“How do you mean, sire?”
“See that it destroys them all—the whole fiendish tribe. When the ring has done its work, cleanse it of evil enchantment and return it to me.”
“As you will, my lord.”
7
Death with Father
After the gods had departed, Regnir felt himself bursting with a wild, joyous greed. So far his plan was working perfectly; now he was ready for the biggest step of all. He watched his father crouching over the pelt, scooping up great handfuls of gold and letting them sift though his fingers. Regnir turned to his brother. “Let’s go into the woods,” he said. “I have something to talk to you about.”
“Why can’t we talk here?” said Fafnir.
“I don’t want him to overhear,” whispered Regnir.
The sons of Hreidmar walked off into the forest. “Brother,” said Regnir, “which of your transformations is the most terrible—weasel, scorpion, or vampire bat?”
“Bat, I suppose,” said Fafnir. “I can rend and tear, munch and crunch in any of these forms. But things with wings seem to frighten folk the most. Sometimes, when the moon is bright, the very shadow of my wings will scare someone so badly that he will fall dead before I can sink my fangs into him. A disadvantage in a way, because I prefer to drink blood out of a living throat.”
“Well,” said Regnir, “suppose I were to tell you that there is a creature more frightful than any vampire bat—bigger, stronger, scarier, more deadly in every way. A creature whom even Giants fear and the Gods avoid.”
“I knew there was something somewhere,” cried Fafnir. “I knew it! I knew it! And someday I’ll be it!”
“Will you? It’s not easy to be.”
“I will, I will! But what is it exactly? Do you know?”
“I’ll describe it for you. In shape it’s like a lizard, but a gigantic one, bigger than our barn. Its hide is made of sliding leather scales, hard as iron; no weapon can pierce it. It has a ridged spine, a spiked tail that can flail down a phalanx of men, squashing them like beetles in their armor. Great ribbed wings it has, and claws that are huge hooks. A maw full of dagger teeth, and, worst of all, or rather best of all—”
“Yes, yes—what?”
“It spits fire,” said Regnir. “One gust of its flaming breath can incinerate a troop, or a fleet, or burn down a stand of trees.”
“Oh glory,” shouted Fafnir. “Gory, gory glory!”
“Its name is Dragon,” said Regnir.
“Oh wise little brother,” cried Fafnir, catching up Regnir and hugging him tight, “you have given name and shape to my dearest dream! Does your wisdom go further? Can you tell me how to achieve dragonhood?”
“Let me down,” said Regnir. “You’re breaking my ribs.… Thank you. Now, let us reason it out together. The dragon is of all monsters the most monstrous. To be worthy of such incarnation you must be prepared to do the most monstrous of deeds.”
“Murder? But I’ve killed and killed.”
“Only enemies, though, or those unlucky enough to have something you want. That doesn’t take a monster. Ordinary warriors do that all the time. No, my dear Fafnir. What we must consider for you now is murder most foul. A primal abomination.”
“Well, what? Tell me, tell me …”
“Patricide.”
“What’s that exactly?”
“Killing one’s father.”
“Hreidmar?”
“In your case, yes. He’s the only father you have.”
“But that doesn’t seem so special. I’ve had it in mind for a long time.”
“You haven’t done it, though.”
“Well, no …”
“What are you waiting for?”
“If I kill him, I’ll become a dragon? Is that what you say?”
“That’s what I promise.”
“Big as that barn? With ribbed wings and a spiked tail and such claws and teeth, and all that?”
“The whole works, brother. Go get him. You’ll find him where we left him, counting the gold. Which will be all ours, incidentally.”
“Come then,” said Fafnir. “I need you as a witness in case anyone questions my right to become a dragon.”
“How will you attend to him—as weasel, scorpion, or bat?”
“As myself, I think. I’ll enjoy it more.”
Fafnir leaned over and uprooted a tree. Snapped off its branches and swung it about his head a few times.
“Nice balance,” he said. “I’ll just bash in his head with this.”
“Call him away from the pelt first,” said Regnir. “No use getting blood all over that beautiful gold.”
8
Asking the Ring
Regnir was playing with Odin’s ring. He had slid it off the finger of his dead father, and, to his delight, it had immediately shrunk, becoming small enough for him to wear. Its twined loops smouldered on his finger, sending a soft fire through his body. Something told him to turn the ring to the right. He did so. A nest came spinning out of a tree, spun in the air above his head and began to tip, gently spilling eggs into his hand. Blue jay eggs, by their size. He chortled with glee, and one by one cracked them open and sucked out the rich slime. He loved birds’ eggs and had always climbed trees and robbed nests.
This nest spun away, and Regnir turned the ring to the left. Muffled voices arose from under his feet, a chorus of them. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. He scooped out a hole and plastered his ear against it.
“Master, master,” he heard. “You have summoned us. Now tell us what to do.”
“Who are you?”
“The Delving Dwarfs. How can we serve you?”
“I’ll let you know,” he whispered, and covered up the hole.
Flaming with joy, he twisted the ring again and again. Took it off and spun it on his palm. But nothing happened. “It holds mighty secrets,” he said to himself. “But I’ll practice and practice and unlock its powers. It bears a curse, the one-eyed stranger said. Yessss—a curse for my enemies. For myself, I’ll turn the bane into a blessing, and gain mastery over all.”
He hurried to the riverbank where he had told his brother to meet him. He stopped short, shocked by what he saw. Fafnir was changing himself into a dragon, but slowly, gazing into the mirroring surface of the river, watching himself change. So far, he had done only his head. A scaly, stone-eyed dragon’s head sat on his broad ogre shoulders. The rest of him was unchanged. And he was amusing himself by spitting little spurts of flame, roasting frogs as they roosted on the lily pads.
“Finish changing yourself,” said Regnir. “Then go under. Robbers will be coming soon.”
“You’d better drop that tone,” growled Fafnir. “Dragons are not ordered to do things; they’re humbly requested.” He spat a gout of fire at Regnir’s hairy toes, making him hop in terror.
“Your pardon, O Dragon,” cried Regnir. “I humbly request you to complete your transformation and enter the river so that you may guard our treasure.”
“That’s better,” said Fafnir, and finished changing himself. Now a great green and gold dragon crouched on the riverbank, staring out of stone eyes at the twisted dwarf.
“Thank you,” said Regnir. “And remember this: Don’t blow fire while underwater … or you’ll make the river boil and be thoroughly cooked before you can surface.”
“When can I expect some action?” grunted Fafnir.
“The word of our treasure has undoubtedly spread, and will be attracting every thief in this part of the country—which means almost everyone. So they should provide you with plenty of sport—and food.”
“Does that mean I’ll have to stay down there? I’ll mildew.”
“It won’t be for very long,” said Regnir. “I promise. As soon as I steal the larger hoard, now buried in the Rhine, I’ll have it brought here and hide it in one of the Black Mountain caves. We’ll move this gold up there also, and you’ll be able to guard it all while enjoying the mountain air.”
“How long are you talking about, though? When are you going to the Rhine?”
“Soon … soon … as soon as I master all the tricks of this ring, which, among other things, seems to give me dominion over the Delving Dwarfs. I’ll need a legion of them to carry the Rhinegold from the river bottom to the mountain top.”
“That ring,” said Fafnir. “Don’t forget it’s half mine. I mean to wear it when I resume my own form.”
“Of course, of course,” said Regnir. “We are equal partners, dear brother. In all that we have stolen and shall steal we share and share alike. Farewell now. I’m going to work with the ring a bit. Please go under now. Thieves should be diving in very soon, perhaps in time for your lunch.”
Regnir scurried off. “Partners, indeed,” he snarled to himself. “As soon as I get rid of him it will all be mine, mine, mine! But not yet, not yet. I need him alive a while to guard this gold until I go after the other. Not yet … soon, but not yet …”
9
Blue-blade
Odin made it a point to watch important battles and to reward those who did especially brave deeds. To some he gave swift horses; others received sleek ships to go a-viking in. Genuine heroes were given weapons out of the magical Aesgard armory.
To a favorite of his, a warrior named Sigmund of the princely Valsung blood, he gave his own dagger. And, although Sigmund was very tall for a mortal, the god’s dagger made him a superbly long sword. Its blade was of blue meteor-iron, dug out of a veined rock that had fallen from the stars. Forged by Smith Dwarfs, its cutting edge was so sharp that it could shear through helmet or breastplate like a kitchen knife through cheese. To Sigmund this sword was alive, part of his body, an extension of his own arm. He gave it a name, Blue-blade. And Blue-blade, wielded by Sigmund, made a circle of whirling death, scything down his enemies like stalks of ripe wheat.
But those gifted by the Gods are often envied by mortals, and so ownership of the wondrous sword was to threaten Sigmund’s life. Indeed, his castle was attacked by the troops of a treacherous cousin who had come as an honored guest and had quartered his men in the courtyard. These men had kept their weapons while pretending to go to sleep. They arose in the darkest hour, slaughtered Sigmund’s men and stormed into the castle.
Sigmund fought desperately. His sword was a circle of blue fire in the torchlight. He cut down twenty attackers, cut his way to the courtyard. Bleeding from a score of wounds, he leaped on his horse and galloped away, bearing his pregnant wife with him.
His cousin, maddened by the thought that he was losing the sword he wanted so much, burned the castle to the ground, and set off in pursuit of Sigmund. With fifty horsemen he raced after the Valsung prince, following a trail of blood. But they lost the trail when they came to a thick forest.
Sigmund led his wife deep into the woods until he could go no farther. “My strength is gone,” he said. “They have killed me. Now go hide yourself, my darling.”
She clutched at him. “I won’t leave you.”
“You must … for the sake of the child you carry. They will try to kill it too, especially if it’s a boy who might grow up to avenge his father.”
She hung about his neck, moaning. Gently, he unwound her arms. He raised his sword and spoke to it. “You are Odin’s gift; you must not fall into base hands.” Then with his last strength he snapped the blade in half.
When his wife saw him do that, she burst into wild sobs. He embraced her again, kissed her wet face, and sank to the ground. “Tell my son about his father,” he whispered. And died.
She was a princess of an ancient warrior clan. She had been trained to cope. She bit back her sobs and tried to think clearly. She had to burn the body, or bury it, or it would be eaten. Aye, they would come—fox and crow, wood rat, and the tunneling worm; they would feast upon that beloved flesh. Burning was best, cleanest, and most honorable. But the child was making itself felt within her. She knew she didn’t have time to find dry wood and build a funeral pyre. She snatched up the broken sword blade and began to dig. Then she felt her pains begin and knew she would not have time to make a grave. She stooped, kissed his eyes, scraped some leaves over him—rushed to a tall birch and, hardly knowing what she was doing, stabbed the blade into the ground under the tree until it was hidden. Then went deeper into the woods to bear her child.
10
Gnome and Nymph
Humping along southward toward the Rhine, Regnir became more and more fearful of what he might find there. “By the nature of things, I must run into trouble,” he muttered to himself. “If a dread dragon watches over my treasure, this larger Rhine hoard may be guarded by something even more fearsome. What could that be? What’s more fearsome than a dragon, except a bigger one? And whatever it is, will I be able to witch it away with this ring? I doubt it, somehow. For the ring was part of the treasure, and by some sympathetic magic may be drawing me to my doom. Perhaps that is the very curse put upon the ring—‘Whoever wears it will be drawn southward in an honest effort to steal the Rhinegold and there be devoured by some monster’.… Is that it?—Why am I thinking like this? I’ll frighten myself right out of my shoon. But cowardice, after all, is what’s kept me alive in my ogreish family, runt that I am. Yes … sheer funk plus greed plus very sharp wits—a matchless recipe for survival. Before I enter the Rhine I must carefully plan what to do in case I meet a monster.”
Just then he heard a mewing sound. He looked about. The trees cast a dappled shade, patches of brightness and sliding shadows; it was hard to see. His foot hit something that clanked. Leaping away, he saw that he had kicked a skeleton in armor. The bones of a very tall man lay among leaves and pinecones. The wide chest bones wore a breastplate; the skull wore a helmet. Regnir cast about for a sword, thinking that its hilt might be jeweled. But the sword was gone. He found something else though—the bones of a woman. He looked closely, but could find no rings or anklets.
“A warrior,” he thought. “Must have been wounded in battle and dragged himself into these woods and bled to death, no doubt. And this is his wife who died with him, or shortly thereafter.”
Regnir was about to go on his way when he heard the same mewing sound. It seemed to be coming out of a deep shadow under an oak tree. He went closer and to his amazement saw a baby shining there. Sunlight lanced through the leaves and gilded the child’s hair. It was a pale floss. And his eyes were so blue they looked almost purple. He shone like a star.
“Why haven’t the animals eaten it?” thought Regnir. “It’s so plump and fine.”
Then he saw the mark of an animal’s body on the ground next to the babe—a large animal. And he realized what must have happened. Beasts had suckled the babe—a wolf, perhaps, or a she-bear.
“Mysteries … enchantments,” mumbled Regnir to himself. “It’s being protected by the Gods. I’ll leave it right here.”
He started away again. But his footsteps dragged. He found himself turning and going back to where the babe lay. “Plump and fine,” he said to himself. “Yes. And very tasty, no doubt, for those who fancy babies. Ugh!… but a delicious tidbit to fling to a monster who might be pursuing me. It will stop and feast and give me a chance to escape. Yes …”
Moving swiftly, he tore vines from the tree and began to weave them into a basket. His fingers flew. He finished the basket, lined it with grass, put the baby in, slung it over his shoulder and humped away.
“Heavy,” he muttered. “And I’ll have to carry it a long way—and feed it now and then. Very pesky. But it may divert whatever monster lurks in the Rhine and give me a chance to take the treasure.”
Regnir came to the Rhine, finally. He hid the basket among reeds and stood on the shore, gazing at the bend of river. A Rhine-maiden saw something move on the bank. She flashed through the water, reached a long arm, plucked Regnir off the bank, then swam to a rock to see what she had caught. Laughing, she stood him on her lap, clutching him tightly, and examined him from head to foot.
He heard her gurgling with laug
hter. “Hairy ears, hairy toes,” he heard her say. “All smooth on top, but the rest of it’s as furry as a bear cub. Not as cute and cuddly, though.”
“Let me see,” called another sister who sat on another rock.
“Catch!”
And the first one tossed him to her sister, who caught him by one ankle and held him upside down as she poked his belly and pinched his hams. “Pudgy little thing,” she said. “Quite ugly. What can it be?”
“Ask it,” called the third sister. “It looks rather clever. Perhaps it can speak.”
“Indeed I can speak, and do more than that,” cried Regnir.
“Really? What?”
“All kinds of magic,” said Regnir. “I’m a very powerful wizard. I can reward my friends and harm my enemies. So be advised, ladies. Do not tweak my ears or toes—or poke my belly or twist my nose, or pinch other parts of me. For those sort of things make me very angry. And I am terrible when aroused.”
He felt the nymph gasping with laughter as she clutched him to her. Heard them all laughing. Silver peals of Rhine-maiden laughter dinned about him.
“What you are, dear wizard, is a thief,” she gasped. “For you wear the ring that was worn by that other one who came here not long ago—that orange-haired clown. So you must have stolen it from him. And have come here now to steal more of the gold, right?”
“Wrong,” growled Regnir. “Let me go or you’ll regret it.”
“No, Pudge. You’ll do the regretting. Before we’re through with you you’ll wish you had never laid eyes on us.”
The other sisters had climbed onto the rock in the meantime, and the three of them sat there, passing him from one to the other—not really hurting him, but teasing roughly, tweaking ears and nose, and plucking hairs out of his toes.
“Well, what shall we do with this little thief?” asked the first sister.
“Let’s keep him,” said the second sister. “He can be useful. He can comb our hair with a silver comb, and clip our toenails, and polish the gold. Yes … and gather blackberries and honeycombs and succulent cresses for our meals.”
Monsters of Norse Mythology Page 4