The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One

by James A. Owen

  * * *

  Thirteen Mondays later, Michael plugged the phone back in and called Galen, who was furious.

  “Where in Hades’ flames have you been?”

  “Where do you think? I’ve been working. Grab a bottle of champagne and meet me at Jude’s. The translations are finished.”

  * * *

  “It seems I chose wisely,” said Jude, toasting Michael and Galen in the front room of his villa. “It’s quite an accomplishment, Professor Langbein.”

  “Thanks,” Michael said, settling into a chair near the windows.

  Galen remained standing, and Jude took his usual spot in the large chair facing Michael. Between them on a low-slung table was the manuscript, and a six-inch stack of notes—Michael’s translations.

  “Can we get on with this?” Galen grumbled. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, and I’ve put myself on the line to let you do it. I want to know if it’s been worth the time and trouble.”

  Michael smiled as he set down his champagne and reached for his notes. “Trust me,” he said, his grin growing into a full Cheshire, “it’s worth it.”

  “Let’s start with the obvious heart of the manuscript—the Edda itself,” Michael began. “The Old Norse poetry spans a broad age, but hardly any of it is preserved except in Icelandic manuscripts written in the thirteenth and later centuries. It falls broadly into two classes, called the ‘Eddaic’ and the ‘Scaldic’.

  “The modern usages are pretty imprecise, but generally the difference between the Scaldic and the Eddaic is one of form. While the Eddaic lays are in free, rhythmical metres, in the Scaldic poetry every syllable is counted and measured. There is also a difference in substance—the Eddaic poetry is all anonymous, telling of gods and of hero who lived in a distant past, whereas most of the Scaldic poetry is ascribed to named authors. The subjects of Scaldic poetry are also not myth or legend, but rather contemporary history.

  “Eddaic poetry owes its name to an unpretentious manuscript, commonly known as the ‘Elder’ or ‘Poetic Edda’, in which most of the poems of this class are preserved. It was written in Iceland in the later decades of the thirteenth century, but it derives from one or more lost manuscripts written earlier in that century, which are what I believe formed the basis of the text of the Prime Edda.”

  “But,” Galen interrupted, “the name ‘Edda’ did not originally belong to that book—it referred to Sturluson’s Edda, and was transferred erroneously to the other one.”

  “Yes—Saemund’s Edda was not really Eddaic at all,” Michael agreed, tapping the manuscript on the table, “but that’s what makes this volume so odd—it mixes both forms.”

  “Inconclusive,” said Galen. “That could be just another instance of material being stewed together long after the fact. Why is the form so important, anyway?”

  “Because,” Michael answered, trying to keep his temper, “the form is the only marker we have to attempt authenticating time, place, and author—and those must be established. Otherwise, there is no reason to see the manuscript as anything more historical than Bullfinch’s Mythology. May I continue?”

  “Please,” said Galen, appearing properly chastened.

  “Content-wise, the Eddaic poetry is chiefly of two kinds: mythical and heroic. The one kind describes the world of the gods, and the other that of legendary heroes.”

  “Like Sigfried,” said Galen.

  “Yes,” Michael replied, “although sometimes the two are mixed. The poems about the gods vary—some of them are adventure stories, which are similar to the heroic lays. Others are didactic, describing the mysteries of the universe and the origins and fates of the gods.

  “The most renowned of the divine poems is the Voluspa. As presented, it is spoken by a sibyl—a prophetess—born before the world began. She addresses both men and gods, but Odin in particular, and tells about the primeval chaos and the giants born there, and about the beginning of the world of men. She describes the age of the youthful, innocent gods, the trials they endure, and finally, the corruption and impending doom in the Ragnarok.”

  “And it’s importance here is what?” Galen asked.

  “Although the subject of the Voluspa is pagan, no one can deny that it is deeply influenced by Christian symbols, and particularly in the description of the Ragnarok. This had led historians to the conclusion that it was composed about the beginning of the eleventh century, when men were turning from the old religion to the new.”

  “And you disagree?”

  “I do now,” said Michael. “There is a version of the Voluspa here, but it is fragmented, and less deferential to the gods’ role in the scheme of things than other versions.”

  “And this makes you more certain of its authenticity?” Galen said in surprise.

  “Its authenticity, no—its age, definitely. The Voluspa has traditionally had a logical unity lacking in many poems of the Edda, and therefore must be ascribed to an individual who did not necessarily express the popular view. The version here doesn’t, and is therefore more likely to be assimilated from several sources—which makes it a probable precursor to the other ones.”

  “And how do you know this one isn’t just a fragmented retelling of the known versions?”

  “Because all of the Christian influences are missing,” said Michael excitedly. “If it were written later, they’d still be in it, but they’re not.”

  “Impressive,” said Jude.

  “Indeed,” said Michael, relaxing for the first time.

  Galen should never have doubted—Michael was better than he’d thought. He suspected that the next time the Senate discussed funding for the Department of Ancient Literature and Historical studies, the outcome would be rather different than anyone expected. “Please,” he said, refilling his glass with champagne, “continue.”

  “Thanks,” said Michael. “Now, two of the didactic poems, the Grimnismal and the Vafthrudismal are especially valuable as sources of myth—both of them are presented in frames, and Odin appears, but in disguise. Valhalla is also described in two passages of the Grimnismal—the only detailed account of it found anywhere in early poetry.

  “In the frames, Odin spoke of rivers flowing through the worlds of gods, men and the dead, and of the world tree Yggdrasill. He spoke of the formation of the world out of the flesh, blood and bones of the giant Ymir, and …” He paused, a queer expression twisting his features.

  “What is it,” Jude said strangely, sitting upright. “What are you seeing, Michael?”

  The historian remained in his trance a moment more, then shook it off. “Sorry—I had a flash of something there, but it’s gone, now. What was I saying?”

  “The didactic poems?” Galen said.

  “Right, thanks. The Vafthrudismal is equally valuable as source of myth. In it, the disguised Odin visits the aged giant, Vafthrudnir, to test his wisdom, and they enter into a contest of wits, in which each wagers his head.

  “The giant went first, and Odin answered admirably. When it was Odin’s turn to ask the questions, the giant answered seventeen of them correctly, and doing so told of the origins of, well, the origins of everything. Then, Odin’s eighteenth question defeats him—Odin discloses his own identity by asking what he himself had whispered into Balder’s ear before he went to the funeral pyre, and as no one but Odin can answer this, the giant’s head was forfeit.

  “It’s here where briefly, Thor comes into the picture, and in his turn, told how he had beaten the giants, claiming the whole world would be overrun by them were it not for him—at least, that’s the traditional telling.”

  “And in the Prime Edda?” Galen asked.

  “It seems the author or authors were still devoutly pagan, but also a little skeptical of their gods—here, Odin lost the contest and returned to Valhalla as a disembodied head, and Thor was eaten by the giants. Again, the Christian imagery is absent—Odin does not recover his body, as other myths influenced by religion would have allowed, and Thor—well, Thor just stays ea
ten.”

  Michael shifted stacks and dug into a different set of notes, spilling half on the floor. In his head Galen revised his estimate of Michael’s necessary funding upwards the cost of a secretary.

  “In the Codex Regius,” Michael said, having attained a semblance of order, “which is what we call the principal manuscript of Saemund’s Edda—which until now has been one of the chief manuscripts of the Edda—the title Havamal is applied to a collection of about one hundred and sixty strophes, or divided poetic sections. In applying this title, the author showed that he regarded all of these strophes as the words of Odin himself.”

  “Headlines,” Jude remarked, grinning.

  Galen snorted his drink, and Michael laughed heartily.

  “Yeah—in our Edda, anyway. Whether the author of the Regius was right or wrong, it’s plain that the collection includes some six poems, or fragments, about various subjects and of questionable origin. In the Prime Edda, however, there is no question, as there are fully twelve poems, and almost two hundred strophes.

  “If we could know the ages of the mythical lays and where they originated, we would be better able to evaluate them as sources of religious history—and these come close. I can date them to the seventh century, if not earlier.”

  “That sure takes the wind out of the Codex Regius,” remarked Jude.

  “And it destroys a popular theory that many of the Eddaic lays were Norwegian, and were written in the twelfth century,” said Michael. “Whether or not Sturluson had such lays in written form, it’s plain that he believed them to be very old—which suggests that even the latest of them were composed some generations before his time. We know now they were, and more, we know by who.”

  “Do we have to ask?” Galen said.

  “Just perfecting my presentation technique,” Michael said with a wink at Jude. “The author of the Prime Edda is Bragi Boddason.”

  * * *

  “Bragi Boddason, or Bragi the Old, as he was called, was the first to whom poetry in Scaldic form is ascribed. Bragi’s chief surviving poem is the Ragnarsdrapa, of which twenty strophes and half-strophes are preserved in Snorri’s Edda. In the Prime Edda, there are three hundred.”

  “My God,” said Galen. “Are you sure? It’s really that complete?”

  “Complete, I can’t promise—better than any other manuscript in existence by a far sight, you can bet your ass.”

  “In the traditional poem, Bragi describes the pictures painted on a shield said to be given to him by Ragnar Lobrok, describing scenes from legend and myth which included Gefjun’s plough, and Thor’s struggle with the World Serpent, etcetera. In this set, Bragi’s poems are far broader, beginning with his romance with the Volsupan Sibyl.”

  “From the Elder Edda?” Jude queried.

  “Yes!” Michael said excitedly. “Bragi is the connection, don’t you see? He’s the one who ties together the myth and history of all of the scope of both Eddas—the first description was the best. This is the Prime Edda, in every sense of the term.”

  Michael paused to let that sink in. All three of them knew that that measure was the one which mattered—the lynchpin on which everything to come after would hang.

  Jude seemed oddly passive, as if he was not entirely surprised, but Galen had adopted the countenance of a starving man who suddenly finds a cut of the rarest beef appear before him.

  “Several other sources,” Michael said, continuing, “make mention of a god of poetry called Bragi—that he was the Scaldic poet promoted to godhead after death. If these works were seen to any degree before they disappeared into antiquity, then it’s no wonder—he would have been the primary source of all of the religious beliefs of centuries.”

  “That’s probably what happened,” said Galen. “The priests who were corrupting the old mythologies would have certainly broken up any volume as complete as this—and the fragments which survived are what have been known until now.”

  “That’s my thinking too,” said Michael.

  “Here’s a second mystery, then,” put in Jude. “If it took the greatest historical literary scholar months to decipher this …” —Michael beamed uncontrollably— “… then how is it a composer managed to do it well enough to give it the name ‘Prime Edda’?”

  Michael’s face fell. “Ah, you know, I never quite figured that one out,” he admitted. “Liszt had the manuscript first, that much we know, but there’s no telling how long he had it before giving it to Richard Wagner, nor how long Wagner had it after that. I can tell you that they must have read it thoroughly, as portions of the version of the Ring Cycle written here refer directly to correlative events I’ve only seen here.”

  “Why would they have such a thing and not tell anyone?” Galen asked. “How could no mention of it been made at all?”

  “Of all the questions I expected you to ask,” Jude said brusquely, “that is by far the stupidest.”

  Galen turned red. “Now look here … Jude …” he began.

  “Think about it—how many people have you told of this?”

  Galen was silent. The only other people who were even vaguely aware of the existence of the Prime Edda were Michael’s assistants—and even they were only given one of the three translations apiece to work with—never the whole manuscript.

  “That’s right,” said Jude softly. “If Wagner did have this, he would have used it to his advantage, and his alone. Given the constant precarious financial state of the Bayreuth Festival, I can’t really say I blame him.”

  “What about the Wagner translation?” Galen said, abruptly switching gears. “How has it come out?”

  “Quite well,” said Michael, reaching for another sheaf of papers. “As can be expected, it relies very heavily on the Nibelungenlied itself, but there were aspects to the Siegfried myths which could only be gleaned from the Prime Edda.

  “The poem itself goes back to deep history, and unites the monumental fragments of half-forgotten myths and historical personages into a poem that is essentially Germanic in character. That the poem must have been exceedingly popular during the Middle Ages is evidenced by the great number of manuscripts that have come down to us—in all twenty-eight more or less complete manuscripts, preserved in thirty-one fragments, fifteen of which date from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.

  “Of all these, only nine are so well preserved that, in spite of some minor breaks, they can be considered complete, and of this number, only three are looked upon as having any real historical value at all.

  “As to the date of the poem, it is believed that in its present form it cannot go back further than about 1190, because of the exactness of the rhymes. That may be true of the preserved versions, but not of the original source, which has never been found. Many painstaking attempts have been made to discover the identity of the writer of our poem, but I think we’ve solved that one, too.”

  “Bragi?” Galen asked.

  “Yes—in the second set of strophes.”

  Galen emitted a low whistle. This was getting richer by the minute—in several senses of the word.

  “How can you qualify that?” Jude asked.

  “The story of Siegfried,” Michael continued, explaining, “which lies at the basis of our poem, predates the Nibelungenlied by many centuries, each people and each generation telling it in its own fashion, adding new elements of its own invention. This great geographical distribution of the legend, and the variety of forms in which it appears, made it difficult to know where to seek its origin.

  “The northern version is in many respects older and simpler in form than the German, but still it is believed that Norway may not have been the home of the saga, which instead came to prominence in Germany along the banks of the Rhine. The Scandinavian version of the Siegfried legend, however, has been handed down to us in five different forms, but only three were direct enough retellings or were uncorrupted enough by Christianity to be of any use.

  “The first of these is the Elder Edda, which is partly heroi
c, and partly mythological in character. It’s written in alliterative strophes interspersed with prose, and has the form of dialogues, among which we find a number of songs which deal with the adventures of Siegfried.“The second source of the Siegfried story is the so-called ‘Volsungasaga’, a prose paraphrase of the ‘Edda’ songs. It dates from the beginning of the thirteenth century, but the account was probably written a century earlier. This one is important because it supplies a portion of the Codex Regius which has been lost, and thus furnishes us with the contents of the missing songs.

  “The third source is Sturluson—he was acquainted with both the poetic Edda and the Volsungasaga, and follows these accounts closely. It recounts only briefly the Siegfried saga, but is considered an original source since it made use of previously unknown songs that give an account of the origin of the treasure.

  “The story as given in the older Norse versions is in most respects more original than in the Nibelungenlied. It relates the history of the treasure of the Nibelungs, tracing it back to a giant who received it from the god Loki as a compensation for the killing of the former’s son whom Loki had slain in the form of an otter. Loki obtained the ransom from a dwarf named Alberich, who in turn had stolen it from the river gods of the Rhine. Alberich pronounces a terrible curse upon the treasure and its possessors, and this curse passes from Loki to the giant, who is murdered when asleep by his other two sons, one of whom cheated the other out of the coveted prize by, and who carried it away to the heath, where he guards it in the form of a dragon.

  “This treasure, with its accompanying curse, next passes into the hands of a human named Siegfried, a descendant of the race of the Volsungs, who trace their history back to Odin—but where the Nibelungenlied stops with the death of the Nibelungs, the Ring continues with the principal conflict added by Wagner from the other sources—the conflict between Hagen and Siegfried.

  “It’s generally acknowledged that this version of the story, though more original than the German tradition, does not represent the simplest and most original form of the tale; but what the original form was, has never been known.”