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KVASIR’S ENDURING POETRY (#litres_trial_promo)
DESTRUCTION (#litres_trial_promo)
AFTERWORD (#litres_trial_promo)
Map of the Ancient Norse World (#litres_trial_promo)
Time Line of Norse History (#litres_trial_promo)
Cast of Characters (#litres_trial_promo)
Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)
Index (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Authors (#litres_trial_promo)
INTRODUCTION
During the Middle Ages Latin became the language of writing and of much religious storytelling in many lands of Europe. So, for example, in Germany and France people would speak German or French to friends and business associates, but when they wrote books or told Christian stories, they used Latin. The countries in what is today Scandinavia spoke Old Norse, common to all three countries, Norway, Denmark, and Sweden. However, even after Latin writing came to Iceland—which was settled by Norse people—they wrote their own stories in Old Norse, not Latin. In Iceland the tradition of skaldic poetry and song was fundamental to daily culture. People gathered in large halls at any excuse to listen to stories, often because a visiting poet had come to the village. Stories could warm a long cold night, after all. This might well be the reason why some Norse people tenaciously maintained the worldview you will encounter in the stories here until the middle of the 12th century, in opposition to the rising strength of Christianity in neighboring countries.
The Norse stories in many ways reflect the geophysical world the people of Norway and Iceland inhabited. Norway is covered with mountains, the tallest of which are essentially barren—and four are volcanic. Iceland is covered with volcanoes, many of which are active. And both countries have snow and ice in many areas in winter and in some areas even year-round, and each has a long coast lapped by an icy ocean. In such an environment the land and sea themselves must have seemed alive. At any moment the earth might roar, spit fire, and swallow you, or it might shake and an avalanche of snow could smother your homestead. Even a piece of rock, if smacked against a glassy stone, could produce hot sparks that set afire whatever dry twigs were at hand. It’s no wonder then that not just living beings had names, but all sorts of objects had names, too. Bridges and halls, trees and swords, inanimate objects of so many kinds had personalities and powers, and it was important to show respect through calling them by name—and never, never to do so frivolously.
The world must have seemed outrageously dangerous; death waited behind any door, and, oh, how savage that death might be. Nevertheless, these people got in boats and braved seas turbulent with storms as they explored and exploited other worlds. The Norse both paid homage to and defied the unknown. The spirit of courage colors their mythology, even as trickery leads to tragedy. And perhaps facing adversity all the time is at least partly the reason why they had a democratic society in which all free men (not women, and not slaves) had a vote—just as all gods had a vote in the assemblies that the major god, Odin, led. Lives depended on decisions made in communal meetings, so it was best to share both the privilege and the responsibility.
NOTE ON NORSE NAMES
Old Norse used letters that don’t appear in the modern alphabet for English, such as Þ, which indicates the first sound in think; ð, which indicates the first sound in the; and æ, which indicates the first sound in act. They also added marks above or below vowels to indicate a variety of sounds. While these Old Norse alphabetic symbols are beautiful, I feared that using them here would inhibit you from reading passages aloud. I wouldn’t risk robbing you of that joy. So, I have anglicized all proper names here. Further, Norse names often end in r because a final r can be a nominative case marker, showing that the word is the subject of its sentence. Since English does not use case markings on names, for the sake of consistency, I’ve chosen to leave out nominative case-marking final r’s. Thus, “Óðinn, the Alfaðir of the Æsir,” is known here as “Odin, the Allfather of the Aesir.” “Þorr, who swings his hammer, Mjölnir,” is here “Thor, who swings his hammer, Mjolnir.” And so on.
If you would like to know more about Old Norse, please consult a site for the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA), such as www.phonetics.ucla.edu/course/chapter1/chapter1.html (http://www.phonetics.ucla.edu/course/chapter1/chapter1.html) or en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Phonetic_Alphabet (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Phonetic_Alphabet). Then use the IPA to help you understand a site on Old Norse, such as www.omniglot.com/writing/oldnorse.htm (http://www.omniglot.com/writing/oldnorse.htm). Please watch the wonderful video there.
The frost giant Ymir emerged from the melting rivers of Ginnungagap. A daughter sprang from his sweaty armpit; a son, from his feet. The sweet-tempered cow Audhumla licked at the ice until she uncovered the head of the first god, Buri.
CREATION
The north was frozen—snow and ice, nothing more. It was called Niflheim. It was the embodiment of bleakness.
The south was aflame–ready to consume whatever might come. It was called Muspell. It was the embodiment of insanity.
Between them lay a vast emptiness. It was called Ginnungagap. It waited.
In the midst of the northern realm, water bubbled up—in the spring known as Hvergelmir. From it ran 11 rivers, straight down into the void, filling the northern part of Ginnungagap. The cold rivers slowed and thickened, like icy syrup, but a venomous kind of syrup. One that matched the desolate cries of the haunted winds.
The southern part of Ginnungagap was hot, though. Muspell kept it molten, like lava.
So when the gusts from the northern part met the heaving heat from the southern part, the middle of Ginnungagap grew almost balmy. The icy rivers thawed just enough to drip over that wide middle part.
That was enough: The frost giant Ymir stepped out of those drops. From the sweat of his left armpit grew a frost giant son and daughter. Ymir’s feet rubbed together, and another frost giant was born. Ymir’s every move, every thought, resulted in more frost giants. And all of them were spitting mean. What else could they be, given the bitter source of the very liquid in their veins?
Heavenly Movements
The moon and sun
People used to think the sun and moon crossed the sky. But in 1543 astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus argued that the Earth circles the sun, based on his observations of constellations and a lunar eclipse. Later astronomers Tycho Brahe and Johannes Kepler made astronomical measurements, which led to Kepler’s laws of planetary motion around the sun. In 1609 astronomer Galileo Galilei invented the telescope and added support to Copernicus’s model based on observations of the planet Venus.
The ice of Ginnungagap kept melting as the air grew milder. It formed a cow, a huge good-natured beast, from whose udders spurted four milk rivers. Her name was Audhumla. She stood in the middle of the glistening blocks of salty ice, and like any good cow, she immediately started licking. She licked all day long, until, under her great rasping tongue, hair appeared out of the ice. She licked all the next day, until a whole head appeared. By the evening of the third day, an entire being stood there. He was Buri, the first god.
Buri soon had a son named Bor, and Bor married the daughter of a frost giant and fathered three sons, the grandchildren of Buri: Odin and Vili and Ve.
Now the trouble began: The sons of Bor and the gang of frost giants hated each other. Inevitably, perhaps, for the world was still such an inhospitable place, ice on one side, fire on the other, that hate found a natural home there. Bor’s sons killed Ymir.
The blood of that ancient frost giant surged out over Ginnungagap and drowned all the other frost giants—all but two: Bergelmir and his wife. They got in their boat and let the gory current carry them where it would.
But now the sons of Bor found themselves with this enormous corpse, and they recognized the possibilities: Life could come from death. That could be the circle of things. So they used every part of the slain Ymir to create many worlds. His blood made seas and lakes. His flesh made earth. His bones formed mountains. His teeth became rocks and pebbles.
Ymir’s hollowed-out skull made the sky, and the three sons of Bor took the maggots crawling in Ymir’s rotted carcass and created small creatures called dwarfs. They set a dwarf under each of the four corners of this skull-sky to hold it up, arching over the earth. One dwarf was called Nordri—North; one, Austri—East; one, Sudri—South; one, Vestri—West. The other dwarfs ran off to live in the rocky caves. They became skilled craftsmen. It was they who wrought the decorative treasures of the gods.
The three sons of Bor killed the frost giant Ymir and used his body parts to create worlds and the objects within those worlds. From his skull they made the sky.
But there was still more of Ymir’s body to exploit. The sons of Bor threw his brains up into the sky to form clouds. They stole embers from Muspell and created the sun and moon, and from the sparks they made all the many stars.
With Ymir’s eyebrows they made a wall to keep out the giants. The land outside that wall was called Jotunheim, and the only two giants left alive settled there. The land inside that wall was called Midgard.
So now the land of Midgard was protected from giants, from ice, from fire, and it had sweet air above. It grew green with leeks and fragrant clover. Trees shot up, spruce and elm and ash. The gods, who had grown in number, wandered over this land. From two pieces of driftwood on the seashore, three gods created a man and a woman, the first humans. Odin put his mouth to theirs and gave them Ond—Breath—so they could live and love. Hoenir gave them Od—Mind—so they could understand and laugh. Lodur gave them La—Sense—so they could appreciate beauty. And that lone man, Ask, and that lone woman, Embla, set about having children to populate the land of Midgard.
The giantess Night, of the blackest hair, and her son Day, of the blondest hair, rode chariots across the sky. Later their chariots would be guided by humans, and the savage wolf Skoll with his brother wolf would chase them.
Meanwhile, the giants were having children, too. One giant woman had raven black hair and skin the hue of tree bark. To touch her was to shiver. Her name was Night. She had a son with hair that looked like the tips of the flames in Muspell and skin the color of Audhumla’s milk. To touch him was to smile. His name was Day. Their contrast fascinated Odin—he couldn’t resist; he set Night and her son Day in two chariots that race across the sky, the one after the other. Night’s chariot horse is Hrimfaxi, with frost clumped in his mane. Day’s chariot horse is Skinfaxi, with sparkles flying from his mane.
A human living in Midgard had children that were stunningly beautiful, as beautiful as anything the gods had created. He called his daughter Sun and his son Moon. Such audacity was a grave mistake. In fury, the sons of Bor snatched them and made Sun guide the chariot of Day and Moon guide the chariot of Night. The chariots are always in a hurry because each is chased by a savage wolf, sons of a giantess witch who lives in Ironwood Forest to the east of Midgard. The wolf Hati Hrodvitnisson goes after Moon—he will run Moon down in the end, at the cosmic battle of Ragnarok. The wolf Skoll snaps and growls behind Sun. In the end, he will catch her, too.
That’s how it all began. That’s how it all will end.
One-eyed Odin presides over Asgard, the world of the Aesir gods, as a guardian father—the Allfather. A flaming bridge, Bifrost, leads from Midgard, the world of the humans, up past the wall that surrounds Asgard.
THE COSMOS
The cosmos consisted of separate worlds arranged on three levels. In the middle level many creatures made a home. Humans had Midgard. Frost giants had Jotunheim.
The gods needed a home, too. Now up on the top level of the cosmos there was only one world at this point: Alfheim. That’s where the light elves lived, happy souls. So the sons of Bor chose to build a world for the gods up there, beside Alfheim. They named the world of the gods Asgard. It had spreading green meadows and splendid meeting halls.
By now the deities had multiplied and they had welcomed into their group various other creatures, friendly giants and elves. Odin was looked at as the father god; they called him Allfather. And the deities of this huge family called themselves the Aesir. They built a flaming rainbow bridge called Bifrost that spanned the distance from Midgard up to Asgard. Between Bifrost’s flames and the high rock wall that surrounded the world, others were blocked from invading Asgard. But Bifrost’s flames welcomed the Aesir; they simply shimmered in three colors under the gods’ galloping horses as they passed across into their new dwelling.
The Aesir built a hall from a single slab of gold, called Gladsheim, and it served as their court. They built a hall specifically for the goddesses, called Vingolf. They built a home with a forge and made hammers, tongs, anvils, all manner of tools, and furnished it well with goods of stone and wood and metal. The dishes they ate from were gold.
Odin built his own hall, Valaskjalf, and thatched it with sheer silver. He sat there on a high seat called Hlidskjalf, from which he could look out over all the worlds in the cosmos.
Those worlds now included one more: Vanaheim. The gods had split into two groups, the Aesir, who inhabited Asgard, and the Vanir, who lived in Vanaheim. The Aesir saw themselves as the true rulers of the cosmos. Given that attitude, it was no surprise that the feelings between the Aesir and the Vanir were less than friendly. So Odin watched Vanaheim with special care.
Odin ruled from his high seat, a helmet on his head and a raven on each shoulder. At his feet crouched two wolves, Geri and Freki, ravenous beasts who ate whatever food Odin dropped for them, which was abundant, since Odin himself lived only on wine. But these two wolves were also rumored to feed on nasty things—maybe even the corpses of men.
Center of the Cosmos
An ash tree stands in a field.
The center of the Norse cosmos was an ash tree named Yggdrasil (#litres_trial_promo), a legend that may have its origin in the Arctic Sami people. They build a house with hide stretched across poles. So, a tree was the center of the home. That Yggdrasil was an ash tree makes sense. Ash resists splitting, so it makes good bows and tool handles. It’s springy, so it makes good mountain-walking sticks. It burns well, even when freshly cut. And it’s very hard, so it doesn’t wear out quickly.
And there were many corpses to feed on, for humans were more fragile than gods. On the third and lowest level of the cosmos was the realm of the dead. It took nine days to ride northward and downward from Midgard to get there. It was the deep and frozen northern land of Niflheim. A hateful monster presided there, all pink down to her hips and then greenish black and decayed from hip to toes, with a huge, bloody-muzzled dog, Garm, baying at her side. She went by the name Hel, and many called her realm by her name. In those days, to die was to go to Hel.
Beyond these six worlds, there were three more, whose locations are murky, as is that of Vanaheim. Fire giants dwelled in the smoky landscape Muspell. Dwarfs had the mountain caves in the land called Nidavellir. Near them was Svartalfheim, the land of the dark elves. They were crabby, mysterious beings, as different from the light elves as the moon is from the sun.
Rising up through the center of it all was a mighty ash tree called Yggdrasil. Its branches shaded all the nine worlds, and it dripped a sugary dew that swarms of bees made honey from—the very first honeydew. Three gigantic roots held it up, one that went through low Niflheim, one that went through Jotunheim on the middle level, and one that went through the highest land, Asgard. Gnawing at the cold root in Niflheim was the dragon Nidhogg. The squirrel known as Ratatosk ran up and down Yggdrasil, carrying words of envy and insult between the dragon below and the eagle that circled its talons around the tree’s limbs. Four stags leaped through the highest boughs, nibbling at the leaves. And a goat called Heidrun chewed on its tender shoots. Yggdrasil groaned in agony, yet stood tall with nobility. It was the noblest of trees. It looked out over everything, and the knowledge of the worlds seeped into it.
The ash tree Yggdrasil rose in the middle level of the cosmos, but it stretched its roots down to the bottom level and its branches up into the top level, making a whole that would stand strong only so long as the tree stood strong.
All the animals romping and feeding on Yggdrasil seem ordinary except for the dragon Nidhogg. Serpentine dragons slither through the Norse myths, embodiments of the lurking dangers of the natural world.
With all this abuse, surely the magnificent tree would have withered but for the efforts of three Norns. Norns were giantesses who ruled the destinies of humans. There were many of them, some malevolent, some beneficent. They were the ones responsible for one man’s son dying of illness and another’s surviving that same illness, for one woman perishing in her first childbirth and another producing a dozen offspring and still planting and plowing with strength. They were present at the birth of every child and no one could escape the fate they assigned. Whenever anything strange happened, anything weird, everyone knew it was the work of the Norns. Three of these Norns, lovely maidens all, took to caring for Yggdrasil. One was Urd—Fate. One was Verdandi—Being. One was Skuld—Necessity. They watered Yggdrasil daily with the purest water from the sacred spring of destiny, and they whitened the bark with clay from that very spring, to make it shine as clean and new as the lining of an eggshell and to protect it from rot and decay.
Three special Norns tended Yggdrasil. They gave the tree water from a sacred spring and coated its bark with that spring’s clay to keep it from decaying with age.
Yggdrasil served every kind of creature in every world of the cosmos. This most central tree made a whole of the cosmos, and so it was the most sacred place of all. Everyone knew that when Yggdrasil finally would shake, everyone would curl in fear, for the end of everything as we know it would be at hand. Indeed, that may be why the hideous dragon Nidhogg tormented the tree—to put an end to what otherwise would be eternal. In the meantime, though, just the sight of Yggdrasil calmed the most frantic heart.
The Aesir mistreated the old witch Gullveig, who lived with the Vanir. In revenge, the Vanir prepared to attack. But the Aesir made a preemptive attack. The bloody battle went on for eons.
THE GODS CLASH
The two groups of gods living in the cosmos didn’t trust each other much. Rather, they were wary to the extreme. One day a witch named Gullveig, who lived with the Vanir in Vanaheim, visited the Aesir, living in Asgard. No one’s really sure why, but Gullveig walked into Odin’s hall and blathered about gold, about how it glistened and how much she loved it. The Aesir listened with growing disdain and finally did the unforgivable: They jammed spears into her everywhere. Then they tossed her into a fire and burned her to death. All she had done was annoy them with her incessant talk, and just look what they did to her!
But Gullveig stepped right back out of the flames, alive and whole. A second time they threw her in, and a second time she stepped back out. And yet a third time. By that point the astonished Aesir realized this witch had powers beyond anything they’d dreamed of, so they moved aside and let her wander wherever she wished in the halls of Asgard. Troublemakers followed her; the more wicked the followers, the more they admired Gullveig. Word got back to the Vanir of how dreadfully the Aesir had treated Gullveig. Vengeance seemed a duty; they prepared for war.
From his high seat in Valaskjalf, Odin saw what was happening over in Vanaheim. He saw them sharpening spearheads and polishing shields. So, he prepared a preemptive strike, and the Aesir cast the first spear. But the Vanir were already surging forward on their mounts, trampling the fields between the two worlds.
Berserkers
Odin, Thor, and Frey on a Viking tapestry
In the Icelandic sagas Odin’s warriors put on animal fur coverings. Wolf fur let them fight with trickery. Bear fur let them wrestle with strength. Their fighting bordered on insanity; they went berserk (ber was the Old Norse word for “bear”). The Vikings, likewise, were known for their ferocious frenzy in battle. These “berserkers” terrorized much of northern Europe in the late 700s until the early 900s, but their more mild Norse compatriots settled peacefully throughout the same area.
The battle went on and on. That’s how battles between gods are. Both sides are immensely powerful, after all. But the longer the battle endured, the clearer it became to all that a victor was unlikely. The gods wearied of the futility of this dreary war. Finally, the leaders of the Vanir and the Aesir sat down to hash things out. They couldn’t agree on almost anything, but they wanted so much just to end that plague of war that they drew up a truce. And to show their sincerity, they exchanged hostages: Two from each group would go to live with the other group.
The Vanir sent the very wealthy god Njord and his son Frey to Asgard. Frey’s twin sister, Freyja, and Kvasir, the wisest Vanir, accompanied those two on their journey and ended up staying there. The Aesir welcomed them honorably. Njord and Frey were appointed high priests to preside over sacrifices. Freyja became a sacrificial priestess, and she taught the gods all the spiritual, medical, and magical knowledge that she had, which was considerable.
The Aesir, for their part, sent Hoenir and Mimir to Vanaheim. Hoenir was strong and big; he certainly looked like he’d make a fine leader. And Mimir, though he was a giant, was considered the wisest Aesir—definitely comparable to Kvasir. All seemed good to the Vanir. They put Hoenir in a position of power and Mimir stood to his right and advised him. Together they made shrewd decisions. But if Mimir left Hoenir’s side, the tall and handsome Hoenir turned silent. When asked a question, he refused to speak. The Vanir felt cheated. In fury, they cut off Mimir’s head and sent it back to Odin.
Why they cut off poor Mimir’s head because of closed-mouthed Hoenir is unfathomable. Gods had their own ways of doing things.
Odin was bereft, for Mimir had been a fine and true friend. He held that severed head in his arms and crooned to it. Then he coated it with herbs that would retard decay and sang magic incantations over it. The head of Mimir regained its power of speech and thenceforth became a font of wisdom for Odin.
The Aesir sent the wise giant Mimir to their rival gods, the Vanir, in an exchange. But the Vanir got angry and cut off poor Mimir’s head. Odin grieved for his lost friend.
And thus the first war in the cosmos began and ended. But it wasn’t the last. Humans waged war often. And the gods treated the corpses of men who died in battle very well. They didn’t go to Hel. No, no. Half of them went to Asgard to live in a special hall called Valhalla, where spear shafts served as rafters and the roof was thatched with shields. At the western door lurked a wolf with an eagle hovering overhead. To arrive in Valhalla, the fallen warriors had to cross a large, noisy river. Once there, Odin welcomed them heartily. He had straw strewn on the benches in the hall to make them comfortable; he had all the goblets polished, for he already foresaw needing these warriors. Someday, he knew, there would be a final great battle among gods, humans, monsters, giants, everyone—the all-consuming Ragnarok. Warriors would be invaluable.
The Valkyries flew on their horses over battlefields and chose the best fallen warriors to bring back to Valhalla. The warriors feasted and practiced their martial arts there, preparing for the great battle of Ragnarok that would come someday.
Odin’s helper maids, the Valkyries, put on silver helmets from which their golden hair flowed out and red corselet armor that emphasized their beautiful bodies, and they rode on white horses through the air over the battlefields below. They must have appeared both terrifying and alluring to the sweaty, exhausted men as they lay dying. The Valkyries carried the chosen dead up to Valhalla.
And what a fine routine met these warriors there in Valhalla. Every night they feasted on overflowing platters of pork from the beast Saehrimnir, roasted in the cauldron Eldhrimnir by the soot-covered cook Andhrimnir. They drank never ending mead that came from the udders of the goat Heidrun, the one that ate the tender shoots of the tree Yggdrasil. Every day they battled together, and those who fell in these heavenly battles simply rose again at the end of the day and marched through the 540 doors of the hall to join the feast anew, since everything regenerated of its own accord.
The other half of the dead on the battlefield were gathered up by the priestess Freyja, the Vanir goddess who had taught everyone in Asgard so much about the wonders of the cosmos. She brought them to her heavenly field called Folkvang, where they, too, were groomed for the final battle, Ragnarok.
It’s as though right from the beginning of time everyone was preparing for the end of it all.
From his throne, Odin could view all nine worlds. Still, he sent out his two ravens to patrol for him and come back with details about happenings in those corners of the cosmos that his eye couldn’t reach.
ODIN’S QUEST
Odin was viewed as harsh and severe. And the one he was most severe with was himself.
When Odin sat on his high seat, Hlidskjalf, he could look out over the cosmos and see a great deal. But not everything. Hmmm. What was going on behind that ridge over there in the land of the dark elves? Who was whispering what under that root of Yggdrasil in Hel? His throat was parched with the yearning for knowledge. So he relied on the two ravens that perched on his shoulders: Huginn (Thought) and Muninn (Memory). They flew off in the morning to investigate the nine worlds with their sharp eyes. At night they returned to Odin and told him all that they had witnessed.
Still, it wasn’t enough. Odin’s mind was greedy; knowledge tasted good, but wisdom, ah, that would taste far better.
Odin and the other gods living in Asgard rode their horses every day over the burning bridge, Bifrost. On the other side was the grand ash tree Yggdrasil and the sacred well of destiny.
By this time there were ten major gods in the cosmos beyond Odin (and before too long, there would be two more). Eight of them were Aesir: Odin’s sons Thor, Balder, Tyr, Heimdall, Hod, and Vidar, plus his grandsons Forseti (son of Balder) and Ull (stepson of Thor). The other two major gods lived among the Aesir, but they had come originally from the Vanir: Njord and Frey. Each day Odin and these ten gods rode their horses over Bifrost, the flaming bridge, to that root of the spreading ash tree Yggdrasil that extended to heaven. Beneath that root was the sacred well Urdarbrunn, where the spring of destiny bubbled up. The gods held their assemblies right there. They made decisions that upheld righteousness and justice, and that protected humans against giants and dwarfs and dark elves. As they sat there, Odin watched two swans swimming with a sense of peace he’d never experienced, and he watched the three lovely Norns sprinkle the sacred tree from the spring of destiny and coat its wounds with a clay salve from the well Urdarbrunn. In this watery ritual he recognized something mystical, beyond reason, something that renewed the everlasting tree’s strength, something that gave those swans equanimity. Water did it—water had that unnamed something that could elevate one to an ever greater strength.
That’s when Odin took a closer look at the giant Mimir. Mimir was but a head at this point, severed from his body by the Vanir. But he was still the wisest one in all Asgard. Under another root of Yggdrasil, the one that stretched into the frost giants’ world, Jotunheim, was a well that Mimir guarded, and so it was called Mimisbrunn. Mimir drank from this well each day. Aha! The well was the source of Mimir’s wisdom! Odin had to have at that well.
And so Odin made a deal with Mimir: an eye for a single draught of that well water. Such a high price, this extreme self-mutilation. But what good was an eye that couldn’t fathom what it saw? Odin willingly scooped it from his own skull and hid it. He fashioned a drinking horn from dragon skin, dipped it into the well, and opened his mouth wide. The cool water sloshed down his throat and radiated throughout his essence. Yes, Odin knew more now, much more; he understood, he was wise. But, alas, he now knew that the highest wisdom of all—that of clairvoyance—was yet to be attained.
And where else to attain it than from the sacred tree Yggdrasil itself? Odin pierced himself with his spear Gungnir, perhaps so that he could come close to understanding the pain the tree experienced from its daily wounds. Then he hanged himself from a high bough. For nine long days and nine long nights, he swung there. He allowed no one to ease his suffering—not a drop of water passed his lips. In this delirious state, near death, he saw below him runes. He knew runes; some were carved on the tip of Gungnir—mysterious letters. But now those letters formed in the tree roots and they yielded their meanings to him and taught him nine precious songs and magic charms and the art of poetry. He looked out at the nine worlds in a new way. He shuddered at the knowledge he now embodied—at the miseries that lay ahead, at the deeds that lay behind, at all the difficulties of getting from day to day in a decent way.
Healing Waters
Holy water in the Hindu Tirta Empul Temple in Bali
Sacred wells, rivers, and springs appear in many religions, including those of several indigenous people of the Americas, ancient Rome, and India, as well as Christianity. Likewise, sacred words—here in the form of runes, those mysterious letters that took wisdom to decipher—come up repeatedly. Both are associated with the ability to heal, and, sometimes, to destroy. The Norse poem “Hávamál” claims that runic words heal better than leeches, a hint that old Norse medicine was fighting against the newer Christian methods.
Odin chose to hang himself from Yggdrasil for nine days and nights in his quest for wisdom. He was rewarded with a vision of runes that granted him knowledge of nine magic songs, charms, and poetry.
Odin proclaimed:
Cattle die, kinsmen die,
The self must also die;
but glory never dies,
