Virtually no being or thing in the ancient Scandinavian mythological universe is static, unless, like Loki or the Fenris-Wolf, it is tied down to keep it out of mischief. [1] Like atomic particles, all animate things keep in motion. The sun and moon flee through the heavens, for after them run monstrous wolves intent on swallowing them. The world tree, Yggdrasill, is subjected to never-ending assault and renewal. Serpents gnaw at its roots and harts rend its branches. Three goddesses shower the tree with potent liquid from a sacred well, for only by this incessant drenching can Yggdrasil maintain its life and strength. Meanwhile, a squirrel scurries up and down the tree bearing insulting messages between an eagle, perched in the topmost branches, and the serpents, gnawing at the roots.
The high gods also participate in this vigorous activity. Óðin wanders incessantly in search of magical wisdom. The mighty and impulsive Thór is always on the move, journeying to the East to fight the giants. When the gods are not busy fighting, playing, or sitting in council, they may even work, building temples or founding forges. The dead are granted no repose. If, as chosen warriors, they have been carried to Valholl, they fight all day and carouse all night; if they end up in Hel, a more ancient general abode of the dead, they must wade through mighty and turbulent rivers. So all-pervasive is this emphasis on energetic motion that even the mythological landscapes, though they may contain no human or divine personages, are enlivened by rushing streams, flying birds, falling leaves, or the heaving sea.
The contemplation of this universe arouses a curious sympathetic reaction. The reader feels as if he were watching an intricate ballet in which every entity follows its energetic but true path and fulfills its proper function. The heavenly bodies revolve, and, at the correct distance behind them, come the hungry wolves. The world tree is torn and gnawed, but its branches, nourished by regular applications of sacred liquid, always burgeon anew. Every day, the warriors in Valholl go out to fight, and, every night, their wounds are healed and they feast on flesh of the sacred boar, which likewise renews itself for the next day's round. The ancient Scandinavian wood-carvings and metal work, whether representational or abstract, convey a similar impression of constant but controlled motion, as they depict the writhing MidgarðWorm, galloping horsemen preceded by their dogs, battling warriors, or gaping figure heads. Indeed, there is perhaps no art form that so persistently gives the impression of a fearful energy confined within a rigidly limited space. The mythic world of the Old Scandinavians seems to deny the organic need for rest, or even for a "breather" or a "time-out period."
I have found no evidence that the ancient Northmen ever thought that this universal and perpetual motion needed an explanation or a rationalization. Though a purpose or function could probably be found for every movement or act, the various beings seem to move, not because movement is right or because they have been set in motion by some force external to them, but because movement or action is their nature. Nevertheless, as in many mythologies, there does exist an implication that certain acts are necessary to preserve the status quo. If the sun or moon paused in their flight they would be swallowed and light would disappear from the earth. If the wolves became fatigued and took time out, the natural procession of day and night would end. Similarly, it Thór relaxed in his battle against the giants or Óðin in his quest for wisdom, Asgarð, the citadel of the gods, would fall.
More so than from many other mythologies, I receive the impression that the balance among these incessant activities is precariously maintained. One slack moment on the part of any creature in the universe might lead to a pile-up which would bring the whole system to ruin. On the whole, however, this omnipresent threat of disaster is exhilarating rather than depressing. The gods are involved or involve themselves in one predicament after the other, and a part of the charm of the Scandinavian mythology derives from the fact that they invariably meet these crises actively, energetically, and sometimes, quite ingeniously. There is here no trace of the mopish, constipated lethargy in which Wagner's Wotan wanders through the greater part of The Ring of the Nibelungs.
When we come to examine the later and less magically oriented literature we will see that much of it is as motion- or action-oriented as the mythology. The Skaldic verse is a verbal motion picture. The laws, proverbs, and sagas see man primarily as an extremely active being, who, moreover, acts primarily on his own initiative. The heroic ethic, the image of man may be contrasted with that of the Homeric Greeks, who saw man as often but an instrument of the gods, and with that of the ancient Hebrews, who saw man as obligated to seek, find, and obey the law of God.
In the mythological and cosmological literature, items of interest and even events are precisely and systematically ordered by their position within the cosmos. Thus, it is often more important to know where something happened than when it happened. Indeed, some of the cosmological poems, like the Lay of Vafthrúðnir, sound as if they were built on an imaginary, three-dimensional model, which, though it moves, is not going anywhere. In marked contrast but with equal precision, the sagas and histories are organized on a linear temporal framework in which every event takes the story one step closer to its end. Since I describe these phenomena in my discussion of the appearance of the linear time perspective (chapter 8, p. 112 ff.) I will not carry them further here.
In the Old Scandinavian literature, matter, in all of its manifestations, is regarded as hard, concrete, solid, and substantial. We encounter no semi-transparent ghosts, no supernaturals clouded in smoke or vapour, no disembodied voices. If a thing cannot be felt by the hand, or, better yet, does not ring or crack when hit, it is not deemed worthy of notice; if a thing cannot be clearly perceived by the eye in precise and definite outline, it is not worth describing. Surely, the Northmen would have preferred the particle to the wave theory of light; a stereopticon to a chiaroscuro painting; a Mozart symphony—where every note is intended to be clearly heard—to Wagner's Magic Fire Music—where, it has been said, Wagner wanted the effect achieved by an orchestra trying to play an impossible score.
Many specialists in the Old Scandinavian literature have sensed this attitude toward matter and tried to communicate it. Davidson (1943) suggests that the Northmen had a tendency to turn the abstract and symbolic into the actual and concrete. Leach (1946:14) epitomizes the Northman's concept of virtue, "The pragmatic science of life is more to be praised than metaphysics." Phillpotts (1931:146) speaks of an absence of "otherworldliness" and tells us that while "there is plenty of vigorous imagination there are no 'faery lands forlorn' either in the world of gods or in the world of men." Perhaps the most cogent expression of the Northman's idea of matter has been given us by Snorri Sturluson himself when, in his prologue to The Younger Edda (Young 1964:24-25), he remarks that his ancestors had not been given spiritual understanding and, in consequence, they understood everything in the material sense and thought that everything had been made from some substance (my italics).
Snorri faithfully communicates this impression in his prose redaction of the cosmological poems. Here we learn that the creators of this mythology had been able to conceive of a time in which the present universe, the gods, and man did not exist. Yet, until some heathen sophisticate composed the Völúspa [2] they seemed unable to imagine a time in which substance or matter had not been present. Thus, their creation story began, not in a void or in chaos, nor with intangible or invisible spirits brooding over shapelessness, but with vast cosmic rivers whipped by falling showers. These rivers hardened like slag and turned into ice. As this ice thawed, the drops turned into the first of the frost giants, Ymir. Ymir, however, was slain by the gods, Óðin, Vili, and Vé [3] who proceeded to make the world from his body; from his blood the sea and lakes, from his flesh the earth, from his bones the mountains, from his skull the sky, and from his brains the clouds.
Snorri's description of the rainbow bridge, which leads from earth to the house of the gods, carries with it no hint of mystery or delicate evanescensce. It is thoroughly solid:
"You will have seen it, (but) maybe you call it the rainbow. It has three colours and is very strong, and made with more skill and cunning than other structures. But strong as it is, it will break when the sons of Muspell ride over it to harry." (Young, 1964:40)
The great body of magical or enchanted incidents in the Eddas and sagas supports Snorri's insight. Other literatures may feature corporeal "spirits," but few such obtrusive ones. For example, there was the fylgja a protective Being of Power, which accompanied certain individuals through life, and was invisible but quite substantial. So, we are told (Davidson 1943:127) of a little boy of high birth who entered a hall "with a great rush, as children usually do" and tripped over his fylgja which was invisible to him but visible to an observer in the form of a white bear cub. The visible walking dead were equally substantial. Occasionally these revenants walked with what might be called good intent, as when Thorgunna (Schach and Hollander 1959:109-111)—whose corpse-bearers had been inhospitably treated—rose from her bier, took food from the buttery of the stingy host, laid the table and set out meat thereon. But the majority of the walking dead had been contentious and ill-natured in life and became even more so in death. Some were content to reside in their grave mounds (in corporeal form) and guard the treasure that had been buried with them. Others sallied forth to bring heavy-handed and thoroughly physical ruin to their erstwhile neighbors.
Perhaps the most awe-inspiring of these substantial walkers was Glámr (Magnusson and Morris 1900:95-111), a stupid, taciturn, malevolent, and enormously strong hired laborer who, after death, turned his ill-will against his former employer. Amid tremendous racket, he killed the cattle of this unfortunate farmer, tore down the outer timbers of his house, and frightened away all of his household. No one could cope with him until the hero Grettir arrived. When Glámr lumbered into the hall, Grettir was lying there covered with a heavy fur cloak. Glámr rested his elbows on the beam and peered about; spying Grettir's cloak, he grabbed and pulled. Grettir hung on, so the cloak was ripped in half, whereupon Glámr gaped in foolish astonishment at the rag in his hand, "and wondered greatly who could tug so hard against him." A wrestling match ensued, and it places even more emphasis on "the hardness of the material," for we are told how the sleeping benches are torn from the walls, and how Grettir, almost exhausted, braces his feet against the wooden threshold and cracks the back of his gigantic opponent.
Equally characteristic is the account (Schach and Hollander 1959:113) of how the youth Kjartan routs the seal spook:
"...when the kitchen fires were lit and people had come to sit by them, they saw a seal's head come up out of the fire pit. A serving woman, who was the first one to get there and to see this marvel, took up a cudgel which was lying in the doorway and struck the seal on the head with it. It only grew larger from the blow and glared up at the bed furnishings of Thorgunna [the dead woman who was causing these hauntings]. Then a serving man went up and struck the seal, but it continued to come forth with every every blow until the flippers could be seen. Then the serving man fell down in a faint. All who were there were struck with terror. Then the youth Kjartan ran up and seized a large sledge hammer and struck the seal on the head with it. It was a powerful blow, and the seal shook his head and looked around. Kjartan let blow after blow rain upon him, and the seal sank down like a peg being driven into the ground. He kept on striking until the seal had sunk down so far that he could pound the floor together over his head. And thus it always happened throughout the winter that all specters feared Kjartan most."
I have entertained all manner of hypotheses about the Old Scandinavians' taste for solid spooks, but to date, none serves to explain more than Snorri's remark that his ancestors thought everything had to be made of some substance. I would, however, add that this emphasis on substance becomes especially marked whenever a fight or battle is to be described, whether in Skaldic verse of the ninth or tenth century (See chapter 6) or in the sagas written during or after Snorri's time (thirteenth to fourteenth century—see chapter 8.). Clearly, the impression of hardness or substance was in indispensable to the satisfying story of a fight.
The Eddic mythological poems and Snorri's prose redaction contain much evidence to substantiate Huizinga's contention (1955) that culture begins in play. The gods and the early heroes love contests of all kinds. They compete with giants or giantesses in "duels of wisdom" where the contestants put cosmological riddles to each other. (The loser usually forfeits his life.) They accept a giantess' challenge to make her laugh and succeed when Loki ties one end of a rope to a goat's beard and another to his genitals. In a number of the mythological poems, the gods and heroes engage in duels of abuse in which the participants strive to outdo one another in scurrilous insult. Even the trickery in which some of the gods are so expert may be interpreted as a form of play. In their ability to stay one-up on the giants, the divine inhabitants of Ásgarð can hold their own with any pantheon created by man.
A delight in play and trickery seems to be universal among peoples who have not been subjected to the stifling restrictions of certain civilizations. The Old Scandinavian gods, however, played as the Vikings were supposed to fight—which is to say that no matter what the odds, they never gave up.
One of the most engaging of the myths (Young 1964:73-78) concerns a contest between the gods and the magically gifted henchmen of Útgarða-Loki. [4] The three travelers—Thór, Thjálfi (Thór's serving lad), and Loki, the trickster—chance upon the stronghold of Útgarða-Loki, a giant sorcerer. Smiling contemptuously, he tells them that only men who are masters of some art or accomplishment may stay in his hall. Loki, with characteristic impudence, declares, "There's no one here will eat faster than I." A trencher filled with meat is brought in and
"Loki sat down at one end and Logi [his opponent] at the other, and each of them ate as fast as he could. They met in the middle of the trencher and by then Loki had left only the bones of his meat, but Logi had eaten all his meat, bones, and trencher into the bargain so everyone thought that Loki had lost the contest."
Thór's servant Thjálfi then races with Hugi, but "Hugi was so far ahead that he turned back to meet Thjálfi at the end of it."
The valiant (but not very bright) Thór is not dismayed by these defeats and offers to outdo all present in drinking. But although Thór takes three enormous drafts, he is unable to empty the horn brought to him. He then tries to lift the sorcerer's cat from the floor but succeeds only in raising one of its paws. Then Útgarða-Loki says: " 'This contest has gone as I expected: it's rather a big cat and Thór is a short little fellow compared with such big men as we have here."' At that Thór said: " 'Call me little if you like, but let someone come and wrestle with me now; now I am angry!' " An aged and tottering crone takes up his challenge, but though Thór puts forth all his strength, the crone throws him to one knee.
If the story ended here one would be inclined to conclude that this tale demonstrates the dangers of boasting and the foolishness of attempting to bite off more than one can chew. In point of fact, it does nothing of the sort. After the gods have left his stronghold, Útgarða-Loki tells them that if he had known they were so strong, he would never had admitted them. He then reveals that Loki competed in eating with wild-fire; Thór, in attempting to drain the drinking-horn had actually tried to drain the sea; the cat Thór had failed to lift was Miðgarð-Worm which encircles the earth, and the old woman who threw him to one knee was old age. The bold and brash gods had unwittingly essayed the impossible and yet did not come off too badly.
This preference for action rather than inaction—even in the face of impossible odds and inevitable defeat—permeates much of the Old Scandinavian literature. We will encounter it again in the skaldic verse, the heroic lays, the sagas, and as a basic premise of the legal system.
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Last Modified 2 May 2000
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