Freyja was a Vanir, but she was traded to the Aesir. She loved her Aesir husband, Od. When he disappeared, she searched the cosmos for him, sometimes flying, sometimes on the back of her boar, and sometimes in her chariot pulled by two cats.
Freyja was a Vanir, but she was traded to the Aesir. She loved her Aesir husband, Od. When he disappeared, she searched the cosmos for him, sometimes flying, sometimes on the back of her boar, and sometimes in her chariot pulled by two cats.
There was no shortage of beauties among the goddesses, which was good because the deities of this cosmos cared a great deal about looks. A notable beauty was Thor’s wife, Sif, the one of the yellow hair that Loki cut off and who now wore an even more amazing golden wig. But more stunning than Sif by far was the magician Freyja. She had come to the Aesir as a kind of peace offering after their war with the Vanir, a tenuous position at best and a lonely one, at least at the start. As fortune had it, she fell in love with Od, and they had two daughters together, Hnoss and Gersemi. So this new life seemed to be working out for her.
Od, however, was a wanderer; one day he simply left Freyja alone. Her hands reached out toward emptiness, her core shook with need. She understood nothing of why he left, where he went. So she wrapped herself well in her cloak of falcon feathers and followed after him. Where? Where? Her tears fell copiously, transforming rock to red-gold puddles wherever she flew.
Life would have been a constant state of mourning if it weren’t for Freyja’s lovely daughters. They were her treasures. Just gazing at them soothed her. Soon she found all she wanted to do was gaze at beautiful things. She loved gold, especially. Freyja rode in a chariot pulled by two cats or she climbed on the back of her boar, Hildisvini, or she flew in her falcon-feather cloak, always on the lookout for beautiful objects to calm the ache inside that never fully left her.
Like Freyja, the women in mythologies around the world often find that trouble comes with beauty. The stunning Aztec goddess Xochiquetzal had a twin sister, Xochipilli, who was kidnapped from her husband and forced to marry another … and another … and another. In various voodoo traditions, the spirit of love, Erzulie Fréda Dahomey, is stunning, but angry and disappointed. She wants all men to love her, and that makes her see all women as rivals. The beautiful goddess in a happy marriage is hard to find.
One night just a little before dawn, Freyja put on her best dress and most elegant brooches. But she didn’t call for her chariot or summon her boar or fly in her feathered cloak. Instead, she walked out of Sessrumnir, her hall, and crossed the bridge Bifrost.
Loki happened to be up and about. He jerked to attention as the goddess passed. Where was she going at that hour? Dressed like that? On foot? Here might be an opportunity for making trouble; he followed her.
Winter blanketed Midgard with snow and ice. Now frozen tears dropped with a clink from Freyja’s eyes, turning red-gold the grit under her foot. Daylight was brief, but she reached an area of boulders and took a path around them down into a cave. Freyja stood still in the dank air and listened closely. Water dripped from the cave ceiling. A little steam rushed over rocks. And there, yes, thud. Thud, thud. The muffled blows of a hammer. That’s what she had come for. That’s what drove her now to move through the cavern down even deeper into the earth, pulled toward that sound.
Freyja went down into the cave that was the smithy of Alfrigg, Dvalinn, Berling, and Grer. She saw the stunning gold necklace they were making and she decided she would have it, no matter what.
The air grew hot, so heavy and hot, the goddess was bathed in sweat. In front of her were four dwarfs pounding away in their smithy—Alfrigg, Dvalinn, Berling, and Grer. They were working on a gold necklace. As Freyja fixed her eyes on it, the metal twisted and writhed like her own heart. It called to her. She needed it.
The four dwarfs for their part gaped at this remarkable goddess. Never had they even dreamed of a vision so alluring.
“Sell me that necklace.” Freyja smiled and her teeth lit up the dank smithy. “Name your price.”
“It’s called Brisingamen,” said a dwarf. “And it’s not for sale.”
You see, the dwarfs, like Loki, didn’t fail to recognize an opportunity. They held their faces motionless, their beady eyes unblinking, and they bartered: the necklace in exchange for Freyja taking each of them as her husband for one night. It was a hateful bargain. But Freyja had no husband now, and Brisingamen could bring her solace … joy even. With a dead heart, she made the deal.
Loki waited outside the cave the whole time. Finally Freyja emerged wearing the necklace Brisingamen. Its brilliance nearly blinded the evil one. Loki instantly realized what had happened in those four nights. He lost no time going to Odin, the one-eyed Allfather, and telling all. Odin knew that Loki was a vile liar, of course. Everyone knew that. Still, the words disturbed him. The gods all noticed Freyja’s beauty, no exceptions—not Odin, not even her twin brother, Frey. That those abominable dwarfs should have enjoyed her as their wife made Odin furious with envy. He demanded Loki bring him this dazzling necklace.
Loki shape-shifted into a fly and crept through a hole into Freyja’s room. As she slept, he turned into Loki again and stole her beautiful necklace.
Loki went to where Freyja slept in Sessrumnir and found the door locked. Well, that was no problem; he shape-shifted into a fly and flitted around, searching for a hole he could slip through. But the door fit snuggly, top and bottom, the keyhole admitted only a breath, and not a single chink was there between wall plaster and turf. Finally, under the roof, at the very top point of a gable, he found a miniscule hole. He wriggled through.
Freyja slept on her back, the clasp of the necklace under her neck, out of reach. Loki shape-shifted again, into a flea. He bit her cheek. The goddess groaned and rolled onto her side. Loki shape-shifted into his own form now and unclasped the necklace. He left through the door, identifiable to anyone; there was no longer need to dissemble.
When Freyja woke, her hand went to her throat and met nothing but skin—no gold, no wonderful, fabulous, luxurious gold—gold that had cost her so dearly. It had to be Loki. Who else? And to be that bold, he must have done it under the protection of Odin.
Freyja went straight to Valaskjalf and confronted Odin, sitting on his high seat. “Where is my necklace?”
“You’ll never see it again …” Odin waited for Freyja’s gasp. Satisfied, he added, “… unless you do as I bid.”
His bidding: She was to stir up a war between two human kings in Midgard. And each time a soldier died, she must use magic to make him rise again and fight once more. The battle must go on and on and on. Odin’s bidding was hideously bitter; such is the poison of envy.
Freyja swallowed a lump of shame the size of the cosmos. All this for beauty. Beauty was turning out to be Freyja’s curse. Her own beauty made men desire her for their wife. Her love of beauty gave men the power to act on that desire. Woe! But even a priestess was helpless against such a powerful enemy.
She held out her hand for that necklace.
