“He looks sullen,” said the third sister. “Perhaps he’ll be more trouble than he’s worth.”
“Perhaps,” said the second one. “But let’s try. He’ll need lots of training and it’ll be lots of fun. We’ll whip him soundly twice a day and perhaps a few times in between.”
“He’ll try to escape.”
“How can he? We’ll keep him leashed. And even if he should make it to shore, what then? Our legs are so much longer—we can catch him in two strides.”
To his horror, Regnir felt himself growing sleepy. He was being tamed, he knew, by too much handling. He was falling under their spell. He knew he had to think very hard or he would find himself enslaved forever. But it was difficult to think. Their bodies were so long and richly moulded, and bursting with such health. They cast a wild caramel scent of sun and water. As the nymph held him squirming on her long thigh he felt himself sinking like a seed into rich, mothering earth.
Mothering—yes! What was left of his wits leaped hungrily at the thought. Oh yes …
“Gracious maidens,” he said, “you guard a treasure. But I bring you something you will value even more.”
“What? Where? What are you babbling about?”
“It’s there, there where I was standing. In a little basket hidden in the reeds.”
The second sister dived off the rock and swam toward shore. The one holding Regnir clutched him tighter. He felt her strong fingers digging into him, felt the sleek, cabled muscles of her thigh under him, felt his will dissolving.
The swimmer clambered onshore and searched among the reeds. She plucked out the basket and screamed with joy. The one holding Regnir slid him off her lap and dived into the water, followed by the third sister. And Regnir gloated as he saw them lift the shining babe out of its basket. They had forgotten their captive. In the raging fever of their untried motherhood they forgot the gold they were supposed to be guarding. They were snatching the babe from one another, nuzzling every inch of it, laughing and sobbing, trying to give it their breasts, chewing berries and trying to kiss the pulp into its mouth as if it were a fledgling bird.
And Regnir was able to slip into the water and search until he found the treasure cave. Was able to summon the Delving Dwarfs, who dug their way up into the river bottom from beneath. Upon Regnir’s command, they began to cart off the gold.
Regnir watched them, drooling, crying, “Faster! Faster!” He punched and kicked them, although they were working as fast as they could. They had taken about half the hoard when Regnir heard the laughter of the nymphs coming closer.
“Be off!” he shouted to the dwarfs. “Vanish!”
They burrowed into the river bottom like sand crabs, and disappeared. Regnir swam away, snarling with glee. “Only half,” he muttered to himself. “But that half added to what I have makes me the richest creature in the entire world, no doubt. And I’ll be coming back one day for the other half. Aieee! Aieee! How I admire meeee …”
11
Loki Looks Ahead
Time is not the same in Aesgard as in Midgard. The Gods simply cannot be measured on a human scale. A year for mortals is a short winter’s afternoon for the Gods. This is why impatience is viewed in various heavens as not merely a childish habit, but a sin.
And now seventeen years had passed before Odin thought again about those who had tricked him and chained him and stolen his ring. He summoned Loki to his throne room and glared down at him. Loki felt his master’s voice falling from a great height, crushing him to the ground. The throne was made of crystal; Odin’s beard seemed spun of snow. They borrowed light from each other and cast such a brightness that Loki could not bear to raise his eyes.
“Well,” boomed Odin. “What do you have to say?”
“Are you talking about the curse of the ring, my lord?”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I have not been negligent, I swear. I’ve just been letting things ripen.”
“They should be rotten ripe by now,” said Odin. “I expect faster action when I ask that something be done. Tell me exactly how things stand.”
“O Master, my devotion to you is so great that I have been delving into things you have perhaps forgotten, trying to fuse events, old and new, into a happening that will not only satisfy but delight you.”
“Words, words, words!” roared Odin. “Stop praising your intentions and tell me plainly what goes on down there.”
“First of all, my lord, the Ogre-in-chief, Hreidmar, the one who chained you to a rock and threatened you with such horrors, has already been punished. Not long after we left, his son Fafnir uprooted a tree and pounded his head to a pulp.”
“This Fafnir—does he still live?”
“Yes.”
“Still terrorizing folk as weasel, scorpion, and vampire bat?”
“He has promoted himself to dragon now and spends most of his time in that form.”
“How about that little scurvy one—what was his name? Regnir? The one who led us into the whole mess. Is he still alive too?”
“For the moment. But the brothers are feuding now.”
“Over the treasure they stole—my treasure?”
“That gold, sire, is the chief element of the curse; even though it is out of your possession, it still works your will.”
“What do you mean? Stop talking in riddles.”
“The curse that you uttered and stamped with your awful authority, the curse of the ring, works like a legion of clever, invisible needlewomen, sewing deeds and hopes and dreams and crimes into a vast tapestry. Works somewhat as the Norns do, actually—but all within the scope of your own purpose.
“For Regnir, who is the cleverest brother, had the treasure shifted to a mountain cave, and persuaded his brother, the dragon, to guard it. What he could not foretell, for all his cleverness, was that he would find his own way barred. Yes, the dragon now crouches before the cave, claiming the entire hoard for himself, and threatening anyone who approaches the cave, especially if that one is Regnir. And the gnome, burning with greed, half-crazed by rage, is planning how to kill the dragon.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Odin. “How is he going to go about it?”
“Oh, I shall send him a few ideas. Remember the Valsung prince named Sigmund, to whom you gave your blue dagger to use as a sword—and who, in fact, used it so heroically that his deeds have become a song? Remember Sigmund?”
“I do. He was a real hero. He provided me with many a fine spectacle. They don’t make them like him anymore.”
“One more was made, my lord, just like him. Sigmund was treacherously killed, as you know. And his wife survived by only a few days.”
“Yes …”
“Well, his wife gave birth to a child before she died. A son. And the babe was found and adopted by those who raised him amid healthy ordeal—so that now, at the age of seventeen, he is strong and brave, a true son of his father.”
“What is his name?”
“He is called Siegfried. I mean him to fight the dragon.”
“And how can this untried youth, for all his noble heritage, possibly prevail against so dreadful a monster as Fafnir?”
“Long odds, my master, long, long odds. But is not such uncertainty the very essence of conflict, and the true test of courage? Think how interesting it will be to watch this almost hopeless battle. Think how your heart will rejoice if, indeed, Siegfried vanquishes the dragon. And, if he does not, well, there is always another day, another way. Nor will one defeat diminish the power of the ring, or abate the curse.”
“Well,” said Odin. “You sound like you know what you’re doing, after all. Proceed with your arrangements.”
Whereupon he dismissed Loki from the throne room, and the matter from his mind.
12
Runes Are Magic Songs
Regnir bent his vast cunning toward finding a way to get rid of Fafnir without risk to himself. Feverishly, he wove plots and shuffled ploys. But every one of hi
s plans collided with a stubborn fact—Fafnir’s monstrous power. He had been dangerous enough in his own gigantic ogre form, and even larger and more deadly as weasel, scorpion, and vampire bat. But the new reality of him as an enormous armored flail-tailed, razor-clawed, fire-spitting dragon turned any idea of opposing him into a nightmare.
Regnir was pacing the meadow near the bone house, thinking of these things and growing more desperate with each thought.
“What can I do?” he groaned. “He’s calmly appropriating the entire hoard. How can I bear it?”
Suddenly, he heard a thin voice. He looked about, saw nothing. Again he heard a little voice. It seemed to be coming from his own hand. Could it be the ring? He raised his hand to his face, listening, staring.
Loki, hovering invisibly, instructed the ring, which began to chirp at Regnir. “Louder!” he cried, pressing it to his hairy ear. “Speak louder!”
“Ask me what you would know, master, and I shall answer.”
Music is the shortest road to enchantment. And, when questioning the future, Regnir knew, it is necessary to speak in rhyme, which is spoken music. Looking down into the twined loops of the ring, he chanted:
Tell me, please,
who can slay my brother
and restore my gold—
ogre, giant, or warrior bold?
He heard the ring chirp:
None of these
but another—
an orphan brave
with blade of blue
alone can do
what you crave.
Regnir chortled and danced. “Thank you, ring, thank you. But where do I find this orphan?”
“Remember the babe you gave to the Rhine maidens? Go back to where you found him; you will find him there again. Offer him to the Sooty Ones as an apprentice smith. The lad will forge a wondrous sword and fight your battle for you.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
“Aye,” said Loki to himself as he flew away. “I have obeyed my lord, instructed the ring, and launched the curse against Regnir and Fafnir. But Odin, when he reclaims the ring, may find that a curse is more easily uttered than withdrawn. Ah, these are dark matters.… Shall I consult the Norn? A single misstep now will place me in utmost peril. High God or Fatal Hag—both offer friendship. Hoh hah! Such favor is more dangerous than enmity. So weiroo and whirlaway! I’ll do as I choose and lie about everything …”
Down below, Regnir was wasting no time. He was on his way to the glade where he had stumbled on the skeletons and found the shining babe, and he was humping along as fast as he could.
The names of the Rhine-maidens were Arla, Dure, and Helge, and they had given Siegfried a very happy childhood. They were like lionesses in their mothering, full of body warmth, but strict in teaching him lessons of survival. They taught him to breathe underwater, to slow his heartbeat so that he could live under the frozen river when winter came. He could swim like a pike, dive like a cormorant, run like a stag.
The child grew into a boy, the boy into a youth of shocking beauty. Hair and skin were all one color, coppery gold. His eyes were a deep violet, almost purple. He looked, in fact, as though he were a brother of the Rhine-maidens. And since their appearance never changed, they all seemed the same age when he reached seventeen.
But he was growing out of his own sense of himself. The hours passed in a daze. Dreams were no longer a throng of colored pictures, but teasing puzzles. One night he dreamed that he was running through the forest and the sisters were chasing him, calling, “Hei hoe, hei hoe,” as though they were hunting. They chased him through thickets of sleep, and when he awoke, the dream followed him. As he sat on a sun-warmed rock, munching a honeycomb, Helge came to him and began to kiss the stickiness off his face.
He pushed her into the river. She caught his ankle as she fell and pulled him in too. When he climbed onto the rock again, all three of them were waiting for him.
“The time has come,” said Arla. “You must marry.”
“Whom?”
“Us, of course.”
“All three?”
“Or just one, if you prefer.”
“Which one?”
“Whichever you choose.”
“What will the others do?”
“Who knows,” said Helge. “Be jealous, I suppose.”
“I can’t choose,” said Siegfried.
“You must,” said Dure.
“No. I’ll marry you all.”
“All at once, or one after the other?”
“You decide.”
“We’ll let you know,” said Arla. They dived off the rock and swam away.
That night he dreamed of a birch tree and heard something chime:
I am your father’s blade
buried in this glade.
Under the singing tree
you will uncover me.
I am only a shard
but fire me hot
and hammer me hard
and restore
me to myself
once more
the sword
your father bore.
He awoke in the first flush of dawn, knowing that he was not ready to be a bridegroom. He slipped into the water and swam without a ripple, so silently that the sisters did not awake. He reached the bank and vanished into the woods.
He traveled night and day, not knowing where he was going but guided by some sure sense beyond his knowledge, like a migrating bird. Finally, he reached a clearing in the forest where trees cast a dappled shade, patches of brightness, sliding shadows. Something told him he was where he was meant to be. He stood still as a deer, listening. He knew he was not alone, but he didn’t see anyone.
Suddenly, one of the shadows fledged a shape: a twisted gnome, bald, bearded, clad in leather; his eyes were red and his ears were hairy—and a gorgeous ring glittered on his finger.
“Who are you?” demanded Siegfried.
“A wise and kindly gnome who advises young heroes. My name is Regnir.”
“What’s a hero?”
“A warrior who knows no fear,” said Regnir. “Whose spirit runs like fire through his veins, making him do more than mortal can.”
“Like what?”
“Mostly he fights monsters, and seeks always for the ultimate monster—which is a dragon.”
“And you advise these warriors? You?”
“I am more than I appear,” said Regnir. “They come to me when young and I teach them some necessary magic. Because even heroes need a little extra help if they are to have any chance against monsters. I can read your mind, young sir, I can look right into the cauldron of dreams that lies behind your eyes and hear your unspoken question. You want to know whether you are of hero stock and whether I will help you.”
“Wrong!” cried Siegfried. “I know what I am as far as I go, and how far I want to go. I have come to find a sword.”
“Really? How do you know it’s here?”
“A voice spoke in my sleep. It told me to dig beneath a singing tree.”
“Singing tree? You mean a tree full of singing birds?”
“I don’t know what I mean,” said Siegfried. “But I’ll find out.”
They heard a chiming: “No bird, but me, me, me …”
“Look!” cried Siegfried. Regnir stared. Among all the trees clad in summer leaves stood a bare white birch sheathed in ice. Icicles clung to it, chiming like bells as a breeze passed through:
This is the glade,
this the tree.
Find the blade
and pull it free.
Siegfried snatched up a sharp stone, sprang at the tree, and began to dig. Regnir joined him. As we know, he could dig like a mole with his spade-shaped hands. He made the dirt fly. Digging together, they made a deep hole. Siegfried reached in and pulled something out. He stared at it. It was not a sword but a piece of broken metal—jagged, stained with corrosion.
“Pah!” he cried, and flung it to the ground.
“Not so fast,”
said Regnir. “Like me, it’s better than it looks.” He rubbed the metal with his sleeve. “See its color? See how blue it is? Not like any metal you’ve ever seen. This vein of blueness was dug out of a flaming mass of rock that fell out of the skies and made a hole in the earth. The Smith Dwarfs quarried the star metal, forged it into a dagger, and gave it to Odin as a gift. In his hands it tasted the blood of many a Giant and Ogre. Centuries later, Odin bestowed this dagger upon your father, who named it Blue-blade and used it as a sword—most honorably. But then, when he was treacherously attacked and on the point of death, he broke the sword so that no enemy would take it, and your mother, before she died, buried this piece under the tree.”
“It’s still not a sword,” growled Siegfried. “I can’t use it as it is, despite its pedigree.”
“If I teach you how to make it into a sword again,” said Regnir, “will you do something for me?”
“Do what?”
“Fight a dragon who stole my gold.”
“Gladly,” cried Siegfried. “Of course! Restore to me my father’s sword and I shall use it against any monster you wish.”
“Very well,” said Regnir. “You must come with me now to the underground workshop of the Smith Dwarfs. They will show you how to temper the metal and reforge it into the very likeness of the sword that a hero father would pass on to a hero son.”
“Let’s go!” cried Siegfried. “Give me hammer and fire and the wit to work well! Let’s go, let’s go!”
13
Hero and Dragon
The river-bred youth who could endure any hardship in the open air, or in the water, or in snow and ice, almost choked to death in the sooty chamber that was the underground workshop of the Smith Dwarfs. The dwarfs stared in wonder as he gasped over his anvil, trying to breathe, the broad keg of his chest pumping like a bellows. The little smiths couldn’t understand it. They breathed charcoal dust as if it were purest mountain air.
But Siegfried was determined not to give in. Exerting his will as though it were a separate muscle, he taught himself to draw the soot into his lungs without choking, and to extract oxygen from it as a fish uses its gills to take air out of water. And, gradually, he learned to work metal.
Monsters of Norse Mythology Page 5