over the earth and burn the entire world (Gylf. LI), and then it quotes Vǫluspá on the battle of ragnarøkkr. Alongside this quotation, Gylfaginning adds stanza 18 of Vafþrúðnismál, where it is related that Surtr will meet the gods on the Vígríðr plain (Gylf. LII). The juxtaposition of Surtr and Muspell is vague and seems to rely mainly on Gylfaginning. But on the other hand, it seems a fair disposition given that muspille is described with terms similar to the functions of Surtr. In the Hauksbók version of Vǫluspá 47, it is added that Surtr’s kin will swallow either those who tread the Hel-way or the Hel-way itself (Neckel & Kuhn 1962, 11: commentaries). This happens after, or as a result of, Yggdrasill’s collapse. In Vafþrúðnismál 50–1, ragnarøkkr is
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referred to as “Surta logi” (Surtr’s flames), and finally, in Vǫluspá 52μ “Surtr ferr sunnan með sviga lævi, skínn af sverði sól valtíva; griótbj rg gnata, en gífr rata, troða halir helveg, en himinn klofnar” (Surtr comes from the south with branches’ harm, the sun of the war-gods shines off the sword; precipices crumble and troll-women roam, men tread the Hel-way, and the sky rips asunder). The image of Surtr in these different descriptions is very close to the image of muspille in the Old High German poem. Surtr’s fire will sweep the world, he will burn heaven, swallow the ground, burn the trees, and destroy the mountains. Man is caught in the midst: in Muspilli he will be punished for his sins, now that the ground is taken from underneath his feet. When Surtr comes in ragnarøkkr, man will tread the Hel-way to his punishment. There is thus nothing remotely problematic in associating Muspell with Surtr (cf. Sigurður Nordal 1927, 102) in the apocalypse of Gylfaginning—but why is he associated with the creation? The conjoined image of ‘εuspell-Surtr’ exists in terms of fire as the tertium comparationis. This is also the quality that is useful in the process of creation in the Ymir Myth. As we have seen above, the dualistic representation of the creation of the world from heat and cold assigns all things grim and evil to Niflheimr, while sparks and molten particles burst out of Muspellzheimr. We may assume, on the basis of what we know from other mythic sources, that this Fire-being, ‘the black one,’ is the cause of the conditions in Muspellzheimr. In her article Surt, Bertha Phillpotts concludes that Surtr is entirely a volcano demon (Phillpotts 1905, 26). The association of Surtr with volcanism in Icelandic culture is found in numerous instances. Phillpotts lists both the Surtshellir75 mentioned in Landnámabók and the Icelandic word for lignite surtarbrandr as links between Surtr and volcanism (p. 16–18). She interprets the above stanzas from Vǫluspá and Vafþrúðnismál as images of volcanism (p. 18–24), and finally, she directs our attention to Surtr’s role in Hallmundarkviða, stating that “this poem may be said to set the seal of confirmation on the view of the volcanic nature of Surt” (p. 26). The bergbúi relates a situation where he journeys “niðr í Surts ens svarta sveit í eld enn heita” (down into Surtr the black one’s companyin/[of]-the-hot-fire [Halkv. 9]). Next he bursts out and becomes an ash plume that darkens the world (Halkv. 10). Surtr causes the eruption. This association of Surtr with volcanism is fully acceptable, and even the above reference to the sun of the war-gods shining off his sword (flame) finds a place in the association. This is the so-called “bishop’s ring,” an intensely bright corona around the sun, which is fringed by a halo that appears in the veil of ashes in the atmosphere after an eruption (Beaudoin & Oetelaar 2006a, 43).
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Such formations as the Surtshellir are caused by tube-fed lava flows from low discharge effusive eruptions, where the top layer of the lava cools and creates a crust. Beneath the crust, the lava is still fluid and will slowly flow away, so that caves are formed. Such processes may take years to complete, and such a hraun will be warm for centuries to come afterwards.
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If we return to the image of the eitr splattering out of its source, flowing, and hardening like slags; the ashes and poisonous fumes being ejected, falling down, and building up layers upon layers, then the molten particles and sparks flying out of Muspellzheimr fit right in. Surtr, the warden of this world of fire, produces these things. It is his fire that bursts out and creates these phenomena—in the words of Phillpotts “Surt’s fuel” (Phillpotts 1λ05, 18). The image is clearμ we are told of a place called Muspellzheimr, which takes its name from an ancient warning of how the world will perish in fire (muspille). This place must be guarded by the volcano warden: he whose fuel causes eruptions. Sparks, molten particles, and slags are ejected from this place and these slags—which are poisonous to humans in every way—turn into a beingμ the first j tunn. And so we find answers to our questions: the observable volcanic phenomena of Iceland, like the creation of Surtsey in 1973, are fundamentally ambiguous. They can destroy our world when Surtr comes forward with flames, but they may also add new life to it when his fuel flows more peacefully and builds its slags into a man, a world-body. This is how Ymir/Aurgelmir is created. COLLECTING THE PIECE S
Old Norse scholarship has had difficulty explaining the apparently inconsistent parts that fire and ice play in the Creation Myth: how can rime be of a mild temperature, and how can the eitr-flow come from a cold source only to freeze up in the milder climate of Ginnungagap? An approach to these questions that recognizes the analogic references of water, rime, and ice to lava as well as ashes and the hardening of a lava flow into a hraun in a culture with no apparent vocabulary for volcanism, can explain this. The poisonous river (eitr) of the stormy waves (Élivágar) is the lava that flows from an eruption (Hvergelmir, ‘kettle-roarer’) like the slags (sindr) from a smelter. It freezes like ice into a hraun and creates a man—a notion that is fully acceptable to a premodern worldview that is presented with the fantastic shapes of a volcanic landscape like Iceland, which until recently has been subject to many a tale of cliff-trolls (see, for instance, Simpson 2004, 77–104). From this flow rises vapour (úr), gasses, and smoke, and ashes are ejected in the process. The ashes fall like dry snow, rime, or soot (mjǫll and hrím) and cover the primordial void. Not only does the imagery of the volcanic analogy explain the apparent contradictions in the different elements of the Creation Myth, it also explains why Gylfaginning insists that Ymir and Aurgelmir are the same figure. Furthermore, it explains what happens in the poetic source from which this imagery of both Ymir and Aurgelmir seem to originate: Vafþrúðnismál 21 and 30–3. Subsequently this provides a frame of reference for Aurgelmir’s offspring. Ymir and Aurgelmir seem to have been interpreted into a neoplatonic scheme, where Ymir is the rime-cold giant from which
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the world is made in a micro-macrocosmic complex, and Aurgelmir is his fiery counterpart that comes from the ground-fire. Behind the conjoining of these two j tnar we find a dualism of fire and ice in Niflheimr and Muspellzheimr. The fire-world of Muspellzheimr is constructed on references to Muspell as the fiery end of the world and Surtr’s volcanic/apocalyptic role in Vǫluspá, essentially placing the volcanic element in direct reference to the creation process of a low-scale effusive volcanic event that must have been observed by Icelanders time and time again, not least in the creation of the Hallmundarhraun where the Surtshellir is located. 76 This is a paradox, yet it is fully understandable in the terms of the apocalyptic tales that medieval Icelanders may have known and compared with the observable phenomena of their surroundings. The (Germanic) world is supposed to perish in a biblical catastrophe of fire known as muspille. The expressions of this cataclysm in Vǫluspá and Muspilli are so close to one another that one may speculate whether they are related.77 In Iceland, the conception of the world being destroyed in flames gains a new, more immediate dimension. For one, the volcanic phenomena of the island must have certainly reinforced any notion the Scandinavian settlers may have had of a muspille event to end the world, regardless of whether their knowledge of muspille came from a common pre-Christian Germanic background possibly influenced by the Christian mission, or from post-conversion teachings on the apocalypse as it is known in the Book of Revelations. But the observations of volcanic phenomena—destructive as they may be—provide another perspective: as much as they destroy, they also create. Fáfnismál 14–15 informs us that the æsir are supposed to meet Surtr in battle at the island Óskópnir and, as we have seen above, this battle between the æsir and Surtr is echoed in Vafþrúðnismál 17–18, where they meet on Vígríðr. The image of “in sváso goð,” the mild (fertility) gods who represent the stable and peaceful condition, joining in battle with the utmost representative of the destructive forces of the world, Surtr, ‘the black one,’ is useful in a description of volcanism on terms of ascribing such events to the willfulness of mythic inhabitants of the ecosystem. The volcanic eruption is Surtr’s attack on the world, and the function of the gods, as described in the beginning of Vǫluspá, is to bring agricultural order to the world after his attack. At this point, as soon as an eruption is experienced by the Scandinavians in Iceland, Surtr and muspille will be intimately linked with the ‘earth-fire.’ They are the willful spirits causing the catastrophe (cf. Barber & Barber 2004, 41–4). 76
See Landnámabók (1968 II, CLXXV [H]), where Þórvaldr holsbarki is said to have composed a drápa to Surtr in a cave. I am not arguing that there is a direct relationship between the actual poems of Muspilli and Vǫluspá. Rather, I am speculating that they are closely tied to the same image of the end of the world, and that is of course one that originates in the Book of Revelation. John McKinnell and Richard North have provided excellent examinations of the relationship between Vǫluspá and the Easter sermon, and Vǫluspá and the Book of Revelation in, respectively, Vǫluspá and the Feast of Easter (2008) and Vǫluspá and the Book of Revelation (2003). 77
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But something else happens as the Scandinavians experience how this volcanic phenomenon works its magicμ Surtr’s fire breaks out of the ground. There are sparks and bursts of molten particles, and a poisonous flow that looks like slags from iron smelting. Vapor, smoke, and ashes—sand or (dry) snow—rise from it. The ejecta build up, layer upon layer. The world does not come to an end. Instead, the poisonous flow freezes over, the dry snow builds ground, and soon a new landscape has been formed. This is the creation process observed: eitr, mjǫll, and úr build up and produce a landscape, and this landscape is a roaring, unfriendly creature, a barren wasteland that must be cultivated by the milder powers of the cosmos. The unfriendly, unaccommodating Ymir/Aurgelmir must be refined in the hands of capable gods. In this scheme the Muspell People, Surtr, and the gods seem to inhabit the exact same conceptual roles as the Red Spirits, the Smoke Woman, and the Antecedent Spirits in the above described cosmology of the Maring people: there are the Fire Spirits with their swarthy leader, who attack our world and there are the Ancestor Spirits as a collective, who ensure fertility and procreation. Surtr and the Muspell People are associated with fire and war, and the gods are beloved, kind, and sweet (sváss). When the Fire Spirits and their leader send the eitr and the earth-fire that is so dangerous to humans, it takes the power of the beloved Ancestor Spirits to make the world inhabitable again. Behind the figure of Ymir there seems to be a common Germanic traditional conception of creation from a primordial chthonic being. This is supported by the story of the earth-borne (terra editus) Tuisto in Tacitus’s Germania, and to some extent the tales in Hversu Noregr byggðiz and Fundinn Noregr of Fornjótr (cf. Clunies Ross 1983), who—not surprisingly, considering the Creation Myth in Gylfaginning—fathers the various elements: Hlér (sea), Logi (fire), and Kári (wind). Kári was the father of Frosti (frost), who in turn was the father of Snær (snow). Snær was the father of Þorri, whose name is the name for the primary winter month of the Old Norse calendar (cf. Nordberg 2006, 56). This genealogy explains the origins of the winter season and its pagan rites (cf. Clunies Ross 2003). As such it is in agreement with Prologus insofar as it expresses the same theory of pagan religion: that pagan religion is a materialistic worship based on the experience of natural processes (Prol. I–II). The description of the cosmogony in Gylfaginning combines eddic poetry with theories on religion, history, and language as it has developed in the Christian world in the centuries prior to the thirteenth century. As previously mentioned, the Creation Myth seems to rely on the neoplatonic notion that the convergence of the two extremes, ice and fire, created a mild climate in which life could grow (von See 1988, 52–5). The tradition of Gylfaginning associates two known mythic concepts from the poetry, Muspell and Niflhel, with the elements of fire and ice to explain the origins of the cosmos in a ‘pagan worldview’ that is consistent with the authoritative medieval theories on this subject. This occurs by aligning parts of the Creation Myth in Vǫluspá with parts of the myth of
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the apocalypse in that very same poem. In this Creation Myth it is possible to detect a certain influence from the eleventh and twelfth century philosophical discussion of creatio ex nihilo that is also referred to in Prologus (Dronke & Dronke 1977, 170–2). The pagans, according to Prologus, reasoned that everything must have been created from a substance (Prol. II). It seems that there is already substance in the Creation Myth of Gylfaginning, in accordance with Prologus, but the interpolation of the altered stanza 3 of Vǫluspá that substitutes Ymir with nothingness seems to accommodate the position of creatio ex nihiloμ “Ár vaz alda, þat er ekki var” (Gylf. IV). This position, however, contradicts the tradition based on experiences of volcanic activities and lava flows combined with the Mythical Charter of Tradition: we have seen the burning of a hraun; we have seen how lava bursts out of the ground and creates new layers of rock and muddy substance; we have seen this mud eventually become overgrown with shrubs and grass; and we have even seen that it may even become a highly fertile area on which fields can be sown and animals may graze. This is an eco-mythological description of the creation of the world that incorporates experiences of the surrounding ecosystem to give an account of what might have happened in illo tempore. It accounts for the world as a living being, governed by forces much greater than human beings. These forces are living in the ground, and they are still very much alive. They are encountered in caves and inside the bowels of mountains. They sit in darkness and await the time when, for one reason or another, they will manifest their powers. They come from the giant being that was originally created when the liquids of the fire-world poured into the void, filled it up, and cooled down. They are the j tnar, the dvergar, the hrímþursar, the bergbúi, and the gýgjar that we see and hear in the mountains. To safeguard against their activities, the gods created a man of cosmic wisdom in a similar manner as the original Ymir-being was created by liquids in the vat of the world, Ginnungagap. This man came from the liquid of the mouths of the gods and he is called Kvasir. He traveled far and wide to relay cosmic and social wisdom to people, until he became a victim of the evil forces in the shape of men that reside in the flesh of Ymir, the dvergar (Gylf. XIV). In the following section we will examine the story of Kvasir and the Mead Myth in Skáldskaparmál and its relationship with volcanism.
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THE CONVULSIONS OF KVASIR AND THE ODINIC ERUPTION THE MEAD MYSTERY
Contemporary Old Norse scholarship tends to focus on the connection of the Mead of Poetry to knowledge and the significance of mead as alcoholic drink to Old Norse mythology and religion (Fleck 1970; Meletinskij 1973; Drobin 1991; Schjødt 1983, 2008a; Svava Jakobsdóttir 2002; Quinn 2010), a complex that possibly hearkens back to the distant Indo-European heritage of the early Scandinavians (Dumézil 1924, 1959; McKinnell 2005, 170). Both Schjødt (1983) and Larrington (2002) recognize that this complex is intimately linked with cosmology.78 In her article Vafþrúðnismál and Grímnismál: Cosmic History, Cosmic Geography, Larrington points out that the ingestion of the mead by Óðinn in Grímnismál sparks a geographic mapping of the divine cosmos, which is not only mapping out the divine ‘lay of the land,’ but also prescribes proper social conduct for rulers (2002, 73–4). This aligns with the ritual of the sacred feast, culminating in the divine archetype of the human feast, when stanza 45 of Grímnismál bids the æsir enter and drink the vilbiǫrg. Grímnismál, she says, “thus plots the boundaries of the human and the divine, laying bare the ritual and sacrificial structures which underpin both the worlds of Ásgarðr and Miðgarðr” (p. 74). The mead is thus the social glue that holds the worlds together. Schjødt sees cosmic functions in the spatial structures of the myth of the Mead of Poetry in Edda. In Livsdrik og vidensdrik (1983), and later in his Initiation between Two Worlds (2008a, 134– 72), Schjødt argues for the special function of Hnitbj rg, and Óðinn’s visit to Gunnl ð deep inside the mountain, as the chthonic space in the cosmos whence numinous knowledge can be retrieved: “Dette bjerg er i denne myte at forstå som en axis mundi, der ellers i Norden symboliseres ved Yggdrasil, og det er i de nederste lag, at Gunnlød sidder og ruger over mjøden, for det er her, at Odin som orm når ind til hende. Det konstituerende træk ved en axis mundi er imidlertid, at den skaber forbindelse mellem de forskellige stokværk i kosmos, hvilket også udnyttes i denne myte, hvor Odin efter at have indtaget mjøden flyver mod Asgård og oververdenen” (The mountain is in this myth an axis mundi, which is in the North normally symbolized by Yggdrasill, and it is in the deepest layers that Gunnl ð is sitting, guarding the mead, because it is here that Óðinn can reach her in the guise of a worm. The constitutive aspect of an axis mundi is however that it connects the different parts of the cosmos, and this is also utilized in this myth, where Óðinn after having ingested the mead, flies towards Ásgarðr and the upper realm [Schjødt 1983, 92]).
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In a recent article by Jan Kozák Óðinn a medovina básnictví (2010), it is argued that the dualistic aspect of the cosmos is crucial to the understanding of the supposedly shamanic initiation aspects of the Mead of Poetry.
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Schjødt sees this journey of the mead into the bottom of the mountain as a cosmic journey into the underworld, to the realm of the dead and the feminine, where it gains its numinosity so that Óðinn may undertake an initiatory journey to procure it for the skalds (1983, 94–7; 2008a, 163–7). As such, the mead is both a cosmic and chthonic substance. In the preceding section of this chapter, we noted that the Mead of Poetry may have been related to volcanism in Hallmundarkviða. The footnote in ÍF 13 explains the last stanza of Hallmundarkviða where the bergbúi says “enn er at Aurnis brunni” (Aurnir’s well is not yet dry [Bergbúa þáttr: ÍF 13 1λλ1, 450, fn.]), and offers the interpretation of “Aurnis brunnr” as ‘the well of (a) j tunn,’ the εead of Poetry. This seems reasonable since, as we saw earlier, ‘j tunn’ is commutable with ‘áss’ and ‘dvergr’ in the composition of conceptual metaphors for the Mead of Poetry (Quinn 2010, 224–5). But Aurnir’s well seems to mean much more in Hallmundarkviða, as it is not only the skaldic stanzas that come to an end when the well dries up, it is also the eruption. The verse line implies that there will be more cause for poetry in the future. This is a conceptual conflation of mead and lava. We have already seen how it may be that eitr is not connected with the flood of the Élivágar because both elements are extremely cold, but instead may have been linked by way of the “lava stream of the Élivágar,” because the tertium comparationis of eitr as the pus that comes out of boils and eitr that is frozen ice on a cliff, is the yellow color. The yellow color of eitr is shared with lava and notably, mead. The colors of mead range from light golden to dark golden. In the beginning of Hallmundarkviða, in stanzas 2 and 3, the bergbúi is describing how the fire, the effusive activity, comes before the explosive eruption. He plays on the similitude of the color of gold to the color of fire, and thus to the color of the molten rocks of lava. The volcano is called the “seima særi sáman” (swarthy gold-dispenser [Halkv. 2]), and those humans who become victims of the jökulhlaup are referred to as “lyptidraugar liðbáls” (the arm-fire’s [the gold-ring’s] lifting-ghosts [(dead) men] [Halkv. 3]). The bergbúi is thus quite aware of the comparison of ‘fire’ to ‘gold’—an awareness that is also made clear in the list of gold kennings and heiti in Skáldskaparmál (cf. Skáld. XLV–XLVII). There are no skaldic stanzas that specifically link mead and gold in terms of their color. There are, however, a couple of stanzas in Eyvindr skáldaspillir’s Háleygjatal that seem to associate the origins of the Mead of Poetry with the volcanic dwellings of Surtr. We will explore this connection below, but first the tradition of the poem of Háleygjatal must be examined in order to establish on what grounds it is reasonable to connect the Mead of Poetry with volcanism.
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HÁLEYGJATAL, ÓÐINN, AND THE MEAD OF POETRY
Háleygjatal was presumably composed by the Norwegian skáld Eyvindr skáldaspillir in the time around 985 as a praise poem for Hákon Jarl (Steinsland 1991, 214). Richard North (1997) suggests that Hákon Aðalsteinsfóstri’s return to Norway from England in 945 as a Christian, baptized by King Æþelstān, prompted the Háleygjar to copy the West Saxon tradition of using Wōden’s name in regal lists, in order to legitimize their position in Norwegian society (North 1997, 13–14). Eyvindr’s Háleygjatal was the prime propaganda tool of the Háleygjar, and it is evident from its composition that it was deliberately contrived as a response to Ynglingatal, on which it depended for structure (Ström 1981, 446). Where Ynglingatal establishes the legitimacy of the genealogy of the Vestfold rulers, Háleygjatal firmly asserts the divine descent of the Háleygjar on an equal scale (p. 447–8; Steinsland 1991, 219). This poetic activity of the magnates in Hálogaland, traditionally an area closely tied to Iceland, may have inspired the growth of historiography and antiquarian mythography in Iceland. It is a literary activity that assigns Óðinn numerous roles in numerous types of narratives. In this tradition according to North, Óðinn is a “witch, shaman, patron of poets, war-god and All-Father (Alfǫðr) of the Æsir whom he rules” (North 1λλ7, 14).79 The mythological and mythographic material from Iceland on Óðinn is a rich tapestry,80 and as North remarksμ “it was mostly Snorri’s achievement to glamorize this figure beyond the status he would have had […] in heathen Scandinavia in the tenth century” (ibid). In these terms it seems Óðinn could have been assigned multiple roles in narrative creativity. To the tradition of the myth of the Mead of Poetry belong the two initial stanzas of Háleygjatal, a stanza of Einarr skálaglamm’s Vellekla (c. 990), and the stanzas 104–10 in Hávamál. These various stanzas, also known to the tradition of Skáldskaparmál, seem to have been the only other literary references (that we know of) to the Mead Myth available in the thirteenth century, except for the extended narrative in Skáldskaparmál. It is hard to grasp the extent of the myth without referring to the extended narrative, but there are differences between the version in Hávamál and the version in Skáldskaparmál. Our concern is the Mead Myth in Skáldskaparmál; its components are the following: (1) Prologue: At the truce of the æsir and the vanir, the conjoined divine beings spit in a vat. From the spittle comes the wise man called Kvasir.
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The multifaceted figure of Óðinn is echoed by a veritable horde of scholars: Dumézil 1959, 46; Turville-Petre 1972, 9; Simek 2007, 240; Kaliff & Sundqvist 2006, 212; Schjødt 2008a, 451; Lassen 2011, 77. 80 See Annette δassen’s Odin på kristent pergament (2011) for the most extensive recent overview of Óðinn in the literature. See also Baetke’s critique of the Odinstheologie in Die Götterlehre der Snorra-Edda ([1950] 1973, 230–44). Úlfar Bragason offers a concise and comprehensive discussion of the role of genealogies as a return to the past in the period of the ‘Old Norse Renaissance,’ c. 1150–1300 in his article Genealogies: a return to the past (2007).
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(2) The Kvasir Myth: Kvasir journeys all over the world. He comes to the dwarves Fjalarr and Galarr, who murder him and drain his blood to mix it with honey to make mead. They pour the substance into two vats (ker) called Són and Boðn and a kettle (ketill) called Óðrørir. They inform the gods that there was none among them wise enough to absorb Kvasir’s knowledge, and thus he drowned in his own wisdom. a)
The j tunn Gillingr and his wife visit the dwarves. Gillingr drowns when he goes sailing with the dwarves. Gillingr’s wife cries loudly out of sorrow, and because Fjalarr cannot stand her noisiness, Galarr kills her with a quernstone.
b) Suttungr, Gillingr’s son, receives knowledge about the deaths and demands wergild from the dwarves. He sails out on the ocean with the dwarves and put them off on a rock in the water. They beg him to let them back on land, and when they offer him the mead in recompense, he accepts, takes the mead and puts it in Hnitbj rg with Gunnl ð as its guardian. (3) Óðinn enters the tale as B lverkr. He goes to Suttungr’s brother Baugi, causes the death of his slaves with a whetstone and agrees with Baugi that in turn for doing the harvesting job of the slaves before winter, Baugi will help him get a drink of Suttungr’s mead. a) Suttungr denies Óðinn the mead and B lverkr goes with Baugi into the mountain Hnitbj rg, where they drill into the mountainside. B lverkr blows into the hole to see if there is a passage and rocks fall out. He realizes that Baugi means to trick him, but he orders Baugi to drill again. B lverkr transforms into a snake and slips into the hole, Baugi, having tried to cheat B lverkr, stabs at him with the drill. B lverkr escapes. (4) B lverkr sleeps with Gunnl ð inside the mountain for three nights and takes three draughts of the mead, gulping up the entire substance. a) He transforms into an eagle and flies out of Hnitbj rg. Suttungr follows him, also in the shape of an eagle. b) The two eagles approach Ásgarðr. Óðinn regurgitates two of the draughts into two containers. The last third of the mead he sends out backwards in the face of Suttungr and thus he manages to escape the pursuing j tunn. (5) Epilogue: The narrator explains that the third part of the Mead of Poetry is the part that everyone can have, and it is disregarded. Skáldskaparmál informs us that the reason we call the Mead of Poetry “Kvasis dreyri” (Kvasir’s blood [Skáld. III]) is Einarr skálaglamm’s single stanza of Vellekla 1μ “Hugstóran bið ek heyra – heyr, jarl, Kvasis dreyra – foldar v rð á fyrða fjarðleggjar brim dreggjar” (The great-minded I ask to listen – hear, Jarl, Kvasir’s blood – guardian of the land, to the ale’s surf of the fjord-bone’s men [ibid]).
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In her article Snorri and the mead of poetry (1981), Roberta Frank argues that certain kennings and heiti were misinterpreted to create the Kvasir Myth (p. 157).81 The above kenning is the only extant example of ‘Kvasir’s blood’ and the foundation for the exposition of Fjalarr’s and Galarr’s murder of Kvasir. Frank argues that it originally referred to the intoxicating drink (as in fermented crushed fruit [cf. Mogk 1923, 25]), and that it must have been recognized as such in its time, not as a ‘wise man named Kvasir’ (Frank 1981, 158–60). Another misinterpretation, according to Frank, is Eyvindr’s “Gillings gj ld” in stanza 1 of Háleygjatalμ “Vilja ek hlj‹ó›ð at *Hárs líði meðan Gillings gj ldum yppik, meðan hans ætt í hverlegi gálga farms til goða teljum” (Silence I pray for Hár’s ale while I raise Gilling’s ransom, while his kin in the kettle-sea of gallows-cargo we tally to gods [Skáld. III]). Frank argues that this is not originally ‘Gillingr’s payment’ but in fact ‘Gillingr’s draught.’ Gillingr (noisy, resounding) is only attested in one other instance, in the list of river heiti in Grímnismál, and Frank thus surmises that if Eyvindr intended to refer to the river name in his poem, his kenning could be a variation on Einarr’s “δopts vinar vínheims Vína” (the river of δoptr’s wineworld) in Vellekla 12 (Frank 1981, 165). The same skeptical scrutiny is performed in relation to the appearance of the vats Són, Boðn, and Óðrørir in the Kvasir Myth (p. 161–3). At this juncture we will restrict our focus to deal with Óðrørir, which Skáldskapármál claims is a kettle (Skáld. GLVII). This word appears in Vellekla 2 with reference to water and the seaμ “Eisar *vágr fyrir vísa, verk R gnis mér *hagna, þýtr Óðreris alda aldr hafs við þes galdra” (The wave rushes before the prince, R gnir’s deeds benefit me, the swell of Óðrørir pounds against the song’s skerry82 [Skáld. III]). Óðrørir may mean ‘that which stirs the soul’ (ODNS 1λ66, 442) or ‘stimulates ecstasy’ (Simek 2007, 250). It also occurs in Hávamál 107 and 140. In stanza 140, Óðinn receives the εead of Poetry from B lþor “ausinn Óðreri” (poured from Óðrørir), thus presumably indicating that Óðrørir may be a vessel of some kind. In stanza 107 however, Óðrørir seems to be synonymous with the Mead of Poetry itself (de Vries II 1970, 71–2; Frank 1λ81, 162)μ “þvíat Óðrerir er nú upp kominn á alda vés iarðar” (because Óðrørir has now come up to earth’s old sanctuaries [Hvm. 107]). This eventually leads Frank to the conclusion thatμ “the early skalds had as their base a single concept – that of verse as an intoxicating drink – and as their definer a single concept – that of divine or chthonic existence” (Frank 1λ81, 170). She surmises that the old core of the εead εyth is that of Hávamál 104–10, where Óðinn retrieves the underground mead from the j tnar and leaves Gunnl ð and her father betrayed. The dwarves, she says, though missing in Hávamál, must have been
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So also Mogk 1923. The last verse is borrowed from Faulkes’ translation. In the first verse, Faulkes has ‘Wave of time’s sea rushes before the prince.’ Compare with Frank (1λ81, 161). 82
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introduced at an early stage (p. 168, fn.). The mead as a chthonic substance that was once retrieved from the underworld may be the core of the myth, originally the Germanic expression of a common Indo-European mythic complex about alcoholic drink and its ritual significance (de Vries 1970 II, 67–73), but something decisive happens from the time of this Urzeit to the early medieval period in Iceland. The subject matter of Hávamál suggests that Óðinn marries a j tunn and brings the εead of Poetry to the world of men. McKinnell believes the stanzas 104–110 of Hávamál are from the twelfth century and echo Ovid’s Ars Amatoria (εcKinnell 2005, 164). Here, he says, the Gunnl ð myth, which is scarcely mentioned in skaldic verse, serves the purpose of illustrating the sexual treachery of men (ibid). εcKinnell’s chapter on ‘Seducing the Giantess’ (p. 147–71) compares the different mythic examples of Óðinn seducing female j tnar for the purpose of producing offspring. He concludes that “[W]ithin the Old Norse material, the motive of Óðinn’s seduction of Gunnl ð looks unusual” (p. 171), assigning the Gunnl ð myth to the very late heathen period. But it must be questioned why this myth has come to be so unusual in terms of fitting the pattern of j tunn seductions. It seems there may be a clue to this in Eyvindr’s second stanza of Háleygjatalμ “Hinn er Surts ór søkkd lum farmagnuðr fljúgandi bar” ([the mead] which the Fierce-journeyer flying carried out of Surt’s sinking-dales [Skáld. II]). If we focus on what these stanzas say about the relationship between the Mead of Poetry and its source, we see that it can be associated with volcanic origins. Phillpotts identifies the mention of ‘Surtr’s sinking-dales’ as an example of Eyvindr’s knowledge of Iceland and the existence of the Volcano-j tunn in the pre-Christian Era (Phillpotts 1905, 28), while to various philologists the mentioning of Surtr, not Suttungr, has been puzzling, leading to absurd suggestions that there is a linguistic relationship between Surtr and Suttungr (in *Surtungr). This is rejected by de Vries, who in turn—referring to the kenning “Hnitbjarga l gr” (Hnitbj rg’s water)—suggests that we are dealing with a notion of a well of the water of life (de Vries II 1970, 70–2). The problem is, however, that ‘Surtr’s sinking-dales’ is only used in Háleygjatal (ODNS 1966, 547). ‘Surtr’ in this kenning is usually taken to mean just ‘j tunn’ and we may then conclude that either we are dealing with a kenning for valleys or mountains, or if we believe Phillpotts, a kenning for Iceland itself. This may be the case, but as we learn in Landnámabók, Iceland is generally associated with ice and snow and was early on given the name “Snæland” (Snow-land [Landn. 1968 I, III–IV (S)]). Volcanic phenomena are seldomly mentioned in Landnámabók, and they are not associated with the country of Iceland itself. The related term “Snjógrundr” (Snow-ground) is used in Hallmundarkviða in direct association with the effects of volcanism in Iceland (Halkv. 5). If there were any tradition in early times of associating Iceland with volcanism as the primary factor, it seems
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reasonable that it would occur in Hallmundarkviða, now that this poem is focused on volcanism as an activity in Iceland. So it seems that in terms of referring to Iceland, the snow-and-ice terminology is more widespread, and ‘Surtr’s sinking-dales’ must be less common. It seems more likely that it refers to places of volcanism in Iceland, rather than it refers to them as a feature of Iceland. Moreover, it is unlikely that the ‘sinking-dales of the Volcano-j tunn’ would be chosen just to construct a kenning for valleys belonging to j tnar. The only way this would be a probable assertion is if Eyvindr was aware of the causalities of seismic activity, volcanism, and geological phenomena, and could link the activities of the Volcano-j tunn of the underground directly to the formation of valleys and mountains. It is hard to find any evidence that he—or any other inhabitant of Europe at that time— was aware of the complexities of geology at that level. At this point we must revisit the well of Aurnir, the conceptual metaphor for the Mead of Poetry which juxtaposes mead with lava. The composition of “Aurnis brunnr” is no different than “Surts s kkdalir.” We saw that Aurnir’s well gains volcanic credence from its poetic context and possibly from the prefix aurr- of both Aurnir and Aurgelmir. Here ‘Surtr’s sinking-dales’ similarly gain volcanic credence from Surtr’s uncontested mythic function as a Fire-being and Volcano-j tunn. His “s kkdalir” parallel the events that pass in stanza 10 of Hallmundarkviða, where Hallmundr sinks down into the ground, into ‘Surtr’s company.’ This is the site of Surtrμ a volcanic cave. This is fully realized and recognized in the place name of Surtshellir in Hallmundarhraun. In this light we must ask ourselves why Skáldskaparmál is so focused on Óðrørir as a kettle. The Kvasir Myth specifically distinguishes between the two ker of Són and Boðn, and then the ketill of Óðrørir, as if there is an underlying tradition of Óðrørir as a kettle. We have seen above that the evidence for this is scarce. In Háleygjatal stanza 1, Eyvindr calls the εead of Poetry the ‘kettle-sea of gallows-cargo.’ The term ‘kettle-sea’ is explained in Skáldskaparmál with reference to the Kvasir εythμ “fyrir því at Kvasis blóð var l gr í Óðreri áðr mj ðrinn væri gj rr, ok þar gerðisk hann í katlinum, ok er hann kallaðr fyrir því hverl gr Óðins …” (because Kvasir’s blood was liquid in Óðrørir until the mead was made, and then it was made in that kettle, and therefore it is called Óðinn’s kettle-sea … [Skáld. III]). The terms ketill and hverr are significant. Mead is not normally made or kept in a kettle—one would rather be inclined to use a wooden vat for such a process. Kettles, constructed of materials that can withstand the temperatures of a fire, seem better reserved for cooking processes that require high temperatures. Of course there is something to be said for using a kettle if there is no wooden vat at hand, but this is mythopoesis, not an individual practical situation. We must assume that both the composer of Háleygjatal and the writer of Skáldskaparmál were aware of the difference of ker and ketill/hverr and the fact that there is no heating process involved in making
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mead. In the Kvasir Myth, it seems there is a certain awareness of this fact, now that Óðrørir is a kettle and Són and Boðn are vats. It seems there is a very conscious linking of Óðrørir with a kettle in order to explain hverlǫgr, but given the context of Eyvindr’s kennings there is a straight forward explanation: volcanism. If the hverlǫgr comes out of Surtr’s sinking-dales—that place in which Surtr keeps his fiery heat—then this ‘kettle-liquid’ must be lava rather than water. It is hard not to associate this with Hvergelmir in this context, and the fact that this source of the eitr of Élivágar means the ‘kettle-roarer.’ This image could be understood in terms of Hvergelmir as the volcanic caldera and hverlǫgr as its liquid, the lava. As such, in the context of the Mead Myth in Skáldskaparmál, we can parallel the terms ‘Aurnir’s well,’ ‘Surtr’s sinking-dales,’ and the ‘Kettle-roarer,’ under the theme of volcanism. This draws to light the above-mentioned kenning of “l gr Hnitbjarga” (Skáld. III), which de Vries had troubles resolving. This kenning seems to conceptually parallel hverlǫgr in the same way that ‘Surtr’s sinking-dales’ parallels ‘Aurnir’s well.’ This ‘liquid of the mountain’ is not just water—we can see that in the name of Hnitbj rgμ ‘Clashing rocks’ (ODNS 1λ66, 270).83 This image of the clashing rocks in connection with volcanism and seismic activity is also mentioned by Saxo, who describes the wonders of Iceland: “Est et saxum, quod montium pręrupta non extrinseca agitatione, sed propria natiuaque motione perucolitat” (There is also a rock there that flies over steep mountains without external force, but only by its own force [Saxo 2005 I, Praef. 2,7]). We may thus surmise that the Mountain of Clashing Rocks is not an opaque image to medieval Scandinavians, and an interpretation of the ‘δiquid of the Clashing Rocks’ in connection to volcanism is not out of bounds. As we dwell on the names of the εead εyth’s various characters, we may note that it is not only Hnitbj rg that carries metaphoric reference to volcanism. We identified above the name Gillingr, which seems not to have a strong tradition behind it in skaldic poetry, although it is used by Eyvindr in what may be termed his volcanic stanzas. Probably a river heiti meaning ‘noisy, resounding,’ it fits well into the analogic parallel of water and lava that we saw in the preceding section of this chapter. Fjalarr (‘hider’ [Simek 2007, 84]), the name possibly assigned to the same figure as Suttungr in Hávamál 14, does not connote any type of volcanism, but may on the other hand relate to underground activity and death, as it is he who seems to instigate the deaths in the underworld. Galarr, however, a name that occurs only in the Mead Myth and in the þulur (as a j tunn’s name), seems to mean ‘the
According to ODNS in Arkiv för nordisk filologi 10 p. 3λ, it is claimed there is a place name in Iceland called Hnitbj rg. It is not, however, a place name that is mentioned there. Instead it says that Hnitbj rg is compared by Bugge with the Συ π ηγά ς of the tale of Jason and the Argonauts (Falk 18λ4, 3λ). The Symplēgades as a volcanic image seems to have been overlooked by Barber and Barber. εcKinnell connects Hnitbj rg with stones in which different beings may live in folklore (2005b, 106). His assertions do not, however, contradict an interpretation of Hnitbj rg in relation to volcanism. Hnitbj rg appears as a place name in Landnámabók (1968 I, XLV [S] XXXIII [H]). It may, however, be a misunderstanding of Hvítbj rg (see index ‘Hnitbj rg’, vol. II 1λ68, 471). 83
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singing one,’ or more probably ‘the screaming one’ (ODNS 1λ66, 168). Together with Gillingr, Galarr forms an alliterative pair. The j tunn name Suttungr does not relate to anything comparable to volcanic or seismic activity, but it is conspicuous that Óðinn takes on the name of B lverkr, ‘Evildoer,’ (ODNS 1λ66, 75), when he goes to fetch the mead. Whether Baugi and Gunnl ð can be related to volcanism is a matter of how far one wishes to go in interpretation. Baugi is possibly derived from baugr ‘ring’ (of gold) (ODNS 1λ66, 37), and Gunnl ð may mean ‘Invitation to Battle’ (Simek 2007, 124). A somewhat daring suggestion for Baugi’s connection with volcanism could be on account of a ‘fire ring’ or circular pit of fire similar to that of a volcanic caldera, which establishes metonymic reference to gold and gold rings in similar terms as they have been seen above in relation to stanzas 2–3 of Hallmundarkviða. It is also worth noting in this connection that Baugi and B lverkr form an alliterative pair like Galarr and Gillingr, and in that respect, that Galarr and Gillingr represent the underground rumbling heralding the coming eruption, whereas Baugi and B lverkr, with their activities in the mountain, represent the eruptive event itself. It is also useful to consider the association of the name Gunnl ð to battle or war. War metaphors are not scarce in Hallmundarkviða, nor as we have seen, in relation to the Maring, in other tales of volcanism from elsewhere in the world. This means that regardless of whether we accept that the mead myth as it comes to us in its current form in Skáldskaparmál is of late origin as McKinnell suggests, or even, as Frank believes, that it was constructed at the time Edda was written, we are able to trace key elements directly to volcanism. Óðinn assigns the name of B lverkr to himself in Grímnismál 47 and it occurs in the þulur, but otherwise it is not used in the poetry (ODNS 1966, 75).84 With knowledge of its meaning from a vague tradition in the poetry of Grímnismál, the name can at any point in time have been associated with Óðinn to give him the character of a Volcano Spirit. It should be remembered in regard to this that the Mead Myth is highly polysemantic, its subject matter pointing in many different directions based on a variety of older traditions that presumably have been assigned a frame of causality in the tradition of Edda (Mogk 1923, 33). The stanzas of Hávamál 104–10 involve both the topic of the j tunn seduction and the retrieval of the mead. The Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál includes the motif of seducing the j tunn and the retrieval of the mead,
There is a curious case of the use of the name in Landnámabók XLIII (S)/XXXI (H), where we learn of Músa-B lverkr who lived in Hraunsás (Lava-ridge). He was apparently instrumental in the guidance of the river Hvítá with his virkiμ “þá lét hann gera þar virki ok veitti Hvítá í gegnum ásinn, en áðr fell hon um εelrakkadal ofan” (then he made there his stronghold and guided Hvítá around the ridge, but before that it fell through Melrakkadal [Landn. 1968 I, XLIII (S), XXXI (H)]). The word virki may also refer to spells in compounds (Zoëga 2004, 495), and it is likely that the virki is not at all a stronghold, but a supernatural activity that has caused a geological event. It may also be noted that if the original tradition actually meant ‘stronghold,’ the size of the building itself would be unlike anything seen elsewhere in Iceland. It must be asked in that connection, whether ninth and tenth century Icelanders had the capacity to stem rivers and redirect their course without the use of supernatural abilities. 84
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but goes one step further by giving the Mead Myth a cosmic dimension that can result in nothing else—in an Icelandic context—than to introduce a volcanic aspect. We have seen in the beginning of this section that the Mead of Poetry as knowledge-drink incited the recitation of Grímnismál, an exegesis on cosmology paired with proper social conduct. The interpretation of the mead as ‘blood of Kvasir,’ εogk writes, is the basis for the embodiment of Kvasir in Edda, led on by river- and water-kennings such as “sals dreyri” (hall’s blood) and particularly “jarðar dreyri” (earth’s blood) (Mogk 1923, 28). Frank assumes that these kenning constructions allude to the Ymir Myth and his blood becoming the sea, and that the model of the Ymir Myth could have corroborated the Kvasir Myth (Frank 1981, 160–1). This parallel is also recognized by both Clunies Ross (1994, 76,197–218) and Schjødt (2008a, 133). The Mead Myth is thus a fully-realized narrative of cosmic knowledge. It associates mead with cosmic fluids and therefore knowledge of these as well as basic proper behavior and conduct. The common scholarly focus on the Mead of Poetry is generally on its role in social life. Even those interpretations that recognize a cosmological complex in relation to the Mead of Poetry tend to be preoccupied with the socially constitutive aspects of the cosmos, plotting the social upon the cosmic. However, if the social aspects of the Mead Myth are approached as an explanation for natural processes in the cosmos, it is possible to see in it elements of active volcanic imagery that refer to the poetic bits of Eyvindr’s Háleygjatal and Hallmundarkviða, where the mead is directly activated in reference to volcanism. It is possible to trace the role of Óðinn as a j tunn seducer in relation to the εead εyth back to Eyvindr’s poem of Háleygjatal, which contains kennings for the mead which specifically refer to volcanism. This poem belongs to a similar tradition of telling the Mead Myth as it is developed in Skáldskaparmál, whereas the stanzas 104–10 of Hávamál seem to be focused only on relaying knowledge of social interaction in the iconic setting of the hall of a j tunn. The εead Myth in Skáldskaparmál seems to be a mix of motifs that has puzzled some scholars. It involves an etiological explanation for the εead of Poetry and the Odinic seduction of a j tunn, confusingly wrapped in a cosmological packaging with reference to the Ymir Myth. Underneath these motifs we find a simmering tradition of volcanic referentiality that may originate in Eyvindr’s kennings. These are the primary cause of confusion, because it is only by the terms of volcanism that it makes sense to connect these different motifs. It is paramount to our further understanding of this myth, its cosmic referentiality and function in the Mythical Charter of Tradition, and not least the Icelandic conceptions of volcanism ingrained in it, to consider the processes that Kvasir undergoes. We shall examine his transformations, and building on that, we will examine Óðinn’s eruption from Hnitbj rg afterwards. All these elements of the Mead Myth are recognizable in the patterns of other Icelandic medieval narratives and an ancient
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pagan tradition, and they seem to have been combined in a narrative tradition of telling the Mead Myth as a volcanic event in order to preserve knowledge of the volcanic activities of the Icelandic underground. KVA“IR’“ CONVUL“ION“
Cosmology was important to skaldic diction (Guðrún Nordal 2001, 280), which recognized a variety of landscape kennings based on body imagery (p. 283–95). With such a foundation for the poetic activities of skaldic diction, it is nearly unthinkable that the source of this poetry, the mead, does not have a cosmic origin itself. It seems only natural that the mead as the primary mnemonic source from which social and technical knowledge is shared in the form of myth, as it is so well described in the course of Grímnismál, would connect to notions of cosmic origins. In fact, what we find is a full parallelization of cosmos and body in the Kvasir Myth. The prologue to the myth of the Mead of Poetry tells how the æsir had warred with a group called the vanir, and when they made peace, they all went up to a vat and spat in it. The æsir kept this symbol of truce and made from it the man called Kvasir (Skáld. GLVII). Schjødt sees the coming together of the æsir and the vanir in the truce as the foundation of the creation of a viable society (Schjødt 1983, 1984, 1991). As such, this part of the myth is a sociogony, a foundation myth, that provides an etiology for divine society (2008, 167). As a myth of sociogony, we may note that the Kvasir Myth parallels the Ymir Myth in more than one aspect. We noted earlier that scholarship has focused on the comparable aspect of Ymir with Kvasir in their roles as victims of killings, which are to be interpreted as sacrifices (cf. Drobin 1λλ1). But Kvasir’s role is more elaborate than that. He is the embodiment of cosmic knowledge dispensed among the realms of existence, and as such—both in the form of body (himself) and the form of liquid (mead/lava), he permeates the World-body of Ymir. He is the microcosmic parallel to the macrocosm of Ymir, and with this parallelization he becomes the carrier of cosmic wisdom given to society literally from the mouths of the gods. KVASIR
Ymir and Kvasir are both created from liquid that flows into a container. Ymir comes from the eitr in Ginnungagap, the cosmic container, while Kvasir comes from the spittle of the gods in a smaller container. Kvasir mirrors Ymir in a way comparable to the microcosm mirroring the macrocosm and vice versa. The associations of the vanir with fertility and a chthonic character (de Vries II 1970, 203; Schjødt 2008a, 383), as opposed to the culturally oriented æsir is an important dualistic aspect of the
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Mead Myth. In the Old Norse mythological conceptual schema, the æsir enjoy the role of improvers of nature. They give raw material shape and impose order. This is the basic event of the Ymir Myth: the raw, hostile j tunn or primordial being is refined through killing (sacrifice) so that it can become useful to men and gods. The same occurs in the Kvasir myth, where poetry becomes an agent in the expression of culture (Clunies Ross 1994, 83). The creation of Kvasir is in effect an inversion of the Ymir Myth. Where Ymir was dismembered by the æsir, Kvasir is assembled by them. Ymir came from a natural process of eitr building up to form a human being, while Kvasir is the result of a cultural process of sociogony, a cultural imitation of the natural process where the oral liquid of the constitutive powers of society become a man. This puts the culturally dominant æsir in diametric opposition to the chthonic and socially inferior vanir (p. 95–102), 85 thereby contrasting the two creative forces from which the saliva flows into the container just as Niflheimr and Muspellzheimr function as a neoplatonic fire-and-ice duality dispensing their qualities in the big vat of Ginnungagap. A qualitative difference in this respect is that when the gods create nature from Ymir, they need to destroy his body. When they create culture, they assemble an amorphous substance and create a person who can spread his wisdom. Kvasir roams the world spreading wisdom and culture to people. Because Kvasir is a man and his blood becomes the mead, interpretive focus tends to be on the transformation of the figure (cf. Schjødt 1λ83, λ0). But if we examine the more systemic aspect of Kvasir’s journey, we can see that his action of spreading wisdom far and wide to people is an act of spreading culture. As the product of the sociogony, the establishment of society after the first war, Kvasir is culture itself. His journey “víða um heim at kenna m nnum frœði” (widely across the world to teach wisdom to men [Skáld. GLVII]) is a systemic act of spreading culture to the world 86 rather than the movement and transformation of a singular unit—a man. The question is, then, what the purpose of the dwarves is in this narrative. Schjødt is presumably correct when he assumes that Kvasir enters the underworld when he comes to the dwarves Fjalarr and Galarr, chthonic beings as they are (Schjødt 1983, 91). To understand the process that unfolds in the underworld, we should consider Hávamál stanzas 13–14, where we learn that the poet,
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Whether this strict association of the æsir with cultural dominance and the vanir with social inferiority and fertility has wide currency in the mythology, or it is perhaps overemphasized by the interpreters—Clunies Ross in particular—is a matter of personal judgment. 86 Given that the preceding myth in Skáldskaparmál is the Þjazi εyth, this is a noteworthy theme of Kvasir’s activities. As we saw above in chapter III, pages 114-115, the theme of the Þjazi Myth is the relationship between culture and nature, food and the lack of food. The journey of the three æsir into the wild echoes the actions of the three æsir in the cosmogony as well as in man’s genesis in Vǫluspá 17 and Gylfaginning X, where the three æsir move about in the world. Another example of this echo is in the Edda version of the Myth of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani, where we also learn that the three æsir went to explore the world in Skáldskaparmál XXXIX.
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Óðinn, was fettered by the feathers of the heron of forgetfulness “í garði Gunnlaðar” (Gunnl ð’s hall) and that he was drunk “at ins fróða Fialars” (at the wise Fjalar’s). This, we may presume, is the origin of the dwarf name Fjalarr in the Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál. Fjalarr is mentioned in the dwarf list of Vǫluspá 16, but in the þulur it is the name of a giant (Simek 2007, 84). The stanzas 104–10 of Hávamál seem to indicate that Fjalarr and Suttungr are identical, but it seems that this figure of Hávamál has been split in two in the narrative tradition of Skáldskaparmál87 The possible meaning of Fjalarr as ‘Hider,’ derived from fela (ibid), fits well with the role of Suttungr in the Mead Myth. He hides the mead in Hnitbj rg. But it is also quite congruent with the role of Fjalarr as an underworld being who causes the death of several individuals in the Myth of the Mead of Poetry in Skáldskaparmál. In Hávamál 104–10, Óðinn procures Óðrørir from Suttungr/Fjalarr and brings it to the world of men. This is an expression of cultural dominance of the æsir over the j tnar and as such it is a narrative of social relevance. It expresses in full the negative social reciprocity between j tnar and æsir (Clunies Ross 1994, 103), and for that purpose the narrative needs only a male representative of each part, Óðinn and Suttungr/Fjalarr, the desired object that is stolen from the losing side, and not least an exploited female. In the Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál, however, the object is to tell a tale of cosmic and natural processes, and therefore it is purposeful to introduce more characters to the tale. It is simply a structural doubling that occurs here: Suttungr/Fjalarr becomes two characters and both of these characters are assigned a brother. With this doubling is introduced the pair of dwarves called ‘Hider’ and ‘Screamer,’ who kill Kvasir. A mythic visit to the underworld is often synonymous with structural death (Turner 1967, 95– 7; Schjødt 2008a, 171). It may be so that Fjalarr and Galarr kill Kvasir when he visits them, but as he has already entered the underworld, we may take him as dead to begin with. That this underworld is bereft of anything human, anything remotely cultural—and that it is therefore pure nature—we can see from the fact that it is a perfectly acceptable explanation for the death of Kvasir that he choked on his own human knowledge (mannvíti), since there was no one educated enough to ask him questions (Skáld. GLVII). The æsir accept this explanation from the dwarves, because they do not expect culture to flourish among the dead. The underground is not populated by humans: it is populated by creatures such as Hider and Screamer, those who kill and drain (liquefy) men like Kvasir and pour his dreyri in vats and kettles. As much as the destruction of Ymir by the gods is a process towards creating habitable nature, and the formation of Kvasir into a cultivated man from the amorphous substance of spittle in a vat is a process of creating culture in habitable nature, the destruction of Kvasir by the dwarves represents his return to nature in the underground. He is fully
87 Schjødt is not willing to accept that Fjalarr and Suttungr are one and the same (2008a, 153–4), and it is not certain that they are. On the other hand, this has little significance to the analysis.
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absorbed and assimilated in his deathμ he becomes one with the world’s liquids, the underground waters that burst out in geysers and jökulhlaups, and not least with the lava that runs from the cracks of volcanic eruptions. When culture meets Hider and Screamer it means that it is lost, it is out of reach of humans, and we have now only our memory to employ in order to understand what happens when Hider and Screamer are visited by Noisy, the j tunn Gillingr, and his wife. One could be so inclined as to accept the boat scene of this narrative as simply a (rather clumsy) explanation for how the dwarves accidentally killed Gillingr, not questioning the inclusion of a boat ride in the midst of a tale that compiles so many motifs, seeing as sea metaphors in relation to the mead are bountiful. It is, however, at this point the myth starts to become particularly interesting in terms of volcanism. With Kvasir out of reach, it is necessary to employ memory of the tradition to understand the image of the boat. We have seen the boat before: in Hallmundarkviða 9 the eagles are arriving and Hallmundr saysμ “en steinn kkva styrkvan stafns plóglimum gr fnum, járni fáðan Aurni” (and I sent Aurnir a strong stone-boat, its stern iron-braced). In Landnámabók we also see this image of an iron boat with a j tunn, and it is common in Norwegian giant-tales; although in Iceland we find it in connection with jarðeldr: Þá var Þórir gamall ok blindr, er hann kom út síð um kveld ok sá, at maðr røri útan í Kaldarós á járnn kkva, mikill ok illiligr, ok gekk þar upp til bœjar þess, er í Hripi hét, ok gróf þar í st ðulshliði; en um nóttina kom þar upp jarðeldr, ok brann þá Borgarhraun. (Þórir was then old and blind, when he came out late one evening, and saw a man, big and evil, rowing out in Kaldarós in an iron-boat, and he went up to a dwelling that was called í Hripi, and there he dug in the cowshed door; but during the night there came up earth-fire and Borgarhraun was burned there [Landn. 1968 I, LVI (H)]). Supernatural volcanic beings from the underworld are, it seems, not unaccustomed to moving about in boats of stone or iron—or both—in connection with eruptions. We must then ask ourselves how far the image of Hider, Screamer, and Noisy sailing on an underworldly sea is from the above volcanic stone-and-iron-boat examples. To understand this image, we will examine Vǫluspá 47–52. VǪLU“PÁ 47–52
We have already treated stanza 52 above and seen how this image of Surtr compares well with volcanism—it is an image of an eruption recognized before by several scholars. We have also seen how it has been hard to align the Muspellz lýðir on Naglfar in stanza 51 with an apocalypse of fire, because the image of the boat seems out of place.
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Stanza 47 tells that Yggdrasill shudders (skelfr) because the j tunn is loose, and as we have seen above, it has been added in Hauksbók that “Surtar sefi” (Surtr’s kin) swallows the people treading the Hel-way. The shuddering of Yggdrasill, especially considering the use of the word skelfr (as in landskjálfti ‘earthquake’), seems to be the premonitory initial quaking that frequently occurs in volcanic eruptions. Such volcanic-related quakes usually come in series rather than in one shock as is the case with usual seismic events (EOV 1985, 1017–19). Stanza 48 repeats the premonitions: “Hvat er með ásom, hvat er með álfom?” (What is there with the æsir, what is there with the álfar?). Like the shuddering of Yggdrasill there is an ominous sound from the J tunheimarμ “gnýr allr i tunheimr” (all J tunheimr groans). The æsir meet in council at the þing, assembling in their cultural safe zone88 to discuss what is going on and reactivate their cultural memory, their Mythical Charter of Tradition. An image of the activity of the dwarves is conjuredμ “stynia dvergar fyr steindurom, veggbergs vísir” (the dwarves howl before the stone doors, princes of the mountain-wall). Garmr bays and almost breaks his chain before Gnipahellir in stanza 4λ. The word “garmr” simply means ‘dog’ (ODNS 1λ66, 173), but it is notable that at least one kenning exists where garmr is involved with fireμ “glóða garmr” (dog of embers [ibid]). Gnipahellir is not explained further in ODNS except for the suggestion that it is the opening to Hel (p. 192). There is, however, a word in the þulur for ‘fire’ that is gnipall (ibid). Simek refutes any association of Garmr with the Hel-hound of Baldrs draumar (Simek 2007, 100), and he sees no connection of Gnipahellir with Hel, either. Instead he translates Gnipahellir to ‘overhanging cave,’ but gives no reference for it (p. 114). With this translation, the first part of Gnipahellir, gnipa-, would presumably be the word gnípa that means ‘mountain peak’ (ODNS 1966, 192; Zoëga 2004, 168). Without any more cognates or a stronger underlying philological tradition it is hard to fully assess the meaning of Gnipahellir, but regardless of its association with gnípa or gnipall, it can sustain a volcanic image of a caldera, either as ‘εountain-peak-cave’ or as ‘Fire-cave.’ When the dog that can appear as embers barks89—makes ominous noise—before the ‘εountain-peak-cave’ we may expect an eruption from the grumbling mountain. And so the vǫlva continuesμ “fi lð veit hon frœða, fram sé ec lengra um ragna r c, r mm, sigtýva” (she has much wisdom, further ahead I see to ragnarøkkr, the victory-gods’ destruction [Vsp. 49]). Stanzas 47 to 49 compile the same image of the premonitions of an eruption. In each case there is a reference to:
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Compare with the Mazama event, see Beaudoin & Oetelaar 2006a, 37. Compare with the whimpering and barking dogs of the Mazama event, Beaudoin & Oetelaar 2006a, 37.
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(1) Noise and rumbling: the shuddering and groaning of Yggdrasill, the barking Firedog in the Mountain-peak cave, the howling dwarves in the mountain wall. (2) Premonitions and alertness: Surtr will come and men will tread the Hel-way, “I see ahead to Ragnar kr/ragnarøkkr”; “What is up with the gods?”; they are assembling at the þing. The next thing that happens is that Hrymr, whose name is obscure (Simek 2007, 163; ODNS 1966, 288),90 drives from the east and holds a shield in front of him in stanza 50. Though the name of Hrymr is unresolvable, one may be reminded of Hrungnir and his shield of stone. 91 Hrymr who comes rumbling with his shield in front of him may easily be compared to a pyroclastic flow (compare EVO 1985, 945–55). Eventually, we arrive at the seaμ “snýz i rmungandr í i tunmóði; ormr knýr unnir, enn ari hlaccar, slítr nái neff lr, Naglfar losnar” (J rmungandr writhes in giant-rage; the snake churns the waves, and the eagle shrieks, the pale-beaked92 rips the corpses, Naglfar loosens [Vsp. 50]). The following stanza 51 relates that “εuspellz lýðir,” People of εuspell, advance on a ship with δoki as steersman, referring also to the enigmatic character of Býleistr (p. 12). The image of Muspellz People on a boat was opaque to us earlier in this chapter, but in light of the complex that seems to emerge in comparison with the Mead Myth, the example of Hallmundarkviða, and that of Landnámabók, it becomes clearer: each case involves a supernatural boat. In Hallmundarkviða it is a boat of stone and iron and in Landnámabók it is made of iron. In both cases the boat is directly associated with the activities of j tnar in connection with an eruption. Here in Vǫluspá, the boat is called Naglfar. It is associated with the underworld, and is said to be made of finger nails in Gylfaginning LI. The association with the underworld is consistent both with Hallmundarkviða, Vǫluspá, and the ship of the Mead Myth, and it may be presumed that this is a very old conception. The idea that the beings of the underworld will assemble a ship from the finger nails of the dead seems to be associated with the Devil in other Scandinavian and Finno-Karelian tradition (Krohn 1912, 154–5). This may not, however, be the only association of the first part nagl- in the name of the ship. Based on the association of the ship of the underworld with volcanism in Hallmundarkviða and the ship of the j tunn in Landnámabók, it is equally as likely that it refers to nails of iron. This seems to gain support from comparison with the word for ‘sword’ naglfari (studded with nails/spikes) in the þulur (ODNS It may mean ‘ancient.’ See Sigurður Nordal 1λ27, λ6. As a note to Hrymr’s driving (see Dronke 1λλ7, 57)μ Sigrdrífumál 15 mentions “reið Rungnis” (Hrungnir’s wagon), but this is unknown from elsewhere. It is tempting to see in this an image of Hrungnir, the stone-man, riding a rumbling wagon and holding a shield up in front of him. It is, however, quite difficult to substantiate on basis of the sparse tradition available in this. See ODNS 1966, 287. 92 The word for ’pale,’ fǫlr, is also the stem of the word for ’covered with ashes,’ fǫlskaðr, and ‘white ashes, fǫlski (Zoëga 2004, 157). 90 91
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1966, 422). It may thus be the ship of spikes and studs—fully comparable to the iron-braced stone ship in Hallmundarkviða—that comes sailing with the Fire Spirits of Muspell and the god of earthquakes, Loki. Býleistr is another complicated name. Simek explains it as ‘the one who makes lightning in the storm’ (from bylr ‘wind’ and leiptr ‘lightning’), and lists him in accordance with Vǫluspá as a brother of δoki (Simek 2007, 51). However, this interpretation overlooks the long ‘ý.’ ODNS convincingly interprets the name as “den der farer over bygder” (the one who hurries over dwellings), and explains the figure as originally identical with Loki (ODNS 1966, 73). As in the case of Garmr in Gnipahellir, both interpretations of this name fit with volcanism, either in terms of the characteristic static electric lightning storm that is frequent in an eruption, or as the pyroclastic flow, a flow of lava, or a jökulhlaup that rushes over the dwellings of men in an explosive eruption. This image seems comparable to the bergbúi, who in stanza 7 strides from peak to peak, bringing the eruption with him, and erupts with ashes, going world-to-world in stanza 11 of Hallmundarkviða. The image here, of the People of Muspell with Loki/Býleistr, sailing on the ship of spikes and studs, is thus very clearly associated with an eruptive event. With Býleistr/δoki and εuspellz’s People on a spike-boat, we can possibly see a new dimension to Fjalarr, Galarr, and Gillingr, who go sailing on the sea of the underworld. It is the foreboding of the eruption. These are the warning signs, but the image is not complete. Gillingr’s wife—the hypostasis of Noisy—cries unstoppably when she learns that her husband drowned in the sea. Fjalarr cannot stand “óp hennar” (her crying/shouting [Skáld. GLVII]), and so he sees to her murder by persuading her to go stand in the doorway and look out over the sea to find consolation. This is an image comparable to that of the dwarves before their stone doors in Vǫluspá 48. Like the dwarves, we see Gillingr’s wife howling before the stone door of the dwarf dwelling in the underworld. She enacts the characteristic sound of effusion, the gushing of lava, or the venting of steam and gasses. An eruption is imminent. In Vǫluspá 52 the eruption comes immediatelyμ “Surtr ferr sunnan med sviga lævi, scínn af sverði sól valtíva; griótbj rg gnata, enn gífr rata,93 troða halir helveg enn himinn klofnar” (Surtr comes from the south with the enemy of branches, the sun of the war-gods shines from his sword; stone-mountains crumble and troll(women) roam/tumble, men tread the Hel-way). This image is surely one of an explosive volcanic eruption. It should be noted in this regard, that there is a sense of travelling in these stanzas, which may be seen as comparable to the travelling of Kvasir and Óðinn/B lverkr in the εead εyth. The stanzas of Vǫluspá refer to the risk of the j tunn breaking loose and Garmr breaking his chain, and when 93
Hauksbók, Codex Uppsaliensis, Codex Trajectinus and Codex Wormianus all have hrata (stagger) instead of rata. And Codex Uppsaliensis has guðar (gods) instead of gífr (cf. Neckel & Kuhn 1962, 12, footnote).
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everything is set in motion, Naglfar is loose: it journeys from the east, Hrymr journeys from the east, Surtr journeys from the south, and the trolls roam. The powers are approaching the dwelling of the gods, but more importantly they are sweeping the landscape, moving around above and below ground. This seems to be echoed to some effect in the εead εyth where the auger Rati (‘roamer,’ from rata [Zoëga 2004, 32λ]), guides Óðinn’s journey. Rati is represented as the guide for Óðinn’s underworld journey in the Mead Myth in both Hávamál and Skáldskaparmál. It seems to make an underworld passage in both cases, thereby creating caverns in the ground for the god to sweep through. This image is not without substance in terms of volcanic activity, insofar as it seems to have been a widespread notion of classical and medieval learned literature that earthquakes and eruptions were associated with the wind of Boreas Aquilo being blown into caverns in the underground, and that such phenomena were not fixed in one place, but travelled the land. This will be detailed below. For now it is simply useful to note that it is a commonality between the two myths, and before moving on to the eruption of Óðinn, we shall have a brief summary of this section: We have seen how Kvasir and Ymir are comparable in more than one way. They are both formed by liquid: Ymir comes from eitr, Kvasir from the gods’ spittle. As the gods spit in the vat, they perform the same creative act of duality that is represented in Niflheimr/Muspellzheimr. As a product of the sociogony, Kvasir roaming through the world is a systemic act of spreading cultural knowledge. His death sends him to the underworld where the dwarves Hider and Screamer live. They make him into mead. They invite Noisy to go sailing. Here we touch on a boat-complex that is seen in several instances of volcanism—a motif that we shall examine more in depth below. Hider and Screamer have done their deed: they have killed Kvasir and drained him of his liquid. They keep him in two vats and the kettle Óðrørir, which is perhaps rightly interpreted in this context as ‘Rage-stirrer’ rather than ‘εind-stirrer,’ seeing as it is involved in volcanism. Hider and Screamer have taken Noisy out to sea—an image that is not at all clear to us at this point, but none the less fully associated with the activities of volcanism. At this stage, however, the noise has died out: Noisy drowned in the sea of the underworld. His wife, too, has stopped howling. She was hit in the head with a quernstone. This may be another image that reflects volcanism. For now it is quiet. As we have seen both in Hallmundarkviða and in Vǫluspá, it requires the flight of an eagle to carry out an eruption—so we wait for B lverkr, the Evildoer.
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ÓÐINN’“ ERUPTION
At the center of the εead εyth is the mountain Hnitbj rg, the Clashing Rocks. When Suttungr learns that his father and mother (or uncle and aunt [Skáld. GLVII]) have been killed in the underworld by Fjalarr and Galarr, he goes there and demands recompense. This scene re-enacts the scene where Gillingr drowned. The dwarves are once again out on the sea with the giant, but now the mead is taken from them, transported from the sea of the underworld to the central site of cosmos: the mountain. Here, Suttungr puts his daughter Gunnl ð in charge of its safe-keeping. Bragi, the narrator of the myth in Skáldskaparmál, thus tells Ægir that: “Af þessu k llum vér skáldskap Kvasis blóð eða dverga drekku eða fylli eða nakkvars konar l g Óðreris eða Boðnar eða Sónar eða farskost dverga, fyrir því at sá mj ðr f[lut]ti þeim fj rlausn ór skerinu, eða Suttunga mj ð eða Hnitbjarga l gr” (For this reason we call poetry Kvasir’s blood, or dwarves’ drink, or full, or some term for Óðrørir’s liquid, or Són, or Boðn, or dwarves’ transportation, because the mead provided them deliverance from the skerry, or Suttung’s mead, or Hnitbj rg’s liquid [ibid]). Ægir then comments that he thinks this is an obscure way to talk—as indeed it is. Roberta Frank has already resolved that the underlying tradition for these kennings is relatively vague and has only a sparse amount of references. On this basis it is not at all strange that Ægir would find these references obscure. They are not widespread loci in the poetic language. As Óðinn enters the stage, we should recall Richard North’s remark about the Icelandic tradition of Óðinn that assigned to him a long list of abilities, among which are the functions of witches and shamans. It is probably no coincidence that Óðinn in the Mead Myth, who comes to Baugi in the guise of B lverkr, vaguely parallels the character of Grímnir of Grímnismál. In the prose introduction to Grímnismál, we learn that Óðinn disguised himself when he went to Geirrøðr and was captured. Later, when it is time for Geirrøðr to die for his ignorance, we learn in stanza 47 that Óðinn is called Bileygr, Báleygr, and B lverkrμ ‘Blind-eye’ (ODNS 1λ66, 47), ‘Fire-eye’ (p. 38), and ‘Evildoer’ (p. 75). There does not seem to be a unified overall logical disposition in the recitation of the Óðinn heiti in Grímnismál 46–50, but the names of each line of verse have obviously been chosen for alliterative purposes. B lverkr is associated with the Mead Myth in Hávamál 109, but if the composer of the Mead Myth in Skáldskaparmál wanted a name for Óðinn that signified his abilities as a sorcerer, he could for instance have chosen the name Fj lnir (‘he who can take on many forms’ or ‘he who knows many things’ [ODNS 1λ66, 137]).94 This name, along with Grímr and Grímnir, is mentioned right after B lverkr in Grímnismál, and each of them seems to associate closely with the In fact, Fj lnir, who drowns in a mead-vat in Ynglinga saga (Heimskr. 1979 I, Ynglinga saga, XI), would be a very suitable name for Óðinn to take under this journey—that is, if the only object of this journey was the alcoholic beverage.
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idea of Óðinn as a sorcerer. One could simply argue that B lverkr is used in Skáldskaparmál because it also occurs in Hávamál, but on the other hand, the naming tradition of Skáldskaparmál does not seem to be coincidental, and if the intent were to represent Óðinn as an evil sorcerer fooling the j tnar, it is a notable inconsistency that in both versions he is the one in danger, not the j tnar. Here we will hazard a guess as to why B lverkr is specifically useful in Skáldskaparmál: it fits the dual role of Óðinn in this tale. He is both a culture-hero bringing the Mead of Poetry to the world of gods and men (Schjødt 1983, 93), and the Evildoer that causes an eruption in the mountain. The name B lverkr fits with Óðinn’s tricky demeanor—almost worthy of Loki himself—as a sorcerer who comes to Baugi’s farm and makes the slaves kill each other over a whetstone.95 Afterwards Óðinn performs the work of these nine men in the course of the summer (Skáld. GLVIII). Annette Lassen has pointed out that this scene may be reminiscent of Clemens saga, which tells of Simon magus, who can make his scythe cut grain at the same rate as ten men. Simon magus goes on to tell thatμ “Ek má fliúga í lopti í eldslíki […] Ek má fara í gegnum fi ll, hvars ek vil […] Stundum bregð ek á mik kykvenda líki ýmissa, fogla eða orma …” (I can fly in the air in the shape of fire […] I can walk through mountains wherever I want to […] Sometimes I take on different animal formsμ birds and worms … [Clemens saga 2005, V]). This passage, Lassen says, originates from Recognitiones (Lassen 2011, 304). Under the auspices of medieval learned literature it is only people who commit bǫlverkr that are capable of such things, which would include sorcerers. In medieval Scandinavia, these shamanic aspects of Óðinn are entirely associated with otherness and outsiders such as the Saami, who are perceived as diabolic and heathen (Lindow 1995; 2003, 100–3). This does not, however, contradict the association of B lverkr with volcanism. As noted above, myths are inherently polysemantic and can have several meanings for those who reproduce them. In terms of the survival of the myth from a state of pagan mythopoesis to Christian literacy, it is hardly a paradox that characters and motifs associate with cultural material of the new literature. In fact, this is a perfect example of the transformations that narratives which function as the core of the Mythical Charter of Tradition—as foundation myths and technical myths—may be transformed with greater social changes. In the context of a myth about an eruption, the choice of the name B lverkr is useful as a mnemonic deviceμ there is an alliterative chain of Bileygr, Báleygr, and B lverkr. Early scholarship had a tendency to focus on interpretations of Óðinn as a sky god or a sun god (Grimm [1835] 1854; Eiríkr Magnússon 1895; Much 1898), and in this complex the one, flaming eye (Bileygr/Báleygr) was compared to the sun. That Óðinn’s one eye has a long-standing tradition in Old Norse literature
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The whetstone reappears in volcanism in relation to Þórr and Hrungnir.
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is quite evident (cf. Lassen 2011, 49; see also Lassen 2003), but in this case there is something to be said for an interpretation of the ‘eye’ as a caldera. Barber and Barber argue that Odysseus’s encounter with the Cyclops (Round-eye) called Polyphemus (Wide-known) is a myth of a volcanic event. The encounter begins with Odysseus seeing smoke in the distance and it ends with the Cyclops hurling rocks at our hero. During the visit, the Cyclops eats several of Odysseus’s men. This, Barber and Barber suspect, is an ancient myth of volcanism, and they compare it with their own experience of an effusive eruption of Mauna Ulu in Hawai’i in 1λ72μ “you could well have said that we watched two terrible monsters, as alike as twin sisters, passing an eye back and forth between them” (Barber & Barber 2004, 108–9). Of course, this image would not be much more to us than the imagination of the two scholars in question, were it not for the fact that we encounter the image of eyes in the context of Icelandic volcanism in Bergbúa þáttr before the bergbúi recites Hallmundarkviða. In this instance, Þórðr and his servant have crawled into the cave in order to escape the blizzard and here they see two eyesμ “þat, er þeim þótti því líkast sem væri tungl tvau full eðr törgur stórar, ok var á millum stund sú ekki svá líttil” (that which to them looked to be two full moons or huge shields, and they were not at all little [Bergbúa þáttr: ÍF 13 1991, 442]). So how may the little rhyme of Bileygr, Báleygr, and B lverkr function in this context? If we can accept these three names as sequentially associated beyond their alliterative aspect, we may detect a reference to a caldera. The first part of Bileygr, bil-, is interpreted as a derivation of bila (ODNS 1λ66, 47), and thus the name may mean ‘failing eye.’ Bila means ‘to give way, break, crack’ (Zoëga 2004, 52), and also ‘to fail’ (ODNS 1λ66, 46). The adjective bilgjarn means simply ‘weak’ (p. 47). The word blindr seems much more suitable to describe blindness; Bileygr is thus as much, if not more, the failing, weak, and cracking eye as it is the ‘blind eye.’ The ‘Weak, Failing, Cracking eye’ is followed by the ‘Fire eye.’ If we understand the caldera as an eye, it is in a frail condition and may crack. When it does, it becomes the ‘Fire eye.’ When Weak-eye becomes Fire-eye it will surely become Evildoerμ B lverkr. This is a sequential causality that is readily comprehensible if one can accept moving beyond the images of medieval literature that enjoy displaying Óðinn as a one-eyed sorcerer with grey beard and a floppy hat—the highly tendentious konungasögur and fornaldarsögur (Lassen 2011, 135–77). Beyond this scope we can see another side to B lverkr as the Volcano Spirit that comes to Hnitbj rg. At this point B lverkr has helped Baugi with the harvest and it is now time to receive his reward, but Suttungr is not willing to let him get to the mead (Skáld. GLVIII). We thus approach the crucial moment of the eruption, but first there will be more noise in the mountain, because now Baugi and B lverkr take their drill. It is of course because B lverkr needs an opening into which he can pry
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himself in the form of a snake that he instructs Baugi to drill a hole, but in terms of volcanism there is more to say than that. Rati, we may assume, is made of (magic) iron so that it is strong enough to cut through stone, and thus it is understood that the drilling with an auger into a mountain by a supernatural being, a j tunn, must make an awful sound. This is once more the rumbling in the mountain. This scene echoes the sailing scene with the alliteration of the names and the activities in the underground. This time, however, the eruption is right at hand. When B lverkr wishes to enter the hole, he blows into it and the bits of rock fly back out at him. As stated above, this presumably reflects the classical and learned explanation for earthquakes that finds its Icelandic form in Kongungs Skuggsjá: […] Grunduollur þess mun vaxinn med morgum ædum og tomum smugum edur storum holum Enn sijdan kunna þeir a(t)burdir at verda annat huort af vindum edur af afli gnyanda gialfurs at þessaR ædar edur holur verdi fuller af vindum suo miog at þær þoli eigi wmbrot vindsins. og kann þadann af þat at koma at land skialftar þeir verdi hinu storu sem verda aa þui landi (The underground of this [land] must have been created with many indentations or caverns or large caves. Then it could happen either because of the wind or the might of the roaring water that permeates these indentations or caves were filled so much with wind without being able to bear it. And from that it may be that the great earthquakes come in that land [Konungs Skuggsiá 1945, XIV]). This explanation for earthquakes is also found in Ovid’s Metamorphosesμ “idem ego cum subii conuexa foramina terrae supposuique ferox imis mea terga cauernis, sollicito manes totumque tremoribus orbem” (it is also I who force my way into caves in the ground and ragingly put my back against the ceiling of the caverns and with my great earthquakes bring terror to the worlds of the living and the dead [Metamorphoses 2004, VI.697–λ]). These words in Ovid’s Metamorphoses are uttered by Boreas Aquilo, the Eagle of the Northern Wind. It is not impossible that the image of B lverkr blowing into the hole in Hnitbj rg and flying out of there as an eagle is reminiscent of Boreas Aquilo. The interpretation of Hræsvelgr as an eagle beyond the North, who creates the winds with his giant wings in Gylfaginning XVII, seems to be part of this same tradition. In Vafþrúðnismál 37, Hræsvelgr represents the wind, and by extension the sea, with its treacherous whirlpools (Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson 1998, 28–9), and we have in the preceding chapter seen how this connects with Þjazi as a representative of the northern wind. With this image of the raging winds in the rocks we revisit Hallmundarkviða. Here we can see that at the very beginning of the eruption in stanza 1, stones and cliffs rumble and tumble down before the j tunn’s step. Hallmundr is heard stamping through the rocks, the winds howl in the mountains. Hallmundr enacts the same activities in the mountains as Baugi and B lverkr—and Boreas Aquilo. These giant beings, in the form of birds (Hallmundr flies
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as well), and very often in the form of eagles, send their winds into the caverns and cracks of the stony mountains, stepping through the rocks, with loud noises and falling rocks as the outcome. As B lverkr slips into his serpent form and barely escapes Baugi jabbing at him, we should consider the snake in relation to volcanism. We have seen above that the shape-changing charades of the shamanic Óðinn, who walks among us as a sorcerer, are easily explained from deviant figures in league with the Devil in medieval literature (see also Lassen 2011, 249–63). But, more importantly, Schjødt points out in a note in Livsdrik og vidensdrik thatμ “[At] ormen og ørnen er repræsentanter for henholdsvis den chthoniske og den celestiale sfære er der en mængde eksempler på, både i religionsfænomenologien og i den nordiske mytologi” ([That] the worm and the eagle represent, respectively, the chthonic and the celestial sphere is evidenced in several examples, both in the phenomenology of religion and in Nordic mythology [Schjødt 1983, 100]). In his Initiation between Two Worlds, on the other hand, Schjødt explains why the Skáldskaparmál version of the Mead Myth includes the shape-changing, whereas the Hávamál version does not. He refers to the notion that Skáldskaparmál is focused on the theft of the mead and Hávamál is focused on the relationship of Óðinn to Gunnl ð (Schjødt 2008a, 155–6). If we examine the snake first, we find that—as Schjødt makes clear—it is abundantly represented as a chthonic guardian of the underground. But more importantly, it is also directly involved in volcanism elsewhere in the world. Barber and Barber see in εedusa’s snake-locks the image of hissing lava streams running down a mountain side (Barber & Barber 2004, 109–11), and they provide a comparable example from a description of the εayon eruption on 1λ28μ “lava poured out through the notches in the crater wall and followed the gullies, forming snake-like trickles radiating from the summit … There was a periodicity of three to five hours in the spells of roaring, hissing, cracking and tumbling noise” (p. 112 [from Jaggar 1λ45, 61]). Here, in the εead εyth, B lverkr is performing the snake-act, gliding in the furrows of the mountain, the hollows that have been cut by the j tunn,96 hissing and trickling until he reaches the core of Hnitbj rg, the ‘Clashing Rocks.’ Inside the mountain, B lverkr sleeps with Gunnl ð and drinks the mead in three draughts (Skáld. GLVIII). Schjødt points out that this is a visit to the realm of the dead (Schjødt 1983, 90–5), a notion that is fully acceptable in this context. This makes Gunnl ð a guardian of the underworld. The meaning of her name as ‘Invitation to Battle’ (Simek 2007, 124–5) may fit into the volcanic perspective considering the use of battle references throughout Hallmundarkviða, but this is only of minor importance. The meeting of the upper world with the underworld in the Mountain of Clashing
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Since Baugi keeps jabbing at Óðinn we can perhaps assume that he keeps making noise with the drill.
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Rocks is, to the contrary, the most important aspect of this part of the myth. The North American Klamath people record the story of the eruption in Crater Lake as a battle between the Sky and Earth: […] the Chief of the Below World was very angry. In a voice like thunder, he swore he would have revenge on the people of Loha, that he would destroy them with the Curse of Fire. Raging and thundering, he rushed up through the opening and stood upon the top of his mountain. Then he saw the face of the Chief of the Above World shining among the stars that surrounded his home. Slowly the mighty form of that chief descended from the sky and stood on the top of Mount Shasta. From their mountaintops the two spirit chiefs began a furious battle. In a short time all the spirits of earth and sky took part in the battle (Barber & Barber 2004, 6). This is a meeting of the upper world with the underworld, much in the same way as it is portrayed in the apocalypse of ragnarøkkrμ the Volcano j tunn, the Fire People, and the Ancestor Spirits in a raging battle. The elements of the world converge in battle, not in a distinctly Christian apocalypse like it has been seen in Muspilli, but in a natural disaster that brings the spirits of Earth’s insides to converge with the spirits of Sky—on top of a mountain. It is a similar event of the elements of the sky converging with the elements of the ground and creating disaster in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, though primary agency is ascribed to Boreas, when the wind blows through the caves of the underworld. This is similarly realized in Hallmundarkviða and it is also the case with B lverkr and Gunnl ðμ Evildoer and Invitation to Battle converge and create disaster. It is at this point that we see the eagle flyingμ B lverkr bursts out of the εountain of the Clashing Rocks bringing the liquid of the dwarves with him. As noted earlier, the flying eagle, a portentous bird of prey, is used in several instances. It is expected to come in Hallmundarkviða 9, right before Hallmundr sends Aurnir the stone boat. In Vǫluspá 50, the eagle with the ash-pale beak screaks and rips the corpses, as J rmungandr writhes in the ocean. Subsequently Naglfar is set loose and approaches with εuspellz’s People and δoki/Býleiptr, then comes Surtr. Is the eagle then only an image of death, as is the case with many birds of prey in Old Norse poetry (see εeulengracht 2006, 112)? Barber and Barber argue that Hesiod’s story of Zeus, who chained Prometheus to a cliff in the Caucasus and let an eagle feed on his liver, is in fact a volcanic image (Barber & Barber 2004, 219–30). Indeed, the Nart sagas of the Caucasus record the story of Nasran, who is bound by Paqua and has his chest torn by a giant eagle. Nasran roars and moans, and the wingspan of the eagle reaches from mountain top to mountain top and darkens the valley below until Pataraz shoots an arrow at the wing so that light shines through it (p. 224–5; for the whole narrative, see Colarusso 2002, 158-74). It is hard not to recognize in this image the same tendency to use the eagle or birds in general as a common analogy to the ash cloud of an explosive eruption. The Yakama tribe of the state of Washington also tells of eagles in an eruption on Pahto (Mt. Adams).
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They tell that the Great Spirit sent down a big white eagle with his son, a smaller, red eagle, on his shoulder. This image, it seems, is based not only on comparison to ashes and lava, but also on the fact that eagles nest quite close to the top of the Pahto Mountain (Barber & Barber 2004, 222). Nesting in high places is not particular for North American eagles, it is also the case for Northern European eagles and those in the Caucasus Mountains. It is therefore also reasonable to keep in mind that if there were any kind of activity going on in a mountain, the eagles would be some of the first birds an observer would notice flying around near the summit.97 There is an even more striking image that can be drawn forth: in the Flatey annals it is recorded in relation to an eruption in Hekla in 1341 that some brave Icelandersμ “foru til fiallzins þar sem vpp varpit var […] þeim synduzst fuglar fliuga i elldinum bædi smair ok storir med ymsum laatum” (went to the mountain where the up-throw was […] it seemed to them that birds flew in the fire, both big and small with different bearings [Storm 1888, 401]). Here, Icelanders themselves see birds in the eruption, and thus we find the notion of birds associated with volcanic ejecta in the same cultural frame as the εead εyth. This is an image of the ‘Fire-bird.’ When B lverkr erupts as an eagle from Hnitbj rg, Suttungr follows him, also in the guise of an eagle. Just as in the Yakama story, the eruption takes form of one eagle followed by another: ash cloud on ash cloud, Fire-bird on Fire-bird. B lverkr flies through the air as a fire-bird, bringing the lava as he regurgitates the mead. He explodes in golden liquid, sending two-thirds of it into the vats that the æsir have put out for him in Ásgarðr. But Suttungr follows him, and the last third is sent out into the face of Suttungr (Skáld. GLVIII). This carries the imagery of an explosive eruption bringing debris to the dwellings of men. B lverkr has brought the wisdom of the cosmos and the wisdom of Icelandic volcanism back to the dwellings of the gods, back to society and culture. The knowledge has been retrieved even though (maybe even because) Kvasir died. The knowledge of volcanic eruptions in Old Norse myths takes the form of a string of mythic motifs. It combines Fire Spirits and noisy j tnar and dwarves with supernatural boats and the flight of birds and gods in an early attempt to account for volcanic eruptions in Iceland. Another motif that is often used seems to be war. Hallmundarkviða abounds with references to war and battle, and the same is the case for Vǫluspá. The Mead Myth begins with peacemaking after a war, it has several characters killed off, and it has some war-references, such as the name of Gunnl ð. The last part of this mythic complex of volcanism is the mnemonic device of the alcoholic drink. The alcoholic drink is associated with volcanism in the Mead Myth, in Hallmundarkviða, and 97
It is not entirely unthinkable that J.R.R. Tolkien may have recognized this image too. When the Ring has fallen into the fire-pit of Mount Doom, the mountain erupts and Mordor crumbles. After this event, the hard pressed armies of Middle Earth on the plains of Cormallen see the eagles coming towards them (Tolkien 1966, 229–31). Tolkien did, after all, write his epic during an eruption in Hekla.
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in Eyvindr’s Háleygjatal, but Konungs Skuggsjá (cap. XV) and Saxo’s Gesta Danorum (Praef. 2,7) also associate the volcanism of Iceland with volcanic wells (ǫlkeldur) where water tastes like beer. This is a very strange notion that does not have any immediate relationship to actual volcanic phenomena, and there seems to be very little to substantiate the image aside from the mythic sources. The reasons for this will be examined in the following, but for now it is useful to present an overview of the mythic complex in its various sources and to generate a summary of the argument so far:
Figure 11: The mythic motif of volcanism Noisy j tnar and/or dwarves Skáldskaparmál Hallmundarkv. V luspá Eyvindr Landnáma. Flatey annals Konungs Sk. Saxo
x x x x
J tunn in a boat/giant sending a boat of stone/iron x x x
The eagle, flying, birds x x x x
Beer or mead x x x
x x (x)1
x x
Surtr
x x x
Description of an eruption
x (x)2 x x x x
1
Konungs Skuggsjá repeats the notion that Boreas Aquilo makes earthquakes and eruptions by blowing his winds into caves in the underground. This seems to accord with the acts of B lverkr in the mountain. 2 While it is supposed by this author and several other scholars that Vǫluspá indeed does relate aspects of an eruption, it cannot be taken to be a fact.
The Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál places Hnitbj rg centrally in the narrative when Suttungr takes the mead there. This makes the Mountain of the Clashing Rocks the focal point of this tale and sets the stage for an eruption from the mountain. The myth plays on the ambiguity of Óðinn as a sorcerer and a cosmic force, drawing analogies to medieval literary figures. Ægir, who is receiving this cultural knowledge about the Mead of Poetry, is rightly confused in the midst of all this, because this information process plays on so many levels of reference. Physical processes of the world are coupled with physical processes of the body, analogies between alcoholic drinks and knowledge are being drawn, and this complex is built on a raging undercurrent of a subtext of volcanism. This is a process of culturalization, an initiatory process of cosmic dimensions, and we may understand it in terms of the Silence Principle: that which is commonly understood by the culture is not mentioned. In that respect it is interesting that Skáldskaparmál is so focused on explaining the kennings in terms of water, only. Underneath the veil of the narrative tradition we find important cultural knowledge in the names and the narrative structures of the Mead Myth. This is not just a story of the wizard who cheats
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local farmers, drinks their good liquor, and runs off with their daughters, in the process transgressing the boundaries of natural human abilitiesμ this is a tale of how Evildoer, the Spirit of the ‘Unstable eye’ that became the ‘Flaming eye,’ made noise in the mountain with the help of a j tunn and a drill to make holes so that he could blow his raging storms into it and create eruptions. The tale tells how Evildoer first blew into the caverns and cracks of the Mountain of Clashing Rocks and made it rumble, made stones tumble down. Then he slipped into the furrows and made his way as a hissing snake, while the giant stabbed at him. Inside the Mountain of Clashing Rocks, Evildoer copulated with Invitation to Battle and drank the golden liquid of the underworld. In the shape of an eagle, Evildoer came bursting out of the Mountain of Clashing Rocks, bringing another eagle with him. They flew rapidly over the plains, the one chasing the other. And when they came to the dwellings of men, Evildoer exploded in golden liquid at the walls. As we saw above in the section on the mead mystery, the Mead Myth is a central cultural myth that extends far into the cultural domain, and on various levels connects with cosmology: it is a central myth in the Mythical Charter of Tradition. This connection of the Mead of Poetry to volcanism in relation to the prevalent complex of numinous knowledge and cosmology calls for further investigation. In the succeeding section on change and variation in the Mead Myth, we will consider this issue as well as the issue of why Gunnl ð and Óðinn must meet for an eruption to happen. LAVA AND MEAD, CHANGE AND VARIATION IN T HE MEAD MYTH
At this point we have successfully interpreted the Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál into a frame of volcanism. It has been shown how the various elements of the myth seem to harbor references to themes of volcanism in other narratives, in which there is little or no doubt that we are dealing with volcanic phenomena. It remains, however, to be explained why the Mead Myth would possibly come to be associated with volcanism in the first place. It is simply not enough to point to a possible complex of meaning, if this complex is not readily meaningful outside of the text and its interpretation, that is: it is all very well that the singular elements of the Mead Myth may find their place in a frame of volcanism, but if this frame only becomes meaningful when it is applied to the text by the interpreter, there is no guarantee that the parameters of the interpretation are defensible beyond a mere possibility offered by the text. For this myth to be accepted as a true Icelandic myth of volcanism, it is therefore of paramount importance that the volcanic frame of interpretation is not merely possible, but justified by reasons that are latent in the tradition prior to the time when the Mead Myth was written down in Skáldskaparmál. In other words, we must find out what possible factors of a pre-existing tradition could have conspired together in mythopoesis to work towards the
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Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál, and we must identify singular factors pertaining to the human response to volcanism that may relate to this tradition, in order to verify the myth as a myth of volcanism.98 It has already been touched upon that the Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál does entirely conform to known patterns. As noted above, McKinnell points out that the Mead Myth as told in Hávamál is irregular in terms of fulfilling the pattern of Óðinn’s seduction of the j tunn, but even Óðinn’s prominence in the pattern of j tunn seductions has been drawn into question. In her Det hellige bryllup og norrøn kongeideologi (1λλ1), Steinsland does not accept the notion of j tunn seduction as an original Óðinn tradition. Going back to Eyvindr skáldaspillir’s postulation that Óðinn and Skaði originally married, she sees the unification of these divinities as one that has been created by Eyvindr on “det mytiske mønsteret som er latent til stede i Ynglingatal i Fjolnes skikkelse” (the latent mythical pattern that is present in Ynglingatal in the figure of Fj lnir [Steinsland 1λλ1, 21λ]). Against this background, it is readily acceptable to wonder if the myth of the Mead of Poetry relates to a tradition that did not, in its beginning, allot Óðinn a role in the mythic complex. This chapter began with an allusion to Óðinn’s role as a god in the late heathen period, and his role as a literary figure in medieval Iceland. We noted that Richard North believes that Óðinn received his role as progenitor of royalty in Anglo-Saxon England in relation to the process of Christianization, and that this role came from the English realm to Norway in the late heathen era, resulting in the work of Háleygjatal by Eyvindr skáldaspillir. This calls for an investigation into change and variation in the Mead Myth from its early background in a European context to its Germanic tradition. The Mead Myth of Hávamál is fundamentally different from the one in Skáldskaparmál, and the reason for this is that the version in Hávamál relates to the Latin tradition and cults of the Liberalia and Bacchanalia, whereas the myth of Skáldskaparmál is fully integrated into an Icelandic context, and this integration occurs, if not prior to, then at the time when Eyvindr composed his stanzas of Háleygjatal. Eyvindr composed Háleygjatal in c. 985, which is some 50 years after the landnám ended in Iceland. From the beginning of the landnám in the 860–70s until its end around 930, there were around ten volcanic events in Iceland. These were of different types, mainly explosive, but there were also some singular effusive events. Finally, in 934–8 the Settlement Era volcanic activities culminate with a major eruption in the Katla system. This is known as the Eldgjá event and it is presumably one of the biggest eruptions in human history (Þór Þórðarson & Larsen 2007, 137). With no experiential frame of reference for This aspect of justification is widely lacking in Barber and Barber’s interpretations. They interpret various myths with the theme of volcanism, but in many aspects they fail to explain what function these myths would have had in relation to an existing tradition and notions of human disaster response mechanisms. For a myth to be important to a society, it requires more than a relationship to a disastrous event that took place at ‘some time.’
98
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volcanic phenomena, these migrants coming from Scandinavia and the North Atlantic islands were forced to resort to the cultural knowledge they brought with them from Europe, their Mythical Charter of Tradition, in order to explain, process, and cope with the volatile underground of Iceland. Eyvindr skáldaspillir’s two stanzas in Háleygjatal seem to be the earliest attempt to do so. As mentioned, he combines Gillingr, the flying Farmagnúðr (Óðinn), and the sǫkkdalir of Surtr with the origins of the Mead of Poetry. This suggests an early acceptance of the mead as a chthonic substance that could, because of its association with the underground, be compared to lava. LATIN INFLUENCE ON THE MEAD MYTH
In order to address and consider why it would make sense for Eyvindr both to link the Mead Myth with volcanism and—beyond the propagandistic aspect of a simple rivalry of two royally-aspiring clans—to postulate a marriage between Óðinn and Skaði, it is necessary to attempt to trace the mythic complex back to its possible state of origin in Latin culture. This will enhance our understanding of how the Mead Myth could possibly carry meaning in terms of volcanism to the Scandinavians from the time they colonized Iceland and far into the medieval period. It is not directly comprehensible that a myth of intoxicating drink can be involved with volcanism, but if the myth is scrutinized in terms of a broader European cultural frame, it may be possible to understand the link. The link occurs at the point where the god of the intoxicating drink is united with the Earth goddess. An ancient ritual of the Latin culture was the Liberalia, which was celebrated on the 17 th of March. This ritual is described both by Ovid and St. Augustine. Based on Varro’s descriptions, St. Augustine delivers an extensive account of the Liberalia, which includes ritual processions through the countryside with a phallus and representations of sexual organs in the temples (De Civitate Dei 1924, VII.21). It appears that Liber and Libera, the divinities celebrated at the Liberalia, were associated broadly with fertility, but Liber also presided over the grapes and this caused him to be associated with Dionysus. Liber was often paired with Ceres and it seems that his name, like that of Ceres, etymologically connected him with birth and harvest (Dumézil [1966] 1996, 377–8). Ceres had her own cult ritual, the Cerealia on the 19th of April, but she was consistently associated with Liber-Libera, and from the late third century BCE her cult was in heavy competition with the Greek cult of Demeter. Eventually this resulted in the interpretatio graeca of the Ceres cult and it became so that at the sacrum anniversarium Cereris celebrated in summer time, the reunion of Demeter and Persephone in the guise of Ceres and Proserpina, was celebrated. Likewise, Liber was also gradually assimilated into a Greek form, namely with Dionysus-Bacchus as the wine god (p. 380).
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In Metamorphoses, Ovid
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gives an account of the myth of Ceres’s loss of
Proserpina/Persephone. In book V, he tells how she was kidnapped by the lord of the underworld Tartarus/Saturnus. The giant Typhoeus had been buried with his head under the volcano Aetna, “sub qua resupinus harenas eiectat flammamque ferox uomit ore Typhoeus” (under which Typhoeus lies on his back, spewing fires and ashes out of his mouth [Metamorphoses 2004, V.352–3]). Therefore Tartarus had left his dark realm to have a look at the state of Sicily’s underground (V.361). Cupido thus sent an arrow and made Tartarus fall in love with the first woman he saw. He found Proserpina playing in the grove, and he kidnapped her to his realm, driving his chariot “perque lacus altos et olentia sulphure fertur stagna Palicorum rupta feruentia terra” (over the deep lake of the Palices and hot pools reeking of sulphur boiling up from fissures in the ground [V.405–6]). In the following, Ovid tells how the nymph Cyane rose from the bay in which she lives and tried to stop Saturnus from taking Proserpina to the underworld, but he smote her with his scepter and made a crater in the bottom of the ocean, all the way down to the caverns of Tartarus (V.409–24). As a result of the kidnapping of her child, Ceres let her anger loose on the fertile lands of Sicily and caused droughts and heavy rain that left no crops standing (V.464–86).100 Under the auspices of eco-mythology, this myth is easily examined as a story using the imagery of volcanism, seismicity, tidal waves, and weather conditions causing famine. This is, however, not the object here. We shall simply note that the complex of Ceres/Demeter as the Earth goddess in the Ovidian mythology is not only linked with the underworld, 101 but with natural disasters and volcanism. Liber/Dionysus-Bacchus does not appear in this myth, but his legacy is detected elsewhere. It seems that a variant of the Bacchanalia or Liberalia resurged in the medieval period. According to a tenth century Spanish penitential, the wild man Orcus dances in intoxicated frenzy with Maia at the frivolous festivities that were once celebrated throughout Catholic Europe. Popular versions of Orcus survive in French (ogre), Italian (orco) and German (orke) throughout the medieval period, but also in the Anglo-Saxon version: wudewāsan (Bernheimer 1979, 42–3), a name that seems to connect with óðr (mad, frantic [Zoëga 2004, 323]); in Old English wōd (zeal, ardor [de Vries 1961, 416]), and thus also Óðrørir and Óðinn. In early Roman religion, Orcus is a relatively obscure figure, but already Plautus assimilates Orcus into Pluto (Dumézil [1966] 1996, 369), essentially assigning him the same role as Tartarus/Saturnus. Ovid also aligns the realm of the dead with Orcus
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We saw above that Ovid may have contributed to the Ymir Myth, and it seems that he was widely known from early on in Iceland and Scandinavia (Dronke 1971, 146–7). 100 Evidently, aspects of this myth remind us of Þjazi’s Theft of Iðunnμ the being of the otherworld (the death realm) steals a young woman and this causes a food crisis. 101 That Ceres has ties to the underworld in other capacities is well-known (Dumézil [1966] 1996, 375–6).
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(Metamorphoses 2004, XIV.116), and Orcus as a popular medieval term for the underworld appears in Gesta Normannorumμ “atque franciscae gentis laceros plagis horco detrusit” (and smote the mangled French people down to Orcus [Gesta Normannorum 1996, XL]). Maia, essentially the same Earth goddess as Ceres, was associated with Volcanus in early Roman religion. This is deduced from the expression “εaia Volcani.” This formulation belongs to an ancient tradition of uniting mythic female entities with certain divinities of which they represent an aspect or mode of action (Dumézil [1966] 1996, 397). At the Roman Volcanalia, celebrated on the 23rd of August, it was customary to make sacrifices to Volcanus to avoid fire in the crops and granaries (p. 321),102 and it may possibly be such risks that the above expression as well as the sacrifices refer to. In the medieval period, we find Volcanus relegated to Orcus’s realm in the underworld as a tormentor of souls in visionary literature such as Visio Tnugdali/Duggals leizla (Malm 1992, 163). On the shoulders of this complex, it seems, stand different Germanic and Scandinavian interpretations. Richard North makes a strong argument for a long-standing tradition of a Germanic version of the Bacchanalian cult realized in its earliest form in the Nerthus-Terra εāter complex in Tacitus’s Germania (cap. XL). Possibly the king with the epithet Ing- was the embodiment of Nerthus, and this Ing- figure was, according to North, later deified. This perspective, North argues, has roots in Ovid’s version of the Bacchus/Dionysus myth (North 1λλ7, 32). Furthermore, North suggests that the Freyr of the medieval Icelandic texts was in his early aspects analogous to the Liber figure (p. 31). 103 His cult, as described in the fourteenth century Gunnar Helmings þáttr in Flateyjarbók, in which he was, in a fashion similar to Nerthus, driven around the country in a wagon with a female consort, reflects the Roman Ceres-Liber festivals (p. 33). Freyr is alluded to as the progenitor of the Ynglingar in Ynglingatal (sts. 17 and 21), and so it seems that Þjóðólfr ór Hvíni wished to claim Freyr as the most ancient ancestor of the Ynglingar (p. 39). The consequence of this allusion to Freyr as the Ynglingar ancestor is taken in Ynglinga saga, where it is claimed that Fj lnir is the son of Yngvifreyr (Heimskr. 1979 I: Ynglinga saga, XI). The unfortunate Fj lnir tripped and drowned in the mead-vat at a feast in the hall of the Danish king Fróði (p. 26). Both Fj lnir and Fróði are, in the opinion of several scholars, associated with Freyr, not Óðinn, even though the name is applied to the former in Grímnismál (Falk 1924, 9; Ström 1954, 64; Turville-Petre 1964, 166, 169–71; de Vries 1970 185–6; Steinsland 1991, 192–3). Saxo’s story of
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This combination of harvest and fire is very interesting to compare with the aforementioned Simon Magus, who flies through the air as a fire-ball, who harvests like ten men with his magical scythe, and is associated with the underworld through his abilities to go through the ground and turn into the chthonic form of a snake. One may speculate whether or not this evil sorcerer of the Christian tale of Clemens saga is a compilation some known images of underworld beings from the δatin cultureμ Volcanus’s fiery abilities and harvest, or; Saturnus’s scythe and the chthonic association of these underworld beings, including Orcus. 103 Also, Dronke alludes to Freyr as an analogue to Dionysus in War of the Æsir and Vanir 1988.
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Haddingus—a character who is to some degree modeled after Nj rðr (Dumézil 1λ70; Turville-Petre 1964, 215; de Vries 1970, 175)—reveals at its end a tale analogous to the Fj lnir story of Ynglinga saga. Haddingus’s archenemy, King Hundingus of Sweden, celebrates what he believed to be the death of Haddingus by brewing a large vat of ale and serving it to his guests. Because Hundingus is so drunk, he ends up drowning in the beer tub, which Saxo comments wasμ “deditque poenas siue Orcho, quem falsa exequiarum actione placabat, siue Hadingo, cuius interitum mentitus fuerat” (to punish him for having with no reason celebrated Orcus, or perhaps because he had lied about Haddingus’s death [Saxo 2005 I, I 8,27]). It may be entirely coincidental that Saxo chooses this wording, but on the other hand, the fact that Saxo pairs vivid intoxication with a ritual to Orcus and drowning in the alcoholic drink points toward the above-described mythic complex that relates Orcus to the Liberalia and the Bacchanalia. In this complex there is a general association of the intoxicating drink with the underworld. The Ceres-Liber unification in the early mythology conflates intoxicating drink and the Earth-mother, and this is reflected in the later medieval traditions that are analogous to this myth. Saxo’s version of this is a worship of Orcus with beer and extreme, life-threatening intoxication. This is most certainly one of the moralizing comments on pagan gluttony, of which we have seen several in the preceding chapter. The drunkenness of the bacchanalia survives both in Saxo and Ynglinga saga, but also in Hávamál, which also includes the sexual aspects. The Mead Myth of Hávamál preserves all the features that are present in the Roman complex: in stanzas 13–14, where Óðinn is highly intoxicated, it is the drunkenness; in stanza 105, it is the drink and the unification of the two gods; in stanzas 108 and 110, there is also allusion to coitus or marriage (although Óðinn breaks the agreement) between the gods; and in stanzas 106–7, there is a preservation of the chthonic association of the myth: Óðinn brings the alcoholic drink to the human world, just as Liber would have done. It is thus possible to see the Mead Myth of Hávamál as a Scandinavian-Icelandic analogue to the persevering European Maia-Orcus/Ceres-Liber/Dionysus-Demeter unification. The connection of Óðinn to this tradition seems to be reflected furthermore in the Anglo-Saxon tradition of the wild man, where there may be an overlap in naming traditionμ Óðinn, Óðrørir, and Wudewāsan. But in the Icelandic tradition, it has generated two distinct uses of the myth in relation to its ecosystem. THE TWO MEAD MYTHS
As has been established, Hávamál and Skáldskaparmál relate two very different versions of the Mead Myth. These variations can neither be reduced to differences in genre or situations of oral transmission: they constitute essential functions of the myth in its specific variant as a central myth
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of the Mythical Charter of Tradition. The Mead Myth of Hávamál displays aspects of certain cultural institutions, while the one in Skáldskaparmál is—even though it retains a strong focus on cultural institutions—entirely focused on natural features and processes of nature. The cultural institutions of the Hávamál myth are, in accordance with the tradition of Óðinn and Skaði in Háleygjatal, the hall, marriage, oaths, and power. While the myth of Skáldskaparmál of course begins with the establishment of the cultural institution of peace and Kvasir spreading knowledge far and wide, it quickly transitions to features of natureμ the dwarves’ home (notoriously in stones, mountains, the ground—these elements are nothing like the hall), the sea, the skerries, crops and harvest, the mountain, the underworld. Another striking dissimilarity is that in the Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál, a wide selection of characters die, while there is nothing to indicate the death of any character in the Mead Myth in Hávamál: in Skáldskaparmál we first see the death of Kvasir, then Gillingr and his wife, then, subsequently, the deaths of the nine slaves. Aside from this there is a constant threat to Óðinn’s life. This underlines the very dangerous threat to humans of the volcanic event. These extensive differences between the myths are not simply explained by the fact that one is relayed in poetry and the other in prose. Nor does it seem likely that they could be two versions of a third proto-myth about the mead. Likewise, this does not mean that they could not both be much older than their manuscript versions (cf. Mogk 1923; Frank 1981; Frog 2011), but their structural dissimilarities are so great that these myths should not simply be viewed as two versions of ‘the same.’ Rather, they are two different myths that have been generated from the same motif of the chthonic alcoholic drink of wisdom. They are two aspects of the same foundation myth in the Mythical Charter of Tradition: the one in Hávamál takes on a purely foundational aspect as it connects with the establishment of kingship and the etiology of the powerful cultural substance of the Mead of Poetry; the version in Skáldskaparmál acknowledges these aspects entirely, but becomes, as a result of the realizations of the ecosystem, a technical myth of volcanism in the Mythical Charter of Tradition. This is realized in the following manner: In Hávamál the εead εyth takes place “í Suttungs s lom” (in Suttungr’s halls [Hvm. 104]), where they are seated “á gullom stóli” (in golden seats [Hvm. 105]), and the j tnar come “Háva ráðs at fregna, Háva h llo í” (to ask the High One’s council, in the High One’s hall [Hvm. 109]), because Óðinn left Suttungr and Gunnl ð betrayed at the sumbl (Hvm. 110). The phrasing “Háva h llo í” is repeated in stanza 111, where Óðinn proclaims that it is time to speak from the þulr’s seat in the High One’s hall. The entire setting of this myth is in the hall of a ruler: Suttungr or the High One. Only stanza 106 seems to indicate a translocation to a setting other than the hall, as we learn that Óðinn is
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digging his way out from his host’s hall.104 We may infer with reference to Skáldskaparmál that this is a reference to digging or drilling in the mountain. It does not, however, make much sense to do so. In fact, when one is familiar with the Orcus-complex, it makes sense simply to associate this with the chthonic aspect of the widely known Latin tradition. This also means that when stanza 107 proclaims that Óðrørir has come up to the human world, it may as well be analogically referring to the unification of Orcus (Óðinn) and εaia (Gunnl ð) at the ritual feast, or the bringing of the alcoholic drink by Liber (Óðinn), as much as it should refer to Óðinn retrieving the mead from the specific site of Hnitbj rg. Given εcKinnell’s association of these stanzas to Ovid’s Ars Amatoria, it is not a completely unlikely thought. Spatially, the Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál takes a completely different turn than the one in Hávamál. There is virtually nothing that associates it with the central site of the hall. The Mead Myth takes place in cosmos, in and below the world, and roofed buildings play only a peripheral role. This is the mythic scenery that Eyvindr is referring to when he says that Óðinn carried the mead out of Surtr’s sinking-dales: he is not referring to a roofed hall and a scene taking place inside it, he is referring to the volcanic scenery of Iceland. This is entirely different than the bacchantian fertility scene of Hávamál. It is uncertain when the aspect of volcanism is fully realized in the Mead Myth, but Eyvindr’s kennings certainly do prove that the subject is already well known in his time. With the association of the intoxicating drink with the pre-Christian Fire-j tunn (Surtr and even Volcanus) and the underworld, it is comparably spectacular that Saxo makes that extraordinary assertion about the Icelandic hot springs when he says some of them taste of beerμ “Sunt et alii fontes, quorum scatebra cerealis poculi proprietatem imitari perhibetur” (There are also other springs whose water apparently taste like beer [Saxo 2005 I, Praef. 2,7]). In light of the chthonic association of the intoxicating drink, it seems plausible that Saxo is actually referring to a known tradition of associating the Mead of Poetry with volcanism in Iceland. Eyvindr relocates the Mead Myth to the volcanic realm, creating a spatial difference based on the chthonic associations of the alcoholic drink that are already in place. This is comparable to what Barber and Barber note in relation to the Klamath mythμ “If the mountain smokes like a chimney, then it plausibly is the chimney of a supernatural creature’s home” (Barber & Barber 2004, 35). Normally, stones and rocks stay put, and mountains most certainly do not go up in flames. If such a
It is interesting that the hostility between the gods and the j tnar remains constant in relation to the auger Rati in both myths. Stanza 106 clearly indicates that Óðinn is in danger on his way out of Suttungr’s hall, and similarly in Skáldskaparmál, Baugi jabs at Óðinn with the auger. Interestingly, in stanza 106 it seems that Óðinn is the one using the instrument, while it has obviously been given to Baugi in Skáldskaparmál. This shift of hands should not go unnoticed, as it may underscore the shift in focus between the two versions of the myth: in the hands of Óðinn, Rati is an instrument of culture comparable to all the other artefacts procured and produced by or for the gods. Conversely, Rati is an instrument of nature and destruction in the hands of Baugi, who uses it in an act of volcanism.
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thing happens, there must be agency behind it (p. 41–4), and this agency is comparable to that of humans, their habits and habitations—this is essentially the story that Ovid creates about Typhoeus, Saturnus, Proserpina, and Ceres. Rocks that fly from the mountain must have been blown out of there by a creature that sends its winds into the caves: fire that comes from there must be the fire god, the god of the underworld, that lives in there, and from that we have a story about the Fire god of the underworld who dances in a frenzy of intoxication with the Earth goddess. So when the mountain opens and a thick, yellow-red substance pours out (or is jetted out), it must be the beer or mead of these creatures. The first Icelanders and many of their descendants, like most pre-industrial peoples, had only a limited set of substances to which lava could be compared. Barber and Barber suggest that molten bronze being poured from the crucible is a good analogy for flowing lava, and when it squirts out of the mountain, a fountain of gold could work too (p. 107). Earlier in this chapter, we have seen these two analogies being made already: eitr that flows like cinder and the volcano being called ‘treasurestrewer.’ But if the subject of drink carries weight in relation to volcanic activity, non-ingestible fluids like smelted iron or gold are not favorable analogies, beer and mead are.105 We have already noted how Kvasir, the source of the mead, was literally carrying wisdom from door to door before he was killed. His essence is still in the mead, and this is why B lverkr seeks it. In order to keep the knowledge of volcanism intact, it must be connected to the primary cultural substance of the mead. This is a form of cultural response to the surrounding ecosystem—it is an eco-myth, and in the following we shall briefly consider the aspect of eco-myths as response to an environment.
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I have been informed by volcanologist Kathy Cashman of Bristol University that when teaching rheology she often draws analogies between lava and honey because of the similarity in the viscosity of the two substances.
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CHAPTER CONCLUSION: THE CREATION MYTH AND THE MEAD MYTH AS RESPONSE TO VOLCANISM
It is possible to read the Creation Myth and the Mead Myth as two types of response to volcanism in Iceland. With this aspect in mind, they are also conceptualizations of the land in Iceland, because they harbor concepts and evaluations as eco-myths in the Mythical Charter of Tradition. The above analyses and interpretations argue that these myths are variants of eco-myths that have been formulated in relation to sites of danger and peril in the environment and ecosystem of Iceland. With that they are a part of the Mythical Charter of Tradition and as such Cultural Memory that is reproduced in connection with Memory Spaces in the landscape. These eco-myths are a part of the tradition of mythology that originates in the mainland of Europe, but they have received specific narrative characteristics in response to the environment of Iceland. In the following, I will describe the specific aspects of this response in relation to the two myths. THE CREATION MYTH AS RESPONSE TO VOLCANIS M
It may at first seem out of place to involve the destructive force of Muspellzheimr and Surtr in the process of creation. With the tradition of muspille from known sources in medieval Europe in mind, not least the role of Surtr in ragnarøkkr, there is a far distance to any notion of creation. But, as it has been argued above, there is an experiential background to this notion: it is the mandate of experience that allows for a credible construction of a myth of creative fire. This myth of the creation of Ymir with a genesis in fire is nothing short of the result of a process of observing, deducing, and narrating that is described both in Prologus and in the end of Gylfaginning. Prologus I describes this process in the following mannerμ “εiðlaði hann ok spekina svá at þeir skilðu alla jarðliga hluti ok allar greinir þær er sjá mátti loptsins ok jarðarinnar. Þat hugsuðu þeir ok undruðusk …” (He also gave them some perceptiveness so that they could understand all earthly matters and all the details that they could see in the sky and the earth. They considered this and wondered … [Prol. I]). The ability to perceive the aspects of the world, understand them, and ponder their existence is, in this medieval context, bestowed upon humans by the one true God. Regardless of this context—and the fact that it places this epistemological approach to the world second to one informed by spirituality—the basic idea that is presented here is that it is a natural human process of cognition to consider the aspects of the world and construct narratives—myths—about its characteristics. This process also occurs in the end of Gylfaginning, where the æsir deliberate after having told Gangleri their myths, and thus assign to the world the contents of their narrative, mythic, tradition (Gylf. LIV). Here, the myths of Troy are—
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according to the author—assigned a new context in relation to paganism in Scandinavia. This essentially describes the process of active mythopoesis in assigning new meaning to foundation narratives in the Mythical Charter of Tradition. It is on the basis of reasonable similarity that the mythic images of a fiery doom relayed in sermons and missionary elegies are assigned to the volcanic phenomena in Iceland. And it is in a similar manner that these images are subsequently assigned to a creation process in Gylfaginning. They are the next best thing to describing the actual event of a volcanic eruption, and since the volcanic event is as much a creative activity as it is destructive, it can only be surmised that Surtr and Muspell can create the proto-matter of the world. As long as this proto-matter is then manipulated by the milder forces of the cosmos, it will become inhabitable space. This is a form of response to volcanism that appropriates the phenomenon and incorporates it into the worldview. It is entirely different from the type of response that is seen in Konungs Skuggsjá, where volcanic fires are places of torment. This view assigns volcanoes a peripheral role and one that is entirely unfamiliar. By associating the volcanic phenomenon of Iceland with the creation of the world, this life-threating and inherently destructive force is redefined as an element of the ecosystem that one can live with. It becomes less problematic to exist in the vicinity of volcanoes, and one is instantly reassured that although an eruption will destroy something, it will bring new life too, when the lava has settled, the ashes have built up in layers and the milder winds return. This is a coping strategy that appropriates the volcanoes and cultivates them. In the following we will see how the Mead Myth functions in quite the same manner as another example of response to volcanism with cultivation and appropriation. THE MEAD MYTH AS RES PONSE TO VOLCANISM
The choice of equating the Mead of Poetry with lava seems mysterious at first, but in terms of the cultural status of the numinous drink of wisdom, paired with the function of myths as a catalogue of technical cultural knowledge in the Mythical Charter of Tradition, the reasons for the mythic comparison become clearer. There are two reasons for choosing beer and mead, and thus the Mead Myth, to carry important knowledge about volcanism in Iceland: (1) The first reason is that, assuming that the alcoholic drink (the mead and the related mythic complex) held a prominent status in pre-Christian Scandinavia, it would be the obvious choice to combine the culturally and socially most significant mythic complex with a natural phenomenon that may significantly impact the existence of the culture.
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(2) The second reason is that the mead represents ingestible fluids, which, in terms of the more practical level of human response to volcanism, can be hard to come by in times of volcanic disaster—even in a place with so many natural water resources as Iceland. To couple the chthonic drink of knowledge as an ingestible fluid with the highly harmful fluids of the lava is to associate the appearance of the lava and the events of the eruption, with its noise and other details, with the need to gather provisions in such times. It is for the same reason that B lverkr must harvest before the eruption. For the clarification of these two points, it is useful to revisit Bergbúa þáttr and the last stanza of Hallmundarkviða. In stanza 12, the bergbúi commands his listeners to remember the poemμ “Flokk nemið it eða ykkat, élherðar, mun verða, enn er at Aurnis brunni ónyt, mikit víti” (Take this poem [to heart] or be harshly punished, the well of Aurnir is not yet empty [Halkv. 12]). He has just described to them the details of the eruption, and by telling his listeners not to forget the poem or otherwise suffer great punishment, he is signaling how important it is to know the particular details and warning signs in relation to Icelandic volcanism. The result is otherwise, as Hallmundr describes, that men will be boiled in scathing waters and they will suffer under the ash cloud that will cover their sky. The effect a volcanic eruption could have on the social balance in medieval times (indeed any era) by influencing the production and cost of crops, either by clouding the sky with dust and ash, or by poisoning the crops or the water supplies with emissions of such gasses as hydrogen flouride, are not to be underestimated (Gerrard & Peltey 2013, 1054–5). Indeed, the highly acidic hydrogen flouride may even burn human tissue and damage the teeth and intestines of farm animals. This is a very real threat to society and therefore it is useful to encode knowledge of precautionary methods in significant narratives of the Mythica Charter of Tradition, like the Mead Myth. As John Lindow pointed it out in his reading of Bergbúa þáttr at the 15th International Saga Conference in Aarhus 2012, skaldic poetry is the most important social knowledge of the Viking Age and it does not cease to be a relevant source of knowledge in medieval Iceland (Lindow 2012, 208). It carries the wisdom of the ancestors, of dead kings, heroes, and myths—it also carries knowledge of Memory Spaces in the ecosystem such as volcanoes. The Mead of Poetry plays an important role in the activation of this Mythical Charter of Tradition, the Cultural and Collective Memory and knowledge of problematic spaces in the ecosystem. It was when people met and shared the alcoholic drinks that mythic knowledge and truths about the world and life were told in a ritualistic setting. These truths are formalized and contextualized in connection with the alcoholic beverage. This is most evident in Óðinn’s recitation of cosmic knowledge and morals in Grímnismál after he has received the mead from Agnarr. It is in such settings that we receive the most important knowledge, cultural knowledge and Cultural
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Memory, which ensures the perseverance of society throughout the ages. Volcanoes represent a colossal threat to the perseverance of a culture. One eruption may wipe out all life on an island and in a region. A large-scale volcanic event can obscure sunlight for years to come. Cultures existing in close proximity to volcanoes were aware of that, told different tales about it, and employed different mnemonic techniques to remember it. In Iceland, it seems that the Mead of Poetry was used for that purpose. The Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál is a response to volcanism, which ties the golden substance of mead with the fiery substance of lava, and the ancient knowledge about what an eruption can do to a society: kill it. The Mead Myth is an eco-mythical memory narrative that uses formalized, fixed, and comprehensible analogies for the features of an eruption, to carry the motif through time and tales: the noisy giants represent the rumbling, the venting of gas and lava; the supernatural boat of stone and iron represents the various ejecta of rocks and ashes; the eagle refers to the ash cloud and the pyroclastic plumes; and the Fire People led by Surtr refer to the fire of the mountain. That is why, in comparison with Hávamál, there is so much death in the Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál. It is why there are so many warning signs in names and actions referring to sounds and danger, and it is why B lverkr has to harvest and go fetch the drink. The story saysμ when Screamer and Noisy go sailing on the underworld sea, when Noisy’s wife howls before the stone doors of the dwarfs, and when Evildoer and the giant are rumbling about in the mountain, gather provisions and stay safe. This is fully consistent with other known examples of response to volcanoes and other problematic sites in the ecosystem of other cultures, such as those inflicted by the Mazama eruption in North America (Beaudoin & Oetelaar 2006a, 2006b), the curious case of exploding lakes in the folklore of the surrounding areas of Lake Manoun and Lake Nyos in Cameroon (Shanklin 1989), or the genealogic tales of volcanism of the Maori (Cashman & Cronin 2008, 415–16). A case in which it is possible to see how Cultural and Collective Memory of the Mythical Charter of Tradition directly influence response to volcanic disasters is the 1912 Katmai event. Oral tales of the local native population were actively employed in the early stages of the eruption, where a series of earthquakes and the venting of gas and pyroclastic material gave warning signs to the elders of the community. As soon as it became evident to the elders that an eruption was in progress, they instructed the others to gather water and dried fish in the houses, and to turn the boats over so that they would not be filled with ashes. Others, warned by the early tremors, were already in the process of moving out of the area north of the volcano (Vanderhoek 2009, 80–3). With this perspective in mind, the events of the Mead Myth are much clearer:
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(1) This culturally significant myth is involved with volcanism on the same terms as similarly culturally significant myths known from other cultures. The Kom people in Cameroon tell their origin stories in relation to the exploding lakes (Shanklin 1989, 238–41), and the Maori tell legends that establish a causal link between past behavior in certain families and volcanic eruptions (Cashman & Cronin 2008, 415). Similarly, as noted earlier (see chapter II, pages 28 and 36), the Maring combine the volcanic phenomenon in the Smoke Woman and the Red Spirits with their causes to go to war. These myths are all part of the three functions of the Mythical Charter of Tradition: myths of origin, myths of prestigious families, and myths of technical knowledge. The same is the case of the myth of the Mead of Poetry and its mythic familiars sharing in the string of motifs. (2) The myth of the Mead of Poetry has taken on this character of a myth of volcanism as a result of early encounters with Icelandic volcanoes. With no experiential frame for describing the many volcanic eruptions that the early settlers of Iceland encountered, they had to resort to known mythic paradigms. By engaging analogies of various kinds, which relate directly to the core aspects of survival—food, drinks, and social codes—the Myth of the Mead of Poetry has been pieced together as a response to the volcanic activities of Iceland and a conceptualization of the land there. It is a form of response that appropriates and cultivates an otherwise problematic and terrifying aspect of the ecosystem that Icelanders have had to endure for centuries. With this it takes its place in the worldview of early Icelanders as a narrative that cultivates the most fearsome aspects of the land. CONCLUDING REMARKS
The landscape is culture, not nature. These myths of volcanism are human attempts to recast a harsh ecosystem and a volatile environment of volcanoes in a cultural form. They are a cultural appropriation of the lands most inhuman aspects. They do not establish artificial boundaries between inhabited space and the mysterious outer world, rather they plot cultural narratives onto visible phenomena of the landscape and assign to these phenomena an important cultural role. By stating that creation comes from volcanism, from an eruption, a culture familiarizes itself with an aspect of the land it inhabits that at first seems to reject said culture. Similarly, by mapping out a cosmic journey in the volcanic landscape and aligning the creation of the mead with the eruption of a volcano, the cultural unit cultivates the aspects of volcanism that are hardly within reach of humans. By sending a god into the mountain to retrieve in volcanic form the lost spirit of culture, the cultural unit associated with the Mead Myth fully appropriates volcanism as part of their culture and as an immediate part of
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their worldview. When the mead is ingested and the verse is spoken, an immediate link is established with the beginning of time and with the convulsions of the geothermally-active underground. The fluids that rage inside the mountain and under the feet of the consumers enter their bodies too and the local body, the microcosm, becomes one with the world-body, the macrocosm. Óðrørir takes over the body and ancient wisdom bursts forth: the deep mysteries of the world’s creation, of Kvasir’s creation and of what each of these mysteries contains. These mysteries are the knowledge of the ancestors, the knowledge of social codes and conduct, and not least the knowledge of the cosmos as a whole: the worldview. They are retained in the mead and in the social sharing of knowledge. This notion is poetically asserted by Einarr skálaglammμ “Ullar gengr of alla asks gn þess er hv t magnar byrgis b ðvar sorgar bergs geymilá dverga” (Over all Ullr’s ash-host who follow the encourager of the battle’s defence-sorrow, there flows the mountain’s hidden river of the dwarves [Skáld. III,28]). This is a poetic way of calling upon the memory of the dead, and thus also the past, in direct association with the Mead of Poetry. But aside from just that, Einarr employs the kenning for the mead “bergs geymilá dverga,” and by doing so he refers to the mead in its specific context as a hidden mountain river of the dwarves: the mead as lava or the mead as a chthonic substance that comes from the insides of the world-body, like human liquids come from the insides of the human body. With the association of mead as spittle and Kvasir’s blood, the dwarves as maggots in the flesh, and lava as the liquid substance roaring in the veins of Earth, this stanza completes a circle of association that triggers the volcanic narratives of the Mead Myth and its associated motifs. We are reminded here what is contained in the Mythical Charter of Tradition, and the technical knowledge of volcanism, whilst the image calls upon the memory of the fighting warriors and thus the memory of the past and the association of volcanism and war. The mead activates the memory of that which has passed, and thus also the memory of the creation and the substance from which the world-body was created, not least that it still flows inside the bowels of the world-body.
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CONCLUSION CHAPTER INTRODUCTION
We began this study by asking the questions: what is the constitution of the Old Norse worldview according to the literary mythological sources in terms of man’s relationship with nature? What is the relationship between the conceptual categories of culture and nature, or civilized and wild (byggð and óbyggð, innangarðs and útangarðs), as it is expressed in the æsir’s dealings with the surrounding world in the εyth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, the Creation εyth and the myth of the εead of Poetry in Skáldskaparmál? How do the actions of the gods in these narratives express man’s mythical notions of his relationship with the land and sea in the Scandinavian and North Atlantic ecoystems? In our search for an answer to this question, we have devised a theory of myth that understands the myth and its text from an evolutionary perspective, where the mythic narrative is believed to evolve in relation to its cultural and natural surroundings or perish. This is the hypothesis of the existence of eco-myths as a specific type of myth that inhabits a function in the Mythical Charter of an indigenous Tradition as narratives of special technical knowledge about the surrounding ecosystems of a certain culture. A search for narratives of this type in Old Norse mythology did not leave us wanting, and we have been able to identify myths that can be proven to indicate how the sea and the land, not least volcanoes, are conceptualized in the Old Norse–Scandinavian mythic worldview. These myths are considered indigenous narratives that have been formulated as tales of human activity in the surrounding ecosystem, and over time they have been used and reused with added narrative material from the evolving tradition. The following summarizes what has been uncovered, and subsequently contextualizes the results in a broader conclusion about the Old Norse–Scandinavian mythic worldview that relates to the scholarly discussion on the subject.
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CONFRONTING THE SEA CHAPTER SUMMARY
The chapter on confronting the sea describes a development in the use and social significance of the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition from the early times of the Viking Era until the medieval period. The Fishing Expedition is the most widespread myth in the corpus of Old Norse myths. It is featured in images on picture-stones from Sweden, Denmark, and England; it is mentioned in kennings and stanzas by several skalds; and it is extant in both eddic poetry and the mythic prose of Edda. This seems only natural considering the prominence of the sea in Scandinavian culture: with the sea as such a considerable resource and natural part of the ecosystem, it seems obvious that Scandinavians would formulate an eco-myth of how the providing god in human form would tackle the confrontation with the Spirit of the Sea, J rmungandr. From the core of this myth, it is argued, the narrative elements stretch their influence into a wide range of other medieval narratives and even historical accounts. The myth has been reused in other contexts and parts of the conceptions about Þórr, seafaring, and the procurement of food at sea have influenced the way in which later narratives of migration, exploration, and conversion to Christianity have been formulated. There are thus narrative elements of the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, or elements of Þórr’s functions as a pagan god, undoubtedly derived from the Fishing Myth, which appear in some migration tales in Landnámabók and the íslendingasögur. A few of these have surely been remodeled as conversion narratives that display Þórr and his functions as a seafaring god and provider of food at sea in a negative and demonic perspective, or deny him these abilities in comparison with Christian protagonists, or outright deconstruct this mythic image of Þórr. The effort to deconstruct Þórr’s Fishing Expedition is put to work in another frame in Saxo’s conversion narrative of Thorkillus and Gormus, as well as in the story of Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki. These narratives display a considerably high-level structural resemblance with the Fishing Myth. This is in no way surprising considering the prominence of the myth in pre-Christian Scandinavian society. The myth seems to have had such widespread significance and an almost universal relevance to Scandinavian society that it was told and retold by everyone, from the highest social spheres to the lowest. As such it would become an important tool in any missionary and conversion effort of emissaries of Christianity. That Saxo finds this narrative relevant in the late twelfth century and early thirteenth century—so relevant that he uses it to construct a Nordic visionary quest—attests to the social significance of this myth. The Fishing Myth was so important that it seems that even Dudo de
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St. Quentin knew of it or a version derived from it, which he could use in a gruesome tale of the Viking sacrifices. The conversion tales add new perspectives to the myth. In its earliest form, it seems to have been the iconic Fishing Myth about negotiating the procurement of food in the primary space of the ecosystem, the sea. In later forms it is a myth of migration and exploration, but in its latest form it is a myth of realization—a myth of a mind-altering journey at sea, which changes society forever and introduces Christianity. It is a myth that transforms from a preoccupation with physical hunger to one of spiritual hunger, although the association of hunger with the sea persists. The myth thus never ceases to be an eco-myth even though its perspective changes. The spatial significance of the sea in Old Norse–Scandinavian society is fully recognized throughout the three levels of the myth, although on different terms. In the following I will summarize and conclude in what ways the myth is significant as an eco-myth, and subsequently I will suggest what this expression of the myth indicates in terms of the status of the sea in the Old Norse–Scandinavian worldview as can be gleaned from the corpus of medieval narratives. LEVEL ONE: THE FISHING EXPEDITION
We must realize that the myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition need not be a myth with cosmic overtones. The battle of Þórr and J rmungandr does not have to be a cosmic struggle in the same manner as its cognates in the Middle Eastern and Mesopotamian realm. It is possible to understand the myth simply as localized myth of man’s confrontation with the sea. In that sense it does not need the bird’s eye perspective of a grand cosmological scheme to have cosmic relevance. Its cosmic relevance is, in a simple, everyday manner, the situation that it presents: the daring to venture out to sea and gather food, with all that entails in terms of fear, getting cold, and the combers raging over the gunwale. The primary theme of the myth is fear and survival. In this theme is also contained the subject of a response to the sea as a primary force in the ecosystem, and the response that is ingrained in the actions of Þórr indicates the status of the sea in the worldview: the sea is not otherness, it is not a distant Úthaf, rather it can be appropriated and it is a cultural entity. The themes of fear and survival address the relationship of the fisherman to his fears of the sea and of hunger. The interest of the Fishing εyth and Þórr’s relationship with the sea is the catching of food at sea. The myth points out the aspects that need to be taken into consideration when fishing: fear of sea itself, chill, storm, drowning, and the economy of resources. The fisherman needs to consider how much he is willing to risk in order to make a good catch. His tool both in terms of going too far out to sea and in terms of making a too large a catch is to understand the proportionality in his daring. He must measure the
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need for the catch against the inherent risk of venturing further out, or of staying out longer than anticipated. The deep sea harbors unforeseeable challenges, but the shallows may yield only the smaller catches. This proportionality is humorously illustrated in the relationship between the shallows where Hymir catches flatfish and the deep sea where he catches whales, and Þórr catches the Miðgarðsormr. A similar warning in terms of proportionality is contained in the relationship between the land mammal and the sea creature, pastoralism and fishing: do not waste already valuable food as bait for fish. The result of going so far out with an ox-head and battling J rmungandr as the Spirit of the Deep Sea is that Þórr nearly destroys their fishing opportunity. This is an early myth of how Scandinavians dealt with fishing as a primary source of food collection. In the same way as the æsir are led by Þórr in their hunt for δoki, who is living in the river as a salmon, the god’s endeavor to catch J rmungandr prescribes reasonable behavior in fishing. Humor aides the dramatization of this technical wisdom in a manner that makes it more memorable, but essentially this myth prescribes in its own terms the technical aspects of sea fishing, just as the myth of the search for Loki prescribes the technical aspects of fishing for salmon in a mountain river. As such, the Fishing Myth functions fully as an eco-myth in the sense of a narrative of technical knowledge in the Mythicical Charter of Old Norse Tradition that provides instructions on how to deal with an element in the ecosystem. LEVEL TWO: THE JOURNEY OUT AND NEW DISCOVERIES
With the migrations of the Vikings from Scandinavia to the islands of the North Atlantic Ocean and onwards to Vínland, the perspective of the Fishing Myth develops. It is no longer a venture out to sea to collect food that is the primary association of the myth, but rather the adventure across the ocean towards new lands. The confrontation of man and sea is redefined from a concern with guidance in the proportionality of fear and daring to the catch, to the need to overcome any type of fear with daring and to have the courage to stare into the depths of the ocean as the spindrift washes over the deck as the keel struggles to hold its course. This is the idea that is contained in the meeting of Þórr and J rmungandr, eye to eye, in the skaldic descriptions. The subject of hunger and the weather is still a theme, but the focus has shifted. The focus is now directed towards the fear and the risk of the migration as a new ordeal. Where the fisherman had to conquer his fear of drowning to suppress his fear of starving, he could return home every night to a safe harbor. This is not the case for the explorers, colonialists, and Viking civilisateurs of the North. They were not sure if they would see a safe harbor for days and weeks when they made their journeys. Their movements in the North Sea were thus dependent on the favor of the gods that they believed would keep them safe and wellsupplied with food when traveling. The need for Þórr not as a fisherman, but as a guide, protector,
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and provider of food on the journey thus emerges. This is the image of the Fishing Myth that has been projected into an eco-myth in Landnámabók and the saga literature. The Fishing Myth develops into a myth of exploration and migration, and it becomes meaningful to state that Þórr guided some of the settlers to Iceland. However, with the introduction of Christianity it also becomes meaningful—even necessary— to deconstruct Þórr’s role as a guide, protector, and provider at sea. Some of the Christianized settlement tales of Landnámabók and the saga literature are expressions of that new perspective on the Fishing εyth. With this altered conception of the god’s role in the migration and exploration comes an altered perspective on the parameters of civilization. The old aspect of the difference between land mammals and sea creatures is reused in a restructured form. Where the Viking praised the sea and Þórr as the source of his wealth and the foundation of his social and societal order, the Christian explorer, whose purpose it is to Christianize the world, is represented with pastoralism and agriculturalism. It is no longer the god who brings civilization to the new land (as in the case of, for instance, Þórólfr Mostrarskegg), it is the man with karlsefni (man’s quality). The foundation is thus laid for the third and final level of development in this myth: the conversion narratives. LEVEL THREE: NEW REALIZATIONS AND THE CONVERSION
In the later conversion narratives derived partially from the Fishing Myth, the perspective of exploration is reconfigured as a perspective of recognition and the potential for exploring the true nature of the world as a Christian world. The conversion narratives of Gylfaginning and Saxo are essentially cut from the same cloth, but they have differing outcomes because of the status of the protagonist. Thorkillus is an explorer with the potential to understand the true nature of things, and as such he realizes that what he can find in the North by undertaking the sea-journey—far beyond the civilized world––is of little use and repulsive in its essence; it is paganism, materialism, the belief in the world’s mirabilia. The case is a bit different for Þórr in Útgarðaloki’s hallμ he is unable to see the sjónhverfingar for what they are, and thus he attempts to drink the sea, tries to lift J rmungandr, its spirit, and eventually wrestles with Old Age—as any vain man would do. Þórr’s Journey to Útgarðaloki in Gylfaginning thus seems to paraphrase the materialist perspective of Saxo and add to it the notion that Þórr—as a vain man who believes he is a god—will never understand that there are powers greater than him, all the while his hunger is growing through the narrative: he is doomed to perish in the judgment of Ragnar k. But regardless of this redefinition of the perspective of the myth and certain related religious activities (such as blót), the original aspects do not disappear. In the new version of the myth these
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aspects are redefined in an effort to criticize and deconstruct the basic tenets of the form of paganism that the conversion narratives seek to deprecate. Þórr is comically demonized as a child-snatcher in Gylfaginning, while Saxo simply redresses these gods who claim payment for food as monsters. This is a comment on the pagan custom of making sacrifices. In the same manner, the Viking way of life as it is expressed in Saxo’s narrative about Haddingus, both in his praise of the sea and in his journey to the underworld, is portrayed in the Thorkillus Journeys as a bloodless, dreary, and entirely unhappy existence in a gloomy and monstrous realm. In the vision of Vǫluspá and Gylfaginning it simply vanishes in an apocalypse of atrocities such as oath-breaking, murder, and vengeance in families. This is the only large-scale cosmological association of the myth, and it is in its essence a Christian cosmology. The important aspect of the end of Viking society and paganism both in Vǫluspá and in Saxo is that the resurrection of society takes place at sea: a new world emerges from the sea. Saxo even implements a social and societal revolution in Denmark based on the sea journey. Thorkillus sees the world in a new way as a result of his journeys at sea, and when he comes back to Denmark, faced with the betrayal of the king, he reveals the truth for Gormus and thus institutes a new order of standards that even the top of Danish society must obey. In that way, Thorkillus carries the cultural authority of the sea. In this way, the significance of the sea to Scandinavian society is reused to create a narrative about social change. The older aspects of the eco-myth are deconstructed and rearranged to fit the new perspective and the message that needs to be carried through by continuous association with the sea as a considerable space in the ecosystem. The sea never ceases to be important to the Scandinavians in this way: it provides food, new discoveries and realizations, and it brings with it social changes as much as it supports the existing social structures by, in the least, being a source to the acquisition of wealth and power. CONFRONTING THE SEA IN AN OLD NORSE WORL DVIEW
The consequences that this reading of the Fishing Myth and its literary cognates as an eco-myth have for our understanding of the status of the sea in the worldview of Old Norse mythology are a series of redefinitions of the idea of the Úthaf, the relationship of land to sea, and not least the idea of the cultural sanctum as opposed to the wild expanse of the outer sphere. The ‘Úthaf’ is in reality a centralized entity in the worldview. It functions not only as the source of food but also as the source of wealth, the basis for society and the upkeep of social structures, as well as the source of major social and religious change. The sea is the foundation of Viking society
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and the primary tool, the waterway, for supporting networks—this must be recognized even in early Christianity. The significance of the sea to Viking society seems to create some ambivalence in the conception of the sea in the highly Christianized narratives, as the narrative of the Vínland journey in Eiríks saga rauða seems to deprive the sea and the seafaring god of Þórr of their cultural status. It does seem, however, that in the end, with the narratives of Gylfaginning and Saxo, that even the forces bent on converting the Scandinavians must recognize the powerful status of the sea as a central, cultural entity that only the dethroned pagan god Þórr can master. This does not mean that it is not recognized that the sea is a dangerous force, a deceptive and capricious entity that one should take care to handle properly. Indeed, this is at the root of the realization of the sea as part of the Scandinavian ecosystems. The first two levels of response in ecomyths to the sea as part of the Scandinavian worldview are the epitomic result of the knowledge that the sea can be the source of demise and destruction. But this knowledge does not assign to the sea the status of otherness or ‘out there-ness,’ as a worldly expanse that is distanced from human society and culture—indeed, this realization seems to create a need to draw the sea closer, to have it take part in the social processes, and as Haddingus does, even declare a sense of love for it. It would seem that this conclusion would support the notion provided by Nanna Løkka (2010, 248–9) that the concept of dualism in the Old Norse worldview could then be dismantled, and in relation to the conceptions of the sea, too, an idea of monism and dyadic functions could be instated. However, this would be overzealous. δøkka’s argument of monism is based on the notion that fate guides all beings of the cosmos, and humans, gods, and j tnar are subject to its laws. The gods and the j tnar exist under the same circumstances and are linked socially, they are therefore not separated in a dual worldview, instead they exist in a dyadic relationship guided by the same natural laws (p. 254–5). This is not the case in the Fishing Myth on its first and second levels. Þórr is a mediating force that provides humans with help if they sacrifice to him, and he imposes his own law. This means that, in principle, Þórr may change the fate of a traveler and thus alter a causal system that he is, according to Løkka, supposed to be subject to himself. The subject of fate in Old Norse mythology is highly complex. The idea that Løkka presents is not entirely new, as de Vries has pointed out something similar in Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte: In der Zeit, da im heldischen Leben die Odinsfigur eine überragende Stellung erlangt hatte, war er [Odin] der schicksalsbestimmende Gott. Wir erinnern uns des gelassenen Wortes Sigmunds (V ls 12)μ ”Odin will nicht, daß wir das Schwert schwingen, da es nun in Stücke brach; so lang es ihm gefiel, habe ich gekämpft”. Aber wenn wir tiefer blicken, sehen wir, daß auch Odin dem Schicksal unterworfen ist; wenn er die Helden aus der Schlacht zu sich ruft, so geschieht das, um sich zu rüsten für das kommende Unheil, und er muß bekennen, daß er nicht weiß, wann der graue Wolf die Göttersitze
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angreifen wird (s. § 18λ). Die V luspá zeigt uns deutlich die Götter, die einem unentrinnbaren Schicksal, den Ragnar k, entgegengehen (s. § 5λ2). (In the time when the Óðinn-figure had attained a superior position in heroic life, he [Óðinn] was the god that determined fate. We remember the words of Sigmund (Vǫls. 12)μ “Óðinn does not want us to wield the sword, as it has broken in pieces, as long as it pleased him I have fought.” But when we look deeper we see that also Óðinn is subject to fate; when he calls the heroes from the slaughter to him, as it happens, to equip themselves for the coming disaster, and he is forced to admit that he does not know when the grey wolf will attack the God-seat (s. § 189). The Vǫluspá clearly demonstrates for us that the gods meet their inescapable fate in Ragnar k (s § 5λ2) (de Vries 1λ70 I, 268). While this most certainly seems to be the case in Vǫluspá and the eschatology of Gylfaginning, it does not seem to be considered in the respect, either by Løkka or de Vries, that this idea may originate in a Christian worldview. This has been implied several times in this dissertation, and it is most certainly a possibility. While it would reach too far to discuss all the aspects of the eschatology of Old Norse mythology, it serves to mention that although myths of destruction and the demise of the divine society are common in mythologies, it is mainly in the Christian mythology that the apocalypse takes such prominence—and, of course, in Old Norse mythology. If we look to the Fishing Myth, it is only in the perspective of the myth becoming a conversion narrative that eschatology becomes relevant to it. It is Snorri and Saxo who introduce eschatology into the Fishing Myth. In the other versions of the Fishing Myth, even in the Gylfaginning version without the frame of eschatology, it is a different picture: it is a picture of a god that takes control over the elements and provides his followers with protection in return for offerings, precisely in accordance with the principles of do ut des. If this were not the case, then the description of Þórólfr εostrarskegg’s landnám would be meaningless. It says that Þórólfr often sacrificed to Þórr, his beloved friend, and that Þórr guided him to Iceland. When Þórólfr came to Iceland, he threw the ǫndvegissúlur with the carved face of Þórr on it, and saidμ “at hann skyldi þar byggja á Íslandi sem Þórr léti þær á land koma” (that he would settle there in Iceland where Þórr led them to land [Eyrb. IV]). Þórr guides his subject to land in Iceland, thus he decides his fate, and there is nothing that indicates that this notion is more or less consistent with a pre-Christian worldview, except for the fact that we know that those narratives—such as Vǫluspá—where Þórr is fated to fail and subsequently perish are highly influenced by a Christin worldview.
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THE CREATION MYTH, THE MYTH OF THE MEAD OF POETRY, AND VOLCANISM CHAPTER SUMMARY
The chapter on the Creation Myth, the myth of the Mead of Poetry, and volcanism addresses the situation of a seemingly non-existent tradition of early mythopoesis about volcanism in Viking Age and medieval Iceland, while at the same time describing a possible development in the Creation Myth and the myth of the Mead of Poetry in Scandinavia as part of a wider European myth-complex. The Creation Myth in the form that it is relayed in Gylfaginning is examined in light of an underlying literary complex reaching back to the tradition of the Old High German Muspilli and Germanic traditions of anthropogonies—and possibly also cosmogonies—from Earth-giants. The myth is also examined in terms of its vocabulary and its relationship to volcanic events. We find that medieval neoplatonic interpretations seem to interject the dichotomy of ice and fire, and that the mythic motif of creation is fully functioning without the inference of the image of ice. Instead, the myth stands on the shoulders of a continental tradition that has been reformulated and re-actualized as a result of the experience of volcanism in Iceland. The Mead Myth is examined on the same terms as a myth of response to volcanism, which reuses mythic motifs and images from a known continental tradition. An aspect of the Mead Myth seems to be a motif known from other myths about volcanism in Iceland. This is the motif of the noisy j tnar and dwarves, a supernatural boat of iron and stone, flying birds and (gods appearing as) eagles, alcoholic drink, and sometimes also Surtr. The Mead Myth is understood as a cosmic narrative that combines cultural knowledge with volcanism in the figure of Kvasir and provides a narrative description of the various aspects and warning signs associated with an eruption. It provides theories of causes and prescribes actions of relevance to enhance resilience in times of volcanic activity. It seems that the terms in which these methods of response to volcanism are formulated are a mythic complex that associates the alcoholic beverage with a chthonic state of existence and the underworld. This was originally a Germano-Roman mythic complex originating in Greco-Roman fertility cults. Both the Creation Myth and the Mead Myth are excellent examples of how the Mythical Charter of Tradition employs eco-myths to respond with technical knowledge to imminent disasters. The myths are formulated in terms of well-known, central mythic themes of the culture: the myth of a fiery apocalypse as it is contained in the term muspille and the myth of the procurement of the primary cultural substance with which numinous knowledge is transmitted, the mead. The myths of cosmic destruction and cultural primacy become current as myths that signify the importance of the natural phenomenon of volcanism by engaging the fear of the end of society. They are eco-myths
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about the perseverance of culture in the face of disaster, and they conceptualize the land and its destructive force as central cultural features. THE CREATION MYTH
The section on the Creation Myth engages with some inconsistencies or queries in Gylfaginning, which have been noted by other scholars. These questions that have puzzled the scholars are: why are Muspell and Surtr a part of the Creation Myth, and what does eitr actually refer to? We find that there is actually a deeper connection binding Surtr to Muspell and eitr. This connection is founded on the observable aspects of the commonly occuring Icelandic low discharge effusive eruptions, where lava gushes out from its source and flows like a river—a raging river—until it hardens and adds new layers to the landmass. The term eitr refers to the qualities of the lava as a glowing hot yellow-red substance that is poisonous in every way. This substance flows from the caldera as a river and becomes ‘ice.’ From the flow there are fumes, vapors it seems, which rise and crystallize like snow and ice, and fall down again to build layers of this strange ‘ice’ in the primordial void. These processes cannot be described without analogies to ice and water, and this is why there arises confusion concerning the process. In its latest written form, the narrative is reinterpreted in a neoplatonic perspective and thus is invented the dichotomy of ice and fire. Eitr is in reality the fuel of Surtr, not an ice-cold posion in a stormy river. The creature that is produced from this flow of lava is, in the original story in Vafþrúðnismál, Aurgelmir, the ‘Clay-roarer,’ and it is the knowledge of Vafþrúðnismál that the primeval j tunn was originally created from lava, which brings with it the claim of Gylfaginning that Ymir and Aurgelmir are the same being. It does, however, seem to be the case that Ymir is the continental version of the world-body, since this myth is well-known in Europe and has IndoEuropean roots. Aurgelmir is then the indigenous Icelandic version, which is a reinterpretation of the earth-borne j tunn in a volcanological context. The Creation εyth in Gylfaginning is the attempt to align in writing the local myth with the teachings of continental philosophy of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The Creation Myth is an adaptation of the tradition of the continent to Icelandic conditions. It is an eco-myth in terms of its attempt to describe the volcanic phenomenon. It is a cultural narrative that maps out the creative process of an eruption and at the same time demonstrates the dangers of this chthonic activity. To enable this pattern of danger it makes use of aspects of the cultural narratives of apocalypses that are available in the Mythical Charter of Tradition. The volcanoes are in this way incorporated into the worldview as a central phenomenon of the ecosystem; they are culturally
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appropriated with recognition of their creative forces. The myth is a coping strategy that serves to cultivate volcanism as a positive factor as much as it is destructive to society and life. THE MEAD MYTH
The Mead Myth appropriates the volcanic phenomenon in a similar manner as the Creation Myth, but where the Myth of the Creation describes the creation of life in context of volcanism, the Mead Myth describes the procurement of culture in the substance of the mead in relation to volcanism. The mead is the epitomic substance of culture in Old Norse life. It is the drink of remembrance and the numinous substance with which powerful mystic knowledge of the past is transmitted. In that sense, it combines with kingship and fertility because of its usefulness in the propagation of the king’s power. This is realized in the εythical Charter of Hákon jarl’s genealogy in Háleygjatal. The drink of the mystic god of wisdom, whose knowledge is of the underworld, carries the numinous potency that is required for the kings. This transgressive god of the underworld, Óðinn, copulates with the female fertility goddess and legitimizes the sacral kingship. This tradition rests on an ancient Germanic tradition that has its origins in Roman cults of the Bacchanalia and the Liberalia. It is a cult that unites the god of mystic intoxicated frenzy, the wudewāsan or Óðinn, with the goddess of fertility—and the underworld—who more often than not appears as a creature of fire. The Icelandic tradition sees this in a very concrete sense in the active volcanoes that are such a remarkable aspect of the ecosystem there. The traditional tale of Hávamál retains the same aspects as the Roman tradition, with an underworld lord in Suttungr, the fertility goddess in Gunnl ð (by virtue of the wedding), and the frenzy-being Óðinn, Evildoer. The myth prescribes cultural norms and boundaries in terms of social interaction—norms that Evildoer breaks. But the encounter with the volcanoes adds a new dimension. It is no longer the social norms that are the most important aspect to retain in order to keep society from destruction. It is instead the knowledge of how to behave and respond when faced with an explosive volcanic eruption that is the subject. The chthonic association of the alcoholic drink, the underworld being of Suttungr, his daughter the goddess of fertility (by virtue of intercourse with Óðinn), and the frenzied Evildoer still combine to tell a tale of primary cultural significance—this time, however, it is about an eruption. This mythic motif of volcanism is based on a set of recognizable images that reoccur in other narrativesμ the noisy j tnar and dwarves, the supernatural boat of stone and iron that brings the Volcano Spirits with it, the flying god, the alcoholic beverage, and the demon of the underworld (Surtr/Suttungr). The mead aids memory, and by associating it directly with the lava of an eruption, it will forever carry the memory of how to respond when Galarr and Gillingr sail on the ocean of the
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underworld, and Baugi and B lverkr drill in the εountain of the Clashing Rocks to get inside and mix with Gunnl ð so that the εountain δiquid, the Kettle Sea, can be brought up to the sons of men. This is an eco-myth that responds directly to the volcanic phenomena of the ecosystem of Iceland, and integrates the primary threat to society and culture directly in the most important cultural object, the memory-drink. This is also realized in the peculiar detail that it is culturally processed rocks, such as the quernstone and the whetstone, that cause the deaths of several characters. This suggests a close association of the death-by-rock in a volcanic incident with cultural objects. THE PLACE OF THE LAND AND VOLCANISM IN THE OLD NORSE WORLDVIEW
We have seen how the Mead Myth plots the landscape and its volatile ecosystems into a worldview that does not as such distinguish between a cultural center and an outer space of nature. The myth assigns a cultural role to every aspect of the nature that surrounds the dwellings of humans. This does not make the dangerous aspects of the volcanic phenomena or any other threat to life and security in the world less significant. In the Creation Myth, it is very much clear that the process that is described is dangerous to humans, and it is therefore only when the first being, Ymir, has been killed and his body reprocessed by other cosmic forces that humans can exist in the world. If the world was in its early state of being as it is observed in the lava flows, humans would be unable to live here. This is why the creation process must incorporate the aspect of destruction. In the Mead Myth there are similarly four realizations of threats to existence: (1) The threat against agricultural activities: can harvest be made in time, is there proper access to tools, will there be scarcity of resources? (2) The threat against high culture: the threat of war, the threat of the outsider to the magnate’s hall, the threats and problems associated with procreation (embodied in Gunnl ð and Óðinn). (3) The threats against a traveler: the risks of engaging a stranger, the risks of visiting a foreign place, the question of trust. (4) The threats of the landscape: volcanic activity, the tumbling rocks, drowning, treacherous winds (in the mountain). The mead is the wisdom of knowing these threats in all their forms, and these threats are offered by the same landscape that also sustains existence. This is in every aspect the reason why it makes sense to associate mead with lava. The association is not only activated in terms of the comparable aspects of the Mead Myth to volcanism in Skáldskaparmál, but also in terms of the association of the hverlǫgr with the original matter from which Earth was created. This is ancient wisdom from the dawning of
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the cosmos. The mead is the tool with which the cosmos is mapped out—this is realized in the character of Kvasir. It is thus a cosmic activity to imbibe the alcoholic drink and be mentally transported throughout the world, and it must be kept in mind that such an activity is dangerous: “Óminnis hegri heitir, sá er yfir lðrum þrumir” (Forgetfulness is the name of the heron that hovers over the beer feast [Hvm. 14]). This was the experience he received from being drunk at Fjalarr’s, Óðinn reminds us (Hvm. 15). When the mind travels the cosmos in the intoxicated state, as the frenzybeing, we see that it is in grave danger. It is for the same reason that Óðinn tells us how he fears that Mind and Memory (Huginn og Muninn) will not return from their daily flights in Grímnismál 20— right after he has divulged that he only lives off wine (Grm. 19). The wisdom-drink and its abilities are employed in the ritualistic act of mythopoesis to remember the knowledge of the past, for the sake of the present, towards the making of the future. The forgetfulness that comes with the imbibing of the wisdom-drink, or the loss of Mind and Memory, is nothing short of the loss of life, because it is loss of culture. Life came from the earthly substance of lava as it formed in the world-body of Ymir, and so did culture come from the earthly substance of lava, as it was made by the dwarves in the earth’s intestines, and regurgitated by the wind-eagle that bore the kettle-liquid out of Surtr’s Sinkingdales, when he burst out of the Mountain of the Clashing Rocks. When we forget that, we stand before death, because we never know when disaster hits. The fear of death is the reason that the myths and the mead are important, because their primary function is to ward off death from the living. In that way, the mystery-liquid of the chthonic sphere takes its place in a cyclical process of death and rebirth, which is ever present and re-actualized in the conception of the land or Earth, insofar as the creation process creates life that is destroyed in order to create new life, which will then be destroyed. And the mead, in the same manner, is created as a man amongst men, who is then destroyed out in the world, and comes back to the dwellings of men after his death and destruction. Earth and Nature are cyclical in that respect, and the exchange between Civilization and Nature is reciprocal, but not interdependent: Civilization rests on Nature and must abide by the natural circumstances offered by the ecosystem that at all times exerts its will and dominance over human existence. However, with the proper wits to enable existence in the given ecosystem of Iceland, man, with the help of the gods, can manipulate the very ground he walks on, and thereby become a powerful player in a living system populated by many different spirits with each their own will.
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CONCLUDING REMARKS THE THREE QUESTIONS OF THIS DISSERTATION
Based on the discoveries and realizations of this dissertation we can now answer the three questions that have led to this study, and we can address the three prolbems of this dissertation: (1) the constitution of the Old Norse worldview; (2) the internal relationship of the texts, and; (3) the relationship of the texts to their surrounding environment. . THE CONSTITUTION OF THE OLD NORSE MYTHIC WORLDVIEW
With this extensive analysis of the primary myths of the sea and land, I believe that the question of the constitution of the Old Norse worldview, the basic premise on which the worldview functions, can be answered very simply: the Old Norse mythic worldview operates on the premise of the reciprocal duality between life and death contained in Cultural/Collective Memory as the Mythical Charter of Tradition. It is the primary focal point for the narratives in question, and a theme throughout the mythology as a whole. In fact, this theme was so prevalent that it was felt necessary to introduce it in the beginning of Gylfaginningμ “Þá spyrr Hár komandann hvárt fleira er eyrindi hans, en heimill er matr ok drykkr honum sem llum þar í Háva h ll. Hann segir at fyrst vil hann spyrja ef nokkvorr er fróðr maðr inni. Hár segir at hann komi eigi heill út nema hann sé fróðari …” (Then Hár asked the newcomer if he had more errands there, but he was welcome to eat and drink like anyone else there in the hall of High. He says that first he wants to ask if there is anyone in there, who is wise. Hár replies that he will not come out of there with his health unless he is wiser … [Gylf. II]). This question of whether or not the protagonist will exit the place he visits in one piece is a universal one in Old Norse mythology. It underlies the narratives of Vafþrúðnismál, Skírnismál, Hymiskviða, Þrymskviða, Hyndluljóð, the Þjazi εyth, Þórr’s Visit to Geirrøðr, Óðinn, Hœnir, and δoki’s Encounter with Hreiðmar and, of course, the εead εyth. The matter of life and death is also present, though in other terms, in Vǫluspá, Grímnismál, Lokasenna, Alvíssmál, Baldrsdraumar, Baldr’s Death, Þórr’s Duel with Hrungnir, and the story of δoki’s Dealings with the Dwarves Brokk and Sindri. From that perspective it is safe to say that the dualism of life and death is an overall concern in the Old Norse mythical worldview. We could choose to interpret this in the sense of fatedness that Løkka suggests (2010, 261), as the teodicé of Old Norse mythology, but as we have seen above, this would be an overzealous presumption. That these narratives are preoccupied with the matter of life and death does not express a general sense of fatedness in the terms that Løkka perceives it, where the gods are simply agents of
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the cosmos and the agents of destiny. This notion would imply that the gods function in the preChristian Old Norse mythic worldview on the same terms as basic medieval demonology would have them do: as agents of a greater force (in this respect the Devil), to ensnare, fool, and corrupt humans. We see Óðinn take on such a role in parts of the saga literature (Lassen 2011, 135–51, 235–65) and we see Þórr doing the same in Flóamanna saga, where he acts as a demonic counterpart to the Christian protagonist. It is in the Christianized narratives, be they highly negative or more subtle in their representation of the Old Norse gods, that we see the gods acting according to a higher law of fate that controls them as its agents. In the myths that we have examined here, we see a very different worldview emerging. The gods are employed in the narratives of pre-Christian association as enablers of a divine will that can assist humans, under the right circumstances, in their everyday dealings in life. At the root of the Fishing Myth is the dual complex of life versus death, and it is with his technical mythical knowledge and insight in the conditions of the sea that Þórr assists human beings in their dealings with the ocean. It is also by the divine providence of both Þórr and Nj rðr that the sea functions as an important factor in the constitution of society—they both oversee the temples. The gods engage the ecosystem and act as mediators between the natural phenomenon and the human experience. If they enable any type of fate in that respect, it is the fate that is predicated on the bond of the human being to the god through, for instance, sacrifices (blót) and devotion (ástvin [cf. Eyrb. IV]). This is the same realization that is drawn from the experience of the Mead Myth and the Creation Myth. The gods arrange the world and cultivate the hostile environment that came from natural processes of volcanism in order for humans to exist there. Óðinn mediates the cultural experience of the mead as well as the natural experience of the eruption through the mead. This points to a cosmic disposition other than one of monism. It is a disposition that exists on the dual relationship between life and death, with the gods as cultural enforcers and mediators between humans and nature. It is only in the eschatology of Vǫluspá and its related narratives in Gylfaginning that nature overcomes the gods and asserts a sense of fatedness (see also Clunies Ross 1994, 258–68) on behalf of the true controller of the firmament, God. Baldr will show himself to be a mere human being, the Volcano Spirit Surtr will bring the cosmic fire on God’s command, the Sea Spirit J rmungandr will then raise the waters against the gods to engulf the earth, the cosmic darkness—embodied in the wolf—will swallow Óðinn. This contradicts every other narrative of the dealings of the gods with the natural phenomena. It contradicts the feats of Þórr in his dealings with Geirrøðr and his daughters; it contradicts the result of the Duel with Hrungnir; it annuls the victory over Þjazi; and it suspends the cosmic charter of divine mediation between nature and man as it is formulated in the Creation Myth and the Mead Myth. The eschatology of Vǫluspá simply suspends the semantic center of the
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sigtívar 106 and assigns them a new one that is consistent with the euhemerist interpretation of the Baldr Myth: they die. Spatially, the worldview does not make sharp divisions between any divine dwelling and the rest of the habitat. Nature is a cultural entity and functions as a vibrant expanse of places and spaces imbued with spiritual life. It is from natural sources that culture is derived and defined. The sea is a formidable force in that respect, assisting in the very definition of society itself, while the destructive powers of volcanism supply society with the primary cultural substance. As such, the sea and the volcanoes are central phenomena in the worldview from which associative lines are drawn to cultural objects, existential ponderings, and conceptions concerning the terms of human life. This is the worldview of a culture that has come to terms with its ecosystem. THE QUESTION OF THE INTERNAL RELATIONSHIP OF THE TEXTS
The internal relationship of the texts is a complex one. They cannot, on the basis of this analysis, be separated from one another as entirely different texts. While there are considerable differences in terms of genres, modes of representation, and focus, they belong to the same cultural sphere. They are the sum total of the Mythical Charter of Old Norse–Scandinavian Tradition, and as such they cannot project a complete image outside of their cultural context. When the various narratives relevant to the Old Norse mythical worldview are employed in the same context, their different assertions strengthen each other rather than contradict. We are poorer for leaving one or more sources out of the analysis by assuming that it may be difficult to work with, or that it is somehow incompatible with the other material. We also find in that respect that there is no projection of the Old Norse mythical worldview that is more fragmented than another. It could be argued that I come to this conclusion because of the structuralist approach of this dissertation, but to that I may add that the structuralism of this dissertation takes into account a wide range of factors, such as the representationality, the fictionality, and the mediality of the sources, and this seems to limit the number of typical complications associated with traditional structuralism as a method. We arrive, instead, at a more critical approach to the source material—an approach that takes into account that the context of a text is both local and global. It is local in terms of a text’s immediate time and milieu of creation, but global in terms of the narrative universe to which it refers. As such, the text exceeds its material form and exists in a contextualized organic form, where it is never a closed work. It almost goes without saying that this Note that the epithet changes from sigtívar (Victory-gods) in Vǫluspá 58 to valtívar (Death-gods) in stanza 62, when the gods have met their doom in ragnarøkkr—as if to signify this semantic shift.
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view enables the use of any of the examined sources as sources to a pre-Christian worldview, and as such a historical reality, provided that proper critical scrutiny of the representationality of the text is conducted. THE RELATIONSHIP OF THE TEXTS TO THEIR SURROUNDING ENVIRONMENT
We thus recognize the contents of Old Norse mythology as a Mythical Charter of Tradition, which contains a number of technical myths containing numinously-imbued knowledge about the world that its associated cultural unit was exposed to. Regardless of any strong foreign cultural influence from the classical scriptworld and a newly introduced religion, these texts are primarily formulated by individuals and groups who have tactile, aural, and experiential knowledge of the Scandinavian world. This means that the ecosystems and local conditions of Old Norse-Scandinavian life in various ways impose themselves on the texts and they can never be simply ‘fiction.’ To understand the contents of the texts, one must be familiar with the aspects of the ecosystems that relate to them. Some of these aspects are experiences common to all humans, but others are in turn specific to a region, a landmass, or the special behavior of a particular sea. This is the primary function of the eco-myth: to convey the special place in a worldview that a particular ecological site or entity inhabits—culturally as well as physically.
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Vitaliano, Dorothy B. 2007μ “Geomythologyμ geological origins of myths and legends” p. 1–7 in Geological Society, Special Publications 2007, v.273. London. Vries, Jan de. 1933: The Problem of Loki. FF Communications 110. Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, Helsinki. ____. 1956–7: Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte vol. I–II. Walter de Gruyter, Berlin. ____. 1970: Altgermanische Religionsgeschichte, vol. I–II. Walter de Gruyter & Co, Berlin. ____. 1λ84 [1λ67]μ “Theories Concerning ”Nature εyths”” p. 30–40 in Sacred Narrative. Readings in the Theory of Myth. Edited by Alan Dundes. University of California Press, Berkeley, Los Angeles & London. Wagner, Roy. 2001μ “Condensed εapping. εyth and the Folding of Space/Space and the Folding of εyth” p. 71–8 in Emplaced myth : space, narrative, and knowledge in Aboriginal Australia and Papua New Guinea. Edited by Alan Rumsey & James Weiner. University of Hawai’i Press, Hawai’i, USA. Weber, Gerd Wolfgang. 1λ86μ “Edda, jüngere” p. 3λ4–412 in Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde. Band 6. Edited by Johannes Hoops. Walter de Gruyter, Berlin & New York. Wellendorf, Jonas. 2006μ “Homogeneity and heterogeneity in Old Norse cosmology” p. 50–3 in Old Norse religion in long-term perspective. Origins, changes and interactions. An international conference in Lund, Sweden, June 3–7, 2004. Edited by Andres Andrén, Catharina Raudvere & Kristina Jennbert. Nordic Academic Press, Lund. ____. 2008μ “Apocalypes Now? The Draumkvæde and the Visionary δiterature” p. 135–50 in Oral Art Forms and their Passage into Writing. Edited by Else Mundal & Jonas Wellendorf. Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen. ____. 2012μ “True Records of Events that Could Have Taken Placeμ Fictionality in Vision δiterature” p. 141–66 in Medieval Narratives between History and Fiction. Edited by Panagiotis A. Agapitos & Lars Boje Mortensen. Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen. Wimmer, Ludvig F.A. og Finnur Jónsson. 1891: Håndskriftet Nr. 2365 4to gl. kgl. Samling på det store kgl. bibliothek i København (Codex regius af den ældre Edda) i fototypisk og diplomatisk gengivelse. Udgivet for Samfund for udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur. S.L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri (Møller & Thomsen), København. Winroth, Anders. 2012: The Conversion of Scandinavia. Yale University Press, New Haven & London. Würth, Stephanie. 2003μ “The Role of Vǫluspá in the Perception of Ragnarǫk” p. 217–33 in Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society. Edited by Margaret Clunies Ross. University of Southern Denmark Press, Odense.
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____. 2007μ “Skaldic Poetry and Performance” p. 263–81 in Learning and Understanding in the Old Norse World. Essays in Honour of Margaret Clunies Ross. Edited by Judy Quinn, Kate Heslop & Tarrin Wills. Brepols, Turnhout. Quinn, Judy. 2006μ “The Gendering of Death in Eddic Cosmology” p. 54–7 in Old Norse religion in long-term perspective. Origins, changes and interactions. An international conference in Lund, Sweden, June 3–7, 2004. Edited by Andres Andrén, Catharina Raudvere & Kristina Jennbert. Nordic Academic Press, Lund. ____. 2004μ “δiquid Knowledge” p. 183–227 in Along the Oral-Written Continuum. Edited by Else Mundal et al. Brepols, Turnhout. Örn Sævar Thorleifsson. 2000: Brage. Dikt og tidsånd. Aschehoug, Oslo.
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APPENDICES SUMMARY IN ENGLISH
This dissertation entitled Of Fire and Water. The Old Norse Mythical Worldview in an EcoMythological Perspective is divided in three chapters followed by a conclusionμ ‘Introduction’; ‘Confronting the Sea’, and; ‘The Creation εyth, the εyth of the εead of Poetry and Volcanism.’ The first chapter establishes the methodical and theoretical background of an eco-mythological approach to the myths of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, the Creation εyth and the myth of the εead of Poetry as central mythic narratives of conceptualizations of land and sea in the Old NorseScandinavian worldview. The second chapter is an analysis of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition as a Scandinavian cultural myth of the sea and its relationship to society. This perspective encompasses a developmental history of the Fishing Myth as a cultural narrative from an early stage in the Viking Age to later creative interpretations in Christian narratives of Iceland and Scandinavia. The third chapter concerns the Creation Myth and the myth of the Mead of Poetry as two types of myths, which conceptualize the land and cosmos in a specifically Icelandic context as reinterpreted key myths of the Scandinavian mainland in connection with the volcanic phenomena particular to the Icelandic underground. These eco-mythological interpretations of some of the most important myths of Old Norse-Scandinavian mythology argue that in the mythical worldview, the natural and peripheral space of the sea and the strange and often life-threatening phenomenon of volcanism in fact take a central position. As such, the sea and the most destructive aspect of the land, volcanoes, function as cultural identifiers of the ecosystems and to society. Their prominence as cultural identifiers suggest a different conceptualization of the dualism of land and sea, center and periphery, culture and nature, and not least life and death in the Old Norse mythical worldview: the gods act as enforcers and mediators in the cycle of life. PROBLEM AND PURPOSE
The purpose of this dissertation is to address the subject of worldview in Old Norse mythology by asking: “What is the constitution of the Old Norse worldview according to the literary mythological sources in terms of man’s relationship with nature? What is the relationship between the conceptual categories of culture and nature, civilized and wild (byggð and óbyggð, innangarðs and útangarðs) as it is expressed in the æsir’s dealings with the surrounding world in the myth
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of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition, the Creation εyth and the myth of the εead of Poetry in the Edda version? How do the actions of the gods in these narratives express man’s mythical notions of his relationship with the land and sea in the Scandinavian and North Atlantic ecoystems?” Since Gurevich’s (1λ6λ), εeletinskij’s (1λ73) and Hastrup’s (1λ81, 1λ85 and 1990) publications on the Old Norse cosmology and worldview this subject has been a recurring theme in scholarly discussions of the mythology. The discussion has focused mainly on the relationship of the æsir to the various other supernatural beings in a cosmic scheme that is divided in a vertical and a horizontal axis (Schjødt 1990; Clunies Ross 1994; Løkka 2010). A different approach is proposed by Stefan Brink in his article Mytologiska rum och eskatologiska föreställningar i det vikingatida Norden (2004). This approach suggests the involvement of the ecosystems particular to specific cultural groups in the discussion of the Old Norse mythical worldview. This dissertation advances from that approach and devises a method for analyzing the Old Norse mythical worldview that is designated the eco-mythological approach. This method has as its theoretical background the concept of the Mythical Charter of Tradition in indigenous cultures. The Mythical Charter of Tradition is described as the sum of all oral narratives, which relay knowledge of the mythical past, the genealogies of culturally important people and myths of technical wisdom, which are preserved as magical knowledge, often in formulaic form. This theoretical background is developed on the basis of Jacques δe Goff’s (1λλ2) and Jan Assmann’s (2006) theories of Collective and Cultural Memory, which are seen as supplementing each other. With reference to the long life of certain narratives associated with cultural events and specific sites in the Scandinavian ecosystems (Dejbjerg in West Jutland and the Urebø Ridge in Telemarken), Assmann’s concept of εemory Spaces is expanded from a term pertaining to literary activities to one that can be applied to ecospaces too. This is done in concert with the realizations of Åke Hulkrantz in a series of articles on eco-religion, which establish a theory of ecosystems as a central and highly important factor in the way religions and cultures develop: Ecology of Religion: Its Scope and Methodology (1979); An Ideological Dichotomy: Myths and Folk Beliefs Among the Shoshoni (1984), and; Rock Drawings as Evidence of Religion (1986). By treating the Old Norse myths and related historical narratives as a Mythical Charter of Tradition that combines a cultural unit with its surrounding ecosystems, this dissertation represents a different view on the source value of Old Norse mythology and literature as historical texts. The discussions of genres and the critical discussion of the aspects of indigenous ingenuity and tradition as opposed to foreign or Latin-learned medieval influence on the narratives becomes secondary to
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one that is focused on cultural exchange between southern and northern Europe. With this the schism of ‘Christian versus pagan’ in terms of the content of the Old Norse mythology also becomes secondary, and the focus on the sources shifts towards one that acknowledges the sources as texts with multiple cultural influences at many levels over a long period of time, from their oral form in the Viking Age to the Medieval Era when they were committed to written form. THE ANALYSES
Þórr’s Fishing Expedition is analyzed as a myth of primary cultural significance. The earliest expressions of the myth are found on picture-stones in England, Denmark and Sweden. These pictorial expressions are interpreted as the act of fishing as an iconic event of Scandinavian culture. In concert with Hymiskviða they seem to relate a tale of how the anthropomorphic god fished went fishing and conquered the sea by catching its very spirit embodied in the Miðgarðsormr. The myth in its earliest form is associated with the Viking Age as a narrative that transmits technical knowledge about fishing. This knowledge is articulated in the dynamics of differences between Þórr and Hymir: Þórr is young, courageous and incautious while Hymir is old and scared of going too far out at sea. The myth favors neither extreme but emphasizes the successfulness of a middle ground. It essentially addresses the subject of too much, too little or just enough fear in the fishing situation, and favors the last option. Fear in this respect relates to the fear of dying at sea and the fear of dying of hunger. This is an eco-mythological interpretation of the myth, which acknowledges the significance of the sea as an important resource for food everywhere in Viking Age Scandinavia. Since the sea takes such prominence with regard to food resources, it is argued that the Fishing Myth develops with the Scandinavian expansions in the North Atlantic, and particularly with the landnám in Iceland and Greenland. Þórr becomes the primary god of the settlement and his myth becomes a foundation narrative of the landnám, but also in connection with finding new land in Vínland. Þórr becomes the god that ensures safe passage, fair winds and sustenance on journeys, and the narrative structure of his Fishing Myth is reconfigured as a myth of exploration, which leaves traces in such narratives as Landnámabók, Eiríks saga rauða and Flóamanna saga. With this popularity of the myth, the need arises in the early Christian period to deconstruct Þórr and his narratives as significant pagan foundation myths. Þórr is demonized or a fallibility of his is portrayed in some of these very same tales. The tenets of the Fishing Myth are re-appropriated in the story of his Journey to Útgarðaloki, Saxo’s Thorkillus Journeys and Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns, and the Gylfaginning version of the Fishing εyth seems to purposely associate the events with Ragnar k. The most interesting aspect of this widespread narrative re-appropriation of the Fishing Myth is
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Saxo’s euhemerized Þórr-figure in Thorkillus’s Journeys. He represents the final stage of reinterpretation of the Fishing Myth as an eco-myth, because, regardless of how the largely Christianized tradition may review Þórr and paganism, the sea is still the central force of the narratives. In Thorkillus’s Journeys it is by way of a sea journeying Icelander that Christianity finally finds its way to Denmark. The narratives use the aspects of the old Fishing Myth in a new context. The fear of hunger, the fear of the sea and the problems of procuring food and drink at sea are very much represented in these tales. But as much as they are there, they are also used to indicate a shift in concerns: the concerns of the stomach have moved to the concerns of the soul. Saxo understands the old Viking tradition in the Fishing Myth and associates it with his primary critique of paganism: that it is a gluttonous, materialist religion with no spiritual insight. Using the most popular Þórr-myths of Scandinavia, he introduces this spiritual hunger by way of a euhemerized pagan god. The eco-myth of Þórr’s Fishing Expedition thus evolves with the developing realizations of the Scandinavians as they live and exist with the sea as a formidable force in their world. The Fishing Myth develops from a myth that conceptualizes the sea as the primary source of food and wealth, to one that recognizes it as a space of exploration and power, social structures and the foundation of society itself, and finally to a perspective on it as a space that expands human and religious horizons in late Christian narratives. The eco-mythological interpretation of the myth in this presentation restructures the conceptual schemas, which often dominate the research tradition of Old Norse cosmology and worldview. The sea in the Old Norse-Scandinavian worldview is not the Úthaf, it is not the periphery: it is a cultural epicenter. In the case of the Creation Myth attention is given to the description of the events in Gylfaginning, where certain aspects of the conflation of fire and ice have seemed opaque to older scholarship. It is demonstrated that the inconsistencies in the description of how the eitr flows from its ice-cold source in Niflheimr and hardens when it has entered the mild climate of Ginnungagap originate in a volcanic image. In the whole, in the description of the creation as one that involves ice, rime and water there are several aspects of the processes, which do not respond to the usual behavior of ice and water. How can rime exist in climes that are ‘mild as a windless sky?’ Why are the Élivágar described as rivers that ‘harden like the cinder that flow from a furnace?’ The answer is that these inconsistencies occur when an original description of a low discharge effusive volcanic eruption is described in analogies of water, ice, snow and rime. There is plenty of comparable evidence from cultures around the world to suggest that the early Icelanders actually did describe volcanism in such analogies, and certain aspects of the early Norse language also indicate this. The language was surprisingly poor in terminology for volcanism and lacked even a word for ‘volcano.’ However, the key word that is employed in the Creation Myth—hrím—had the double meaning of ‘rime’ and ‘soot,’
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and thus indicates that the early Icelanders sought to relate tales of volcanism in the same manner as it has been observed that many other pre-Scientific Era peoples have done: by analogies and in mythic narratives. Rather than an image of ice and fire, it seems more probable that the early image of the Creation Myth was one of Surtr and the Fire People of Muspell creating fires and poisonous eitr flows (lava) that built up land in Ginnungagap, which subsequently turned into inhabitable space for humans by the civilizing power of the fertility gods, the æsir, who arranged the cosmos by killing the evil Ymir, who was created from this fire. To describe these events, the analogies of water and ice were used, and they were later re-interpreted in a learned literary discourse to fit the neoplatonic teachings that are also a mark of Edda. This explains why Surtr and Muspell, the great forces of volcanic destruction in ragnarøkkr, are involved in the Creation Myth: it has been observed by generation upon generation of Icelanders that after the Volcano Spirit and his Fire People send the poisonous Stormy Waves (the Élivágar), and these harden like the cinder from a smelter, the ground is regrown. This explains why the tradition of Gylfaginning insists that Ymir and Aurgelmir are the same being, even though they are not associated in the original source of Vafþrúðnismál. The description of Aurgelmir coming to life from the eitr that is ejected by the Élivágar seems to be the oldest version of the Icelandic volcanological interpretation of the Creation Myth. The myth of the creation of Aurgelmir and the myth of the creation of Ymir both originate in the same tradition from the continent to account for genealogies and the creation of life from a chthonic being. The version in Gylfaginning is an attempt to align the Icelandic interpretation of that myth with the continental tradition, and still account for the creative aspect of the observable phenomena of jarðeldr (earth-fire) there. In that way the Creation Myth of Gylfaginning associates the creation of the cosmos directly with the destructive, apocalyptic forces and incorporates the volcanic phenomena in the heart of existence. In the myth of the Mead of Poetry in its version in Skáldskaparmál the explosive aspect of volcanism is relayed in analogies to supernatural beings and the Mead of Poetry as bodily fluid on the same terms that the world’s waters are the bodily fluids of Ymir. This myth compiles several images that can be found in other narratives, and it distances itself from the myth of the Mead of Poetry in Hávamál by focusing on landscape, cosmos and death, while the former is focused on the primary site of the chieftain’s hall, social rules and marriage. Both are myths about the primary aspects of culture, and it seems reasonable to consider the version in Hávamál to be the oldest. This version retains aspects of ancient Germanic cults of fertility, which seem to have their origins in the same complex as the Roman Liberalia and the Bacchanalia. As its primary aspect, this complex retains the chthonic association of the intoxicating drink of life and wisdom. In the Icelandic tradition in Skáldskaparmál the added experience of the ecosystem, volcanism, demands a reformulation and
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reconceptualization of the chthonic association of the mead. The Mead of Poetry is, by virtue of its comparability with lava as a yellow, thick substance, associated with volcanism. However, this is not the only reason to associate the Mead of Poetry with lava. As the mead is the memory drink and its myth holds cultural primacy—this is why it has its place in the cultural charter of Hávamál—it is also the ideal candidate for an object or substance with which to associate the memory of massive volcanic eruptions that could potentially destroy society as a whole. One such event was experienced by the early Icelanders at the end of the landnám period in 934, when the Katla-system opened up in the Eldgjá eruption and shrouded the Northern Hemisphere in ashes for months, maybe even a whole year. This was one of the biggest eruptions in modern human history. The associations of the myth of the Mead of Poetry with volcanism do not seem to stop here. The Mead Myth of Skáldskaparmál incorporates a motif of volcanism that combine gods, j tnar and dwarves with supernatural boats of stone and iron, the flight of eagles, beer or mead and sometimes Surtr. Shortly after the Eldgjá eruption, around 985, Eyvindr skáldaspillir composed Háleygjatal in which he asserted that Óðinn flew out of Surtr’s sinking valleys with the εead of Poetry. The εead of Poetry is also referred to in the circumlocution of ‘kettle liquid.’ The association of the volcanic caldera with a kettle is a frequent one in other cultures, but, more importantly, the stanza of Háleygjatal has structural parallels in Bergbúa þáttr, Vǫluspá and Skáldskaparmál. Certain conceptions relating to this complex also occur in Landnámabók, Konungs Skuggsjá the annals of Flatey and Saxo. In Landnámabók there is an eruption caused by a j tunn sailing in a boat. This motif of the boat reappears in Bergbúa þáttr, where, in the course of describing the events of a volcanic eruption, the bergbúi says that he sent Aurnir an iron-braced stone boat. In Vǫluspá the supernatural boat Naglfar comes sailing with the Muspell People and Loki (the god who creates earthquakes). Naglfar may mean ‘Spike-boat’ when not directly associated with the tradition of Gylfaginning that claims it is a ship made of the fingernails of the dead—is is in fact a common Scandinavian association of the Devil, that he makes ships of fingernails. In the myth of the Mead of Poetry in Skáldskaparmál there is the strange scene of the two dwarves Fjalarr (Hider) and Galarr (Screamer) sailing with Gillingr (Noisy). Notably, right after Gillingr has drowned on this trip, his wife cries loudly out of the door of the dwarfs’ home. This sequence seems to reflect the scene of Vǫluspá where all of J tunheimar groans and the dwarves howl before their stone doors. The eagle or the birds reappear in several of these narratives, too. In Bergbúa þáttr the bergbúi says he expects the eagles to come flying after he has sent this boat and he tells how he flies from world to world; in Vǫluspá the ash-pale beaked eagle rips up corpses before the Muspell People and Loki come sailing; and of course in the myth of the Mead of Poetry, Óðinn—named Evildoer—bursts out of Hnitbj rg, the εountain of Clashing Rocks, in the guise of an eagle, who flies straight towards Ásgarðr and explodes in yellow
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liquid. Interestingly, it is mentioned in the annals of Flatey that some men once saw birds flying in the ejecta of an eruption in Hekla. This seems to come from the same idea as is expressed in Konungs Skuggsjá, where the Northern Wind is said to create earthquakes and eruptions by rushing through caverns in the underground—an idea that ultimately originates in the classical myths of, among others, Ovid. To add to this image in Skáldskaparmál Óðinn blows in the hole that he is making with Baugi in Hnitbj rg, and rocks fall out. Similarly, references to the Mead of Poetry or a chthonic— volcanic—alcoholic drink are made in several of these narratives. The bergbúi equates the eruption with his poetry and associates it with the Well of Aurnir—that is the Mead of Poetry. Both Saxo and Konungs Skuggsjá relate that there are (volcanic) wells in Iceland that taste of beer, and, finally, there is the association of the Mead of Poetry with volcanism in Skáldskaparmál. All these motifs are indiscernible in their singular form, but together they form a sequence that associate with the descriptions of a volcanic eruption. The initial characteristic rumbling of an earthquake swarm, venting gasses and tumbling rocks before an eruption is expressed in the j tnar, Fjalarr, Galarr, Gillingr, the groaning J tunheimar, the howling dwarves and drilling in the mountain. The flight of birds and eagles; Óðinn in Skáldskaparmál and Háleygjatal, the ash-pale beaked eagle, the bergbúi and the eagle in his poem, symbolize the ash-plume. The image of the iron/stone boat, however, is not fully discernible. It may link up with ideas of high speed as the ejecta comes rushing down a mountainside. Several of these images are found in other cultures—the most frequent of which is the eagle as an ash-plume. In many cases of myths of volcanism in other cultures, there is also a connection to important cultural artifacts or elements. As such, the Mead Myth seems to follow a pattern of human cultural response to volcanism that is worldwide. It is a myth that plots the cultural upon the peripheral and strange phenomena of volcanism—with their destructive capabilities, and as such potential anti-cultural entities—and appropriates it to consign it to a human-cultural function. It is also a myth that enhances human resilience to volcanism insofar as it prescribes certain acts of caution and preparation in the face of these phenomena while combining it all in a myth about the memory drink of the Mead of Poetry.
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RESUMÉ PÅ DANSK
Denne afhandling med titlen Of Fire and Water. The Old Norse Mythical Worldview in an EcoMythological Perspective er opdelt i tre kapitler, der efterfølges af en konklusionμ ’Introduction’, ’Confronting the Sea’ og ‘The Creation εyth, the εyth of the εead of Poetry and Volcanism.’ Indledningskapitlet etablerer den metodiske og teoretiske baggrund for den såkaldt ‘økomytologiske’ tilgang til analysen af myterne om Thors Fiskefærd, Skabelsesmyten og myten om Skjaldemjøden som centrale mytiske narrativer for konceptualiseringen havet og jorden i det oldnordiske verdensbillede. Afhandlingens andet kapitel omhandler myten om Thors Fiskefærd som en skandinavisk kulturmyte om havet og dets relation til samfundet. Dette perspektiv på myten omfatter Fiskefærdens udviklingshistorie fra en tidlig tilstand i vikingetiden til senere tolkninger og redefineringer af den i kristne tekster i Island og Skandinavien. Det tredje kapitel drejer sig om Skabelsesmyten og myten om Skjaldemjøden som to typer myter, der konceptualiserer landet og kosmos i en specifikt islandsk kontekst, fordi de fungerer som gentolkninger af skandinaviske nøglemyter i forbindelse med den enestående islandske vulkanske undergrund. Disse økomytologiske tolkninger af nogle af de mest centrale oldnordiske myter argumenterer for, at den livstruende vulkanske aktivitet og havet som det perifere rum faktisk indtager centrale roller i vigtige kulturelle narrativer i Norden. I disse tekster fungerer havet og landets mest destruktive kraft, vulkanerne, som kulturelle identifikationsmarkører i økosystemerne. Deres fremtrædende rolle som kulturelle identifikationsmarkører indikerer en anden konceptualisering af det dualistiske forhold mellem land og hav, centrum og periferi, og ikke mindst kultur og natur i det oldnordiske mytiske verdensbillede: de nordiske guder fungerer som håndhævere og mediatorer i livscyklussen. PROBLEM OG FORMÅL
Formålet med denne afhandling er at studere verdensbilledet i den nordiske mytologi gennem følgende arbejdsspørgsmål: ”Hvordan udmøntes forholdet mellem menneske og natur i det oldnordiske verdensbillede i de litterære mytologiske kilder? Hvordan udtrykkes det interne forhold mellem de konceptuelle kategorier ’kultur vs. natur,’ ’civiliseret vs. vildt’ (byggð overfor óbyggð, innangarðs overfor útangarðs) i asernes relationer til den omgivende verden i myten om Thors Fiskefærd, Skabelsesmyten og i myten om Skjaldemjøden? Hvorledes udtrykker gudernes handlinger i disse narrativer menneskets mytologiske opfattelse og forhold til landet og havet i de skandinaviske og Nordatlantiske økosystemer?”
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Siden Gurevichs (1969), Meletinskijs (1973) og Kirsten Hastrups (1981, 1985 og 1990) toneangivende publikationer om oldnordisk kosmologi og verdensbillede, er dette emne vokset i interesse blandt forskere i nordisk mytologi. Diskussionen har primært været fokuseret på forholdet mellem aserne som et guddommeligt kollektiv, og de andre overnaturlige væsner i det kosmiske skema, opdelt i en vertikal og en horisontal akse (Schjødt 1990; Clunies Ross 1994; Løkka 2010). Et andet fokus i debatten repræsenteres af Stefan Brink i dennes artikel Mytologiska rum och eskatologiska föreställningar i det vikingatida Norden (2004). Brinks tilgang involverer en interesse for det specifikke økosystem, der omgiver de forskellige nordiske folk, som en vigtig del af diskussionen om det oldnordiske mytiske verdensbillede. Denne afhandling bygger videre på det perspektiv, Brink introducerer, og udarbejder en metode til at analysere det oldnordiske mytiske verdensbillede, som betegnes den økomytologiske tilgang. Den teoretiske baggrund for denne metode er konceptet om ’the εythical Charter of Tradition’ i præmoderne kulturer. The Mythical Charter of Tradition beskrives som summen af alle mundtlige narrativer, der viderefører viden om den mytiske fortid, centrale kulturskikkelsers genealogier, og myter om teknisk visdom, der oftest bevares som magisk og formularisk viden. Dette teoretiske grundlag er udviklet på baggrund af Jacque Le Goffs (1992) og Jan Assmanns (2006) teorier om ’Collective-’ og ’Cultural εemory.’ Disse opfattes som hinanden komplimenterende teorier. Assmans begreb ’εemory Space’ udvides fra at være fokuseret på litterære dokumenter til også at dække over mundtlige tekster, der forbindes til de for en kultur vigtige steder i økosystemer. Dette gøres med reference til langlivede mundtlige traditioner i Skandinavien, der forbinder kulturelt signifikante handlinger og begivenheder med vigtige steder i økosystemerne (Dejbjerg i Vestjylland og Urebøuren i Telemarken). En sådan kobling af Le Goffs og Assmanns begreber foretages med basis i Åke Hultkrantz’ artikler om økoreligion, der etablerer en teori om økosystemers påvirkning af religioners og kulturers udvikling: Ecology of Religion: Its Scope and Methodology (1979), An Ideological Dichotomy: Myths and Folk Beliefs Among the Shoshoni (1984) og Rock Drawings as Evidence of Religion (1986). Ved at opfatte de oldnordiske myter og dertil relaterede historiske tekster som et ’εythical Charter of Tradition’, der forbinder en given kulturel gruppe eller enhed med et økosystem, repræsenterer denne afhandling et anderledes syn på kildeværdien af den nordiske mytologi og litteratur. Genrediskussioner og diskussioner om forholdet mellem en oprindeligt nordisk tradition overfor fremmed middelalderlatinsk indflydelse på teksterne, bliver sekundære i forhold til en der i hovedsagen drejer sig om en til alle tider kulturel udveksling mellem det nordlige og sydlige Europa. εed dette perspektiv bliver skismaet mellem ’kristen’ og ’hedensk’ indhold i den nordiske mytologi
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også sekundær i forhold til en interesse for teksterne baseret på erkendelsen af, at disse har været præget af multiple kulturelle strømninger på mange niveauer i en lang periode, der strækker sig fra et tidligt mundtligt stadie i vikingetiden til den tid i middelalderen, hvor de blev forfattet i skrift. ANALYSERNE
Thors Fiskefærd analyseres som en myte, der har grundlæggende kulturel signifikans. Mytens tidligste udtryk findes på billedsten i England, Danmark og Sverige. Disse udtryk tolkes som billedlige repræsentationer af fiskeri som en ikonisk skandinavisk kulturel aktivitet. I sammenspil med Hymerskvadet (Hymiskviða) fremstår Fiskemyten som en fortælling om den antropomorfe guddom, der drog ud på fiskefærd og endte med at fange Havets Ånd i form af Midgårdsormen. Denne tidlige form af myten associeres med vikingetiden og tolkes som et narrativ, der overleverer vigtig teknisk viden om fiskeri. Denne vigtige viden udtrykkes i dynamikken mellem Thor og Hymer: Thor er ung, modig og uforsigtig mens Hymer er gammel og frygter at sejle for langt ud på havet. Myten favoriserer imidlertid ingen af de to ekstremer, men foreskriver i stedet middelvejen som den mest succesfuld. Den adresserer således spørgsmålet om for meget, for lidt eller lige akkurat nok frygt i fiskesituationen, og udpeger sidstnævnte som det mest hensigtsmæssige. Myten tematiserer forskellige typer af frygt forbundet med fiskeriet: frygten for at dø på havet og frygten for at dø af sult. Som sådan er dette en økomytologisk tolkning af myten, der anerkender havets fremtrædende rolle som en vigtig ressource overalt i vikingetidens Skandinavien. Eftersom havet spiller så central en rolle som kilde til mad, argumenteres der for at Fiskemyten udvikles i løbet af vikingetidens ekspansioner i Nordatlanten, og i særdeleshed i forbindelse med landtagningen (landnám) i Island og Grønland. Thor bliver den primære guddom i koloniseringen af Island og hans myte udvikles til en grundlæggelsesmyte for landtagningen, men også i forbindelse med de nye opdagelser i Vinland. Thor bliver den guddom der sikrer godt vejrlig, god havfærd og mad på rejserne over havet, og Fiskefærdens narrative strukturer genbruges i opdagelsesmyter, der efterlader sig spor i blandt andre Landtagningsbogen (Landnámabók), Erik den rødes saga (Eiríks saga rauða) og Sagaen om Mændene fra Flói (Flóamanna saga). Med denne popularitet opstår der imidlertid et behov for at dekonstruere myten og Thors signifikans som guddom efter kristningen. Thor dæmoniseres og udstilles som fejlbarlig i flere af de ovennævnte historier. Fiskefærdens grundstrukturer og tematikker genbruges i historien om Thors Færd til Udgårdsloke, Saxos Thorkillusrejser, Torstein stor-som-et-hus’ saga (Þorsteins þáttr bœjarmagns) og versionen af Fiskefærden i Edda’ens andet kapitel Gylfis Forblændelse (Gylfaginning) ser ud til intentionelt at være narrativt associeret med myten om Ragnarok. Det mest interessante aspekt af denne udbredte
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brug af Fiskefærden er fremstillingen af den euhemeriserede Thor-figur Thorkillus’ rejser i Nordatlanten hos Saxo. Denne fremstilling repræsenterer det sidste niveau i udviklingen af Fiskefærden som en økomyte, fordi uanset hvordan den overvejende kristne tradition nu engang opfatter Thor og hedenskaben fremstilles havet som en central kraft i disse narrativer. I Thorkillus’ rejser finder kristendommen sin vej til Danmark gennem en søfarende islænding. Fortællingerne anvender den gamle Fiskemyte i en ny kontekst. Frygten for sult, frygten for havet og problematikkerne vedrørende fremskaffelse af mad og drikke under sejlads er stadig repræsenteret i Saxos fortællinger, men i denne sammenhæng anvendes de selvsamme tematikker til at understrege et mentalt skifte: fra at dreje sig om den fysiske hunger, fokuserer myten nu på den åndelige hungren. Saxo har nemlig en grundlæggende forståelse for indholdet af den ældre tradition i Fiskefærden, og han associerer dens tematikker med sin vidtrækkende kritik af hedenskaben: hedenskaben er en materialistisk, verdslig religion uden åndelig indsigt. Ved hjælp af den tilsyneladende mest populære nordiske myte, introducerer han denne åndelige sult gennem en euhemeriseret hedensk guddom. Økomyten Thors Fiskefærd udvikler sig således i tandem med, at skandinavernes horisont udvides gennem deres liv med havet som en dominerende kraft i deres verden. Fiskefærden udvikles fra at handle om havet som en primær kilde til mad og rigdom, til at handle om havet som et rum for opdagelse og magt, hvori sociale strukturer konceptualiseres og selve samfundets fundament grundlægges. Dens sidste udviklingsstadie i de sene kristne tolkninger er et, hvor havet opfattes som et rum, der kan udvide menneskets erkendelsesmæssige og religiøse horisont. Denne afhandlings tolkning af myten omstrukturerer dermed parametrene for de konceptuelle skemaer, der ofte dominerer forskningen i oldnordisk kosmologi og verdensbillede. Havet er i det oldnordiske verdensbillede ikke Udhavet (Úthaf), et perifert rum, men derimod et kulturelt epicenter. I forbindelse med Skabelsesmyten rettes opmærksomheden mod mytens version i Gylfaginning, hvori visse aspekter af sammenblandingen af is og ild er blevet udpeget som inkonsistente af visse forskere. Inkonsistensen beror blandt andet på beskrivelsen af, hvordan den iskolde eitr flyder fra sin kilde i Niflheimr og størkner når den kommer ud i det mildere klima i Ginnungagap. Det vises her, at denne uoverensstemmelse i, at en tilsyneladende iskold flodstrøm kan fryse til, når den flyder ind i et varmere klima, i grunden forekommer fordi myten oprindeligt beskriver et vulkanudbrud. Der er flere forhold i beskrivelsen af skabelsen som en proces af is, rim og vand, der ikke korresponderer med de observerbare fysiske processer desangående. Hvordan kan rim forekomme i et klima, der er ’mildt som en vindløs himmel’? Hvorfor er tilfrysningen af floderne Élivágar beskrevet som en proces, hvor de ’størkner som de brændte slagger fra en smelter’? Svaret på disse spørgsmål skal findes i det forhold, at sådanne inkonsistente beskrivelser optræder, når den oprindelige fortælling om et lav-effusivt vulkansk udbrud beskrives med analogier
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til vand, is, sne og rim. Der er flere sammenlignelige eksempler fra andre kulturer verden over, der indikerer at dette kunne være en narrativ modus islændingene har benyttet sig af, til at beskrive det grundlæggende fremmedartede fænomen, som vulkanismen er. Det oldnordiske sprog er overraskende fattigt når det kommer til ord, der beskriver vulkanisme. Der fandtes for eksempel ikke engang et ord for ’vulkan’. I Skabelsesmyten findes imidlertid et nøgleord, som går igen: rim (hrím). Ordet ’rim’ havde en dobbeltbetydning på oldnordisk og kunne også anvendes om sod, og dette indikerer at de tidlige islændinge muligvis har benyttet sig af samme metode til at udtrykke vulkanske processer, som så mange andre før-videnskabelige kulturer på Jorden, nemlig ved hjælp af analogier og myter. I stedet for at være et billede af en proces af ild og is, ser Skabelsesmyten ud til at fremstille skabelsen som en proces, hvor Surtr og Muspell-folket skaber ild og giftige edderstrømme (eitr: lava), der bygger land op i Ginnungagap, som efterfølgende gøres beboelig for mennesker af de civiliserende frugtbarhedskræfter, aserne, som etablerer kosmos ved at dræbe Ymir og bruge hans kropsdele til at bygge verdensrummet og skabe liv. For at beskrive disse hændelser måtte analogier til vand og is tages i brug, og disse blev senere omfortolket i en lærd, litterær diskurs, der kunne passe det ind i den neoplatoniske filosofi, som præger Snorri Sturlusons Edda. Dette forklarer hvorfor Surtr og Muspell, de kraftfulde vulkanske Ragnarok-magter, involveres i Skabelsesmyten: processen er blevet observeret i Island igen og igen, fra generation til generation; efter Vulkan-ånden og hans Ild-folk har sendt de giftige Stormbølger (Élivágar), og disse er størknet som vi kender det fra slaggerne fra jernsmeltning, da vil der igen gro planter henover jorden. Dette forklarer også hvorfor Gylfaginning insisterer på, at Ymir og Aurgelmir er det samme væsen, selvom de ikke er forbundet med hinanden i den oprindelige fremstilling i Gylfaginnings kilde Vaftrudners Digt (Vafþrúðnismál). Beskrivelsen af Aurgelmir der bygges op af det eitr, som springer fra Élivágar forekommer at være den ældste islandske vulkanologiske variant af Skabelsesmyten. Myten om skabelsen af Aurgelmir og myten om skabelsen af Ymir har begge oprindelse i den kontinentale tradition for at henføre genealogier og livets opståen til en chthonisk urjætte. Den version, der forefindes i Gylfaginning er et forsøg på, at sammenholde den islandske tolkning af myten med den kontinentale tradition, og samtidig vedholde det skabende aspekt i de i Island observerbare fænomener, der kaldes jarðeldr (jord-ild). På denne måde associeres skabelsen af kosmos direkte med dets mest destruktive kræfter i Skabelsesmyten i Gylfaginning, og det vulkanske fænomen inkorporeres i hjertet af eksistensen. I myten om Skjaldemjøden i Edda’ens tredje kapitel Skjaldskabernes Sprog (Skáldskaparmál) fremstilles vulkanismens eksplosive aspekter i analogier til overnaturlige væsner og en forestilling om Skjaldemjøden som kropslig væske i overensstemmelse med, at verdens vand opfattes som Ymirs
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kropsvæsker. Denne myte inkorporerer flere motiver, der findes i andre narrativer, og den distancerer sig fra myten om Skjaldemjøden i Den Højes Digt (Hávamál) ved at fokusere på landskabet, kosmos og død, frem for magnatfarmen, sociale spilleregler og ægteskab. Begge myter handler om kulturens primære aspekter, og myten i dens version i Hávamál lader til at være ældst. Denne version relateres til aspekter af gammel germansk fertilitetskult, der tilsyneladende har sit ophav i det mytiske kompleks, der vedrører de romerske Liberalia og Bacchanalia. Det mest fremtrædende fælles aspekt i dette kompleks er associeringen af den chthoniske, berusende drik med liv og visdom. I den islandske tradition i Skáldskaparmál gennemtvinger den nyligt tilføjede erfaring fra økosystemet, vulkanismen, en reformulering og rekonceptualisering af mjødens chthoniske associeringer. Den tykflydende gullige substans, der udgør Skjaldemjøden bliver, som resultat af dens sammenlignelighed med lavaen, forbundet med vulkanismen. Men dette er ikke den eneste årsag til at forbinde mjøden med vulkanismen: siden mjøden fungerer som hukommelses- og visdomsdrik, og dens myte indtager en kulturel hovedrolle – det er derfor den findes i det grundlæggende kulturelle regelsæt i Hávamál – er den også den ideelle kandidat til at være et objekt eller en substans med hvilken mindet om overvældende eksplosive vulkanudbrud, der truer samfundets eksistens, kan associeres. En sådan hændelse oplevede islændingene allerede tidligt i landets historie, ved slutningen af landtagningen, da Katla-systemet brød ud i det massive Eldgjá udbrud i 934, og lagde et askeslør over hele den nordlige halvkugle i månedsvis, måske i et helt år. Det var et af de største udbrud i menneskehedens historie. Skjaldemjødens forbindelse til vulkanisme stopper imidlertid ikke ved dette. Mjødmyten i Skáldskaparmál inkludere vulkanmotiver, der kombinerer guder, jætter, dværge, overnaturlige både af sten og jern, flyvende ørne, øl eller mjød og i flere tilfælde Vulkan-ånden Surtr. Kort efter Eldgjáudbruddet, i årene omkring 985, komponerede skjalden Eyvindr skáldaspillir digtet Håleygernes Række (Háleygjatal). Her siger skjalden, at Odin fløj ud af Surts synkende dale med Skjaldemjøden. Der refereres også til skjaldemjøden med kenningen ’kedel-væske’. Betegnelsen af det aktive vulkanske krater som en kedel ses i flere tilfælde i andre kulturer, men hvad vigtigere er: strofen fra Háleygjatal har strukturelle paralleller i Bjergboens Fortælling (Bergbúa þáttr), Vølvens Spådom (Vǫluspá) og Skáldskaparmál, og der optræder associerede ideer i andre tekster i Landnámabók, Kongespejlet (Konungs Skuggsjá), Flatey-annalerne og hos Saxo. I Landnámabók beskrives det i forbindelse med et udbrud, at en jætte forårsagede det, da han kom sejlende i en jernbåd og gravede i jorden. Motivet med båden dukker også op i Bergbúa þáttr, hvor bjergboen fortæller om, hvordan han er årsagen til et udbrud, og at han sendte Aurnir en jernbeslået stenbåd. I Vǫluspá optræder den overnaturlige båd i formen Naglfar, der kommer sejlende med Muspell-folket og Loki, guden der skaber jordskælv. Naglfar betyder måske ’spike-båden’, hvis dens navn ikke umiddelbart forbindes
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til traditionen i Gylfaginning der fortæller, at forleddet betyder ’negle’, og at navnet hentyder til, at Surtr og Muspell laver et dødeskib af afdøde menneskers negle. Denne ide findes flere steder i Skandinavien forbundet med djævlen, der også laver både af fingernegle. I myten om Skjaldemjøden i Skáldskaparmál findes den besynderlige scene med dværgene Fjalarr (Gemmer) og Galarr (Skriger), der tager en sejltur med Gillingr (Larmer). Kort efter at Gillingr drukner på denne sejltur, stiller hans kone sig i døråbningen til dværgenes hjem og græder højt. Denne sekvens ser ud til at afspejles i Vǫluspá, hvor alle Jættehjemmene (J tunheimar) rumler og dværgene hyler foran deres stendøre. Ørne eller andre fugle dukker også op i flere af disse narrativer. I Bergbúa þáttr fortæller bjergboen, at han forventer at ørnene vil komme flyvende. Dette sker lige efter han har sendt Aurnir sin stenbåd, og efterfølgende fortæller bjergboen at han selv flyver i askeskyen fra verden til verden og fra bjergtop til bjergtop. I Vǫluspá forekommer billedet af den askegrå-næbbede ørn, der slider i menneskers døde kroppe kort før Muspell-folket kommer sejlende med Loki. Og så er der tilfældet i Skjaldemjødsmyten i Skáldskaparmál, der fortæller om Odin som, i forklædning som Ondskabsmageren (B lverkr), bryder ud af De Ramlende Klippers Bjerg (Hnitbj rg) i ørneham og flyver mod Asgård (Ásgarðr), hvor han eksploderer i mjød. Der findes ligeledes en beskrivelse af et udbrud i Hekla i Flatey-annalerne, hvor det siges at man kunne se fugle flyve ud sammen med klipper og lava. En lignende ide udtrykkes tilsyneladende i Konungs Skuggsjá, hvor det fortælles at Nordenvinden skaber jordskælv og vulkanudbrud ved at klemme sig ned i jordens huler og tunneller. Dette er en forestilling, der har sin oprindelse i den klassiske mytologi, hos blandt andre Ovid. En tilføjelse til dette billede er situationen i Mjødmyten, hvor Odin blæser ind i det hul, han borer sammen med jætten Baugi i Hnitbj rg, og ved denne handling får sten til at flyve ud. På lignende måder findes spredte referencer til mjøden eller en anden chthonisk – vulkansk – alkoholisk drik i myterne. Bjergboen sidestiller udbruddet han omtaler med sin poesi og forbinder den til Aurnirs Brønd, med andre ord: Skjaldemjøden. Både Saxo og Konungs Skuggsjá gengiver en forestilling om, at der i Island findes vulkanske kilder, hvor vandet smager som øl, og til sidst er der selvfølgelig mjødens forbindelse til vulkanisme i selve Skjaldemjødsmyten. Alle disse motiver er svære at forstå når de står alene, men når de sammenstilles danner de en sekvens der forbinder sig til beskrivelser af udbrud. Den karakteristiske tidlige rumlen fra en jordskælvsværm, gas der strømmer ud og klipper der falder ned før et udbrud udtrykkes i jætterne, i Fjalarr, Galarr, Gillingr, de stønnende J tunheimar, de hylende dværge og B lverkrs boringer i bjerget. De flyvende fugle og ørnene, Odin, den askegrå-næbbede ørn, bjergboen og ørnen i hans digt, symboliserer askeskyen. Motivet med jern/stenbåden er, imidlertid, ikke helt gennemskueligt. Det er muligt at det forbinder sig til den hastighed hvormed vulkanens ejecta udsendes, idet den accelerer det ned ad bjergsiden. Flere af disse motiver findes tilmed i andre kulturer – det mest fremtrædende
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af dem er ørnen som en askesky. I mange tilfælde af vulkanmyter i andre kulturer forbindes myten gerne med centrale, vigtige kulturelle artefakter og koncepter. Som sådan følger Skjaldemjøden et kendt kulturelt mønster for menneskers respons til vulkanisme, som dukker op mange steder i verden. Myten lokaliserer på denne måde det kulturelle, samfundets vigtigste elementer, i den fremmedartede og fjendtlige periferi, blandt vulkaner, der, med deres destruktive kapaciteter på mange måder må siges at være kulturens modsætning. Kulturen approprierer vulkanismen som det perifere og tilskriver den en human-kulturel funktion. Skjaldemjødsmyten eksisterer i den forbindelse også for at fremme den menneskelige modstandsdygtighed mod vulkanismens destruktive kraft, idet den foreskriver forsigtighed og bevågenhed i mødet med disse fænomener, mens den kombinerer det hele i myten om mjøden som huskedrikken.
