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.
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 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
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,
for the man who is able to achieve it.
Odin determined to achieve glory. In this new state he could connect his own ancestry among the giants to the present race of gods, and with that connection he made a whole of the cosmos. To each its time, its place. Everything fit.
Odin, the clairvoyant, now conversed with everyone. People made human sacrifices to the mighty god. They hanged men from trees and pierced them with spears—mimicking the passion of Odin dangling from Yggdrasil those nine days. Who were these hanged men? Some were dying of disease, and so they dedicated themselves to Odin, to end their lives in the glory of talking with the highest god. Others chose to avoid a natural death by embracing this ceremonial one. And while the men hung there, Odin came to talk with them, to glean what they might know of this life and this death. Odin found solace and pleasure in these shared words. He was proud to be god of the gallows, for dying men told truths.
Odin engaged in this same kind of intimate talk with those fallen on the battlefield. Dead men revealed mysteries—this was an extra advantage of surrounding himself with warriors for the huge war ahead, the one that would come eventually, the dreaded Ragnarok.
Odin thus put his quest for information and, ultimately, understanding of that information before all else. A harsh choice, indeed.
