By
Clarise Samuels
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Clarise Samuels on Smashwords
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Loving Brynhild: A Novel of Norse Mythology
Copyright 2013 by Clarise Samuels
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Adult Reading Material
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Acknowledgements
My primary sources for background material were the Völsunga Saga (translated by William Morris), with elements borrowed from the Edda by Snorri Sturluson (translated by Anthony Faulkes), the Nibelungenlied (translated by A. T. Hatto), and the Völuspá (translated by W. H. Auden and P. B. Taylor).
The entire novel was serialized from May 2010 to May 2012 in the British literary journal Goddess Pages. An earlier version of Chapter 1 was originally published in Wild Violet Magazine (Vol. 5, Issue 1, 2006) under the title “The Exile of Brynhild.”
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Cover Image: Odin's Farewell to Brunhilde by Konrad Dielitz (1892)
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Chapter 3: How Sigurd Slew Fafnir
Chapter 5: On the Way to Iceland
Chapter 11: The Helmet of Dread
Chapter 12: How the Queen Quarreled with Gudrun
Chapter 14: Ragnarök: The Fate of the Gods
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Odin chanted his magical conjurations, raised his right hand, and in so doing, violently shoved me through the celestial portals that separated heaven from Earth. And then I was falling through the seven heavens, falling, falling, falling, until I landed on the mountain peak called Mount Hindarfiall. In my dazed state, I could only think, how did I get here? I was a goddess from Asgard, the heavenly abode of the gods. But now I was lying on a mountaintop, only half conscious.
Odin evicted me from Asgard. He evicted me because I had become enthralled with the dashing, blond warrior who was slated to die in combat that day. But the devastatingly handsome general did not die of his wounds in that fateful battle, as had been ordained by Odin. I saved him, against orders, and it was the aged general with the silver hair who perished instead and was whisked back to Valhalla by my Valkyries. I paid dearly for this transgression. I was to live another life on Earth, that festering, violent cauldron of primitive emotions and savage desires. Earth was no place for a goddess. But I had no choice. Odin’s severe pronouncement was uttered, and my imminent doom was decreed. I was to be evicted from the heavens.
Despite the harshness of this sentence, Odin, the Supreme Being, longed for me every minute of his eternal existence. Odin was bewitched by me.
Yes, Odin had a wife. He was severe with his wife, Frigg, who was constantly jealous and suspicious of his relationship with me. Frigg could not stop obsessing with this insult to her dignity, and Odin would order his wife to desist with her constant questions and innuendos regarding our relationship. Frigg carried on relentlessly when so handled by Odin. She fairly screamed at him, “It’s because you would leave me for a dazzling young beauty if we were human and living down there with the rest of them, isn’t it? You’re always going on and on about how you love all of them. You sympathize with the seducer!”
“Yes, that’s right,” Odin would scream back, “because I am the Ultimate Seducer! I am the All and the Nothing, the Finite and the Infinite. They call me the All-Father and many other names—Val-Father, Blindi, Grim, Ganglari, Herian, Hialmberi, Thekk, Thund, High, Just-as-high, Vakr, Skilfing—as you well know, given the tower of ‘babble’ humans have devised with their languages.”
Frigg’s frustration had some basis to it. Odin was obsessed with human relationships. Romance was a particularly brutal area for humans, fraught with pain and false notions. Odin could not determine what was causing all the confusion on the planet of which he was most fond. He tried to emulate human foibles in his own relationships in order to discern the true nature of human perplexity. He was not making very much progress. One plan, which we were all called upon to help develop, was to devise ways to help humans express their most heartfelt emotions. Thus, the need arose for the “secret code” Odin conceived just for humans. Based on eye contact, innuendo, furtive touching, and even long breath pauses, the secret code required accurate interpretation and shrewd insight. As a result, these well-meaning but misguided beings often misunderstood each other, and this merely caused more grief and sorrow, which drove Odin to distraction since this was the very opposite of what he had intended. Humans were most unpredictable. Odin could make no presumptions when it came to these favored creatures of the gods.
But the secret code was still better than no system at all. Odin developed dozens of different ways of communicating emotions based on eye contact alone. Holding one’s gaze steadily and directly for a prolonged period of time, while smiling or looking content meant, “I desire you.” Briefly meeting the other’s gaze but then looking away quickly and lowering the eyes, still keeping the beloved in one’s peripheral vision meant, “I’m thinking about it, but I need more time.” Holding the other’s gaze steadily but without smiling, and sometimes with a rather dour facial expression meant, “Why are you hurting me like this?” To make a signal with the corner of the eye was refusal; to lower the eyes and make a quick gesture with the head was consent. To shift the eye pupil all the way to the left or right meant someone in that direction had entered the room and was observing you. And the list went on.
This was madness. Divine madness.
Frigg’s jealousy was not completely unjustified, even though her female tendency to be overly possessive of her husband was greatly exaggerated and a flaw more telling of human nature than godly nature. The lack of divine serenity and dispassion, which Odin would have liked to see in his wife, was more than just problematic—it was almost enough to drive this Father of the Gods to drink. Odin forced himself to withstand the onslaught of Frigg’s hysterical accusations with composure, careful never to confirm or deny the volatile suspicions voiced in such tirades. Yet every god and goddess at Asgard knew the truth of the matter.
Yes, the truth was that Odin adored me, and Frigg’s wifely instincts had accurately read her husband’s heart and mind. But Odin and I were bound to have a falling out. I had already strained Odin’s patience with a series of minor infractions. Nevertheless, when I finally broke with Odin, it all happened so quickly that I was stunned by the swiftness of the irreversible chain of events.
It was supposed to have been just an ordinary and uneventful day in the life of a Valkyrie. I had been dispatched to the front lines of a significant battle to collect the most honorable souls. These were the souls who had fought with the most courage and skill or for the highest ideals. Upon the arrival of the Valkyries, the old king, Helm Gunnar, was engaged in battle against the young king, Agnar. Odin had promised the victory of the battle to the seasoned man of years, the venerable Helm Gunnar, for despite his age, he was still among the greatest of warriors. But I was not anticipating the young Agnar to be a man so uncommonly handsome; blond and bearded, he was the perfect model of a Norse warrior, and I had a weakness for such men. I became infatuated with Agnar the moment my watchful gaze alighted upon him. I had arrived at the scene just a bit too early. Victory did not yet belong to Helm Gunnar; the beautiful Agnar, who was destined to die that day, was still alive and embroiled in the thick of the battle.
I did the unthinkable. I intervened, and no one had asked me to intervene. I interfered with Agnar’s agenda; I countermanded Odin’s decree. I saved Agnar, and instead condemned Helm Gunnar, the aged and legendary warrior, to an untimely death. So I carried Helm Gunnar’s soul off the battlefield that day, and the younger warrior lived. When we returned to Valhalla and revived Helm Gunnar, the old king awakened in a daze.
“Gods, you are all beautiful,” Helm Gunnar noted as he looked around and focused his eyes upon me. “Who are you?”
“I am Brynhild, the Chief Valkyrie, and this is Valhalla,” I replied.
“What? This is Valhalla? The Valkyries? Is it...? Have I...? Am I...?”
“Yes,” I interrupted the white-haired grandfather of princes. “You are dead.”
“The gods in heaven be damned!” Helm Gunnar cried out as he tried to raise himself in his weakened state. “All the signs and wonders predicted I would win, and I would live! What happened? What went wrong?”
At this point I was beginning to experience something that most definitely felt like a guilty conscience. Informing Odin, of course, was quite another matter. Odin could not hide his shock and bewilderment. He had been expecting Agnar. “What in the name of every god and goddess at Asgard went wrong?” Odin fairly screamed. “Where is my pure and faithful Agnar?”
“He lives, Sire,” I admitted frankly, deciding not to mince words. “You see, I intervened.”
“You did what?” he asked in a low voice, sounding ominous.
“Please forgive me, Odin,” I said, curtsying lightly, “but I intervened.”
“You intervened,” the Father of the Gods repeated calmly.
“Yes,” I responded.
“You are not allowed to do that,” Odin stated softly, still calm.
“I know,” I answered with equal calmness.
“Ah, yes, and if you know that,” Odin started to whisper frantically as his anger mounted, “what in the name of heaven and earth prevailed upon you to do something only a half-crazed idiot in a desperate frenzy of insanity would presume to do?” Odin railed at me for a full half-hour. The All-Father ranted and raved as I sat there in silence. He paced back and forth in front of me, his face crimson with anger and his hands balled into fists as he blamed, censured, and rebuked me for my irresponsible behavior. Indeed, he nearly became apoplectic.
Finally, Odin ordered me to leave the room. When I reached my chambers, I slammed the door behind me and tried to regain my poise. I knew Odin would not recover from this assault on his authority too soon, and the consequences would be severe. Yet I did not suspect what lay in store for me. Later that evening, I was summoned back into the screening chamber, Odin’s personal domain. Odin’s color had returned, and he was calm. He stood by the window with his back to me. “Brynhild,” he began slowly, and I knew something of great import was about to follow, “as you know, you must never intervene in the fate of humans unless they ask.” Odin began pacing again, his hands crossed behind his back. “You see, for the most part, I give my earthly creatures free will. Just think of it, if I were to intervene every time something unpleasant happened in the course of their transient lives, what would that contribute to their spiritual growth and progress? How would they come to know their most divine traits, their finest hours?”
“I know, Sire,” I affirmed, waiting impassively for what was to come.
“If you know this, why did you do it?”
“Because I fell in love with the human incarnation of Agnar’s soul. And I felt pity for him,” I declared openly.
“And you doubted my purpose, my will, and my intentions?”
“Oh, no, Sire, not for a moment,” I persuaded him. “I would never doubt the will of Odin.”
“Yet you fell in love with a human, and it was love at first sight, no less. You disappoint me, Brynhild. I expected much more discipline from you than this,” Odin remarked with a paternal tone of authority in his voice.
“I’m sorry, Sire. It shall not happen again,” I assured him.
“Indeed, it shall not because I am relieving you, at least temporarily, of your duties as Chief Valkyrie,” Odin announced.
“You…what? Because of one indiscretion? You are overreacting, Sire. You, of all the gods, should know better,” I stammered, still stunned by the blow of his pronouncement. Odin wrinkled his brow, and he stared at me thoughtfully before he spoke.
“This is not your first indiscretion,” Odin reminded me. “And it is time, Brynhild. I have known for a while now the time was near. I just did not know how to tell you.” I felt my heart sinking.
“Time for what?” I asked. Odin turned around, walked over to me, and put his hands upon my shoulders.
“Brynhild, you are due to return for another lifetime on Earth,” he said simply.
“Good heavens!” I gasped. “Have you gone mad, Sire? That is not possible!”
“There is no choice in the matter,” Odin insisted, smiling at me like a benign parent. “You have to go.”
“But why?” I asked with a catch in my throat, as my lower lip trembled. “I cannot do it. I absolutely cannot do it. I cannot go through that again.”
“You can, and you must,” Odin noted sadly. “You will be incarnated whole in your present form and will appear on Earth at the human age of about thirty or so, give or take a couple of years. To be quite honest,” Odin continued, “I need some time to myself. Frigg is going insane with jealousy, and she is starting to obsess with this issue. I cannot hide from her the true nature of my feelings for you. This will give me a chance to reconsider this dilemma and to sort out all the emotional confusion and the ethical implications. Frigg is, after all, my wife. I have to have some consideration for her feelings regarding this sensitive matter.”
“And the amnesia?” I inquired, knowing no one was allowed to return to Earth with their memories of Asgard intact.
“I can compromise with partial amnesia,” Odin answered. I exhaled deeply. Even partial amnesia was a bonus on Earth; I would not be stumbling about in such a complete state of disorientation.
“When do I have to go?” I asked.
“Report to my chambers tomorrow morning,” Odin ordered as he turned away from me.
I knew I had been dismissed.
In my anguish, I ran through the labyrinthine corridors of Asgard to return to my apartments and prepare myself mentally for what was to come. I had a difficult time calming down and attempting to remain stoically unfazed as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Needless to say, I did not get much sleep that night. I was being exiled to Earth, a backward and treacherous world beset with dense energies.
The next morning I made my way back to Odin’s chambers, where he awaited me with bleary eyes; he had not slept well either. If the other gods and goddesses had been informed of my imminent exile, they did not speak of it to me. Truly, I was not to be envied. I entered Odin’s suite, and once again he placed his hands on my shoulders.
“Are you ready?” the All-Father asked as his eyes searched mine.
“Yes, Sire, I’m as ready as is both humanly and divinely possible,” I replied.
“Then listen carefully. You will incarnate in your goddess form, which will emerge from nothingness, on the top of a remote mountain called Hindarfiall. It will be a dramatic event, and there can be no human witnesses. Anyone witnessing this event will take it as a revelation of myself, something I would rather not deal with right now. After you materialize in your human form, you will become aware you are lying on a slab of stone in a white gown surrounded by a circle of fire and covered by a suit of armor. No one but Sigurd, the greatest warrior of his time, will be able to penetrate the circle of fire. He is your true husband, and he will awaken you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand, Sire,” I answered.
“Good. Are you quite ready?” Odin asked again.
“Quite,” I returned weakly, knowing full well no one is ever completely ready to be evicted from the heavens.
“Raise your right arm,” Odin instructed me. I did so, and the fingers of my raised hand gently rested against the fingers of Odin’s hand, raised high over my head. He closed his eyes and hypnotically uttered words filled with magical incantations. A tornado formed itself around us, and it began wildly to kick up my hair and the skirts of my white, gossamer gown. Odin stepped back outside the circle of the tornado, and concentrating fiercely, he pointed at me with his right hand. His index finger, which we often poetically referred to as Odin’s “thorn of sleep,” sent out waves of energy designed to propel me earthward and make me forget my life as a goddess. “You are on your way, Brynhild,” he yelled over the deafening roar of the tornado. “Be brave, and remember me!”
I screamed as the tornado carried me away from Odin’s chambers. I became aware I was plunging, ceaselessly plunging, into an infinite abyss that terrified me beyond anything mere mortals could divine in their wildest dreams. I dropped through every one of the seven heavens, at last leaving them behind me as I entered the physical universe.
With a crash not unlike the impact of a thousand boulders raining upon a valley floor, I landed on the flat slab Odin had described to me, on the top of Mount Hindarfiall. The sky had turned black; there were scores of lightning bolts all over the mountain, deafening claps of thunder, and high winds no mortal could withstand. I was exhausted. I did not even notice the castle walls, which had sprung up around me. As I finally drifted into unconsciousness, one thought was forming.
You must remember, Brynhild, you must remember.
And then I succumbed to the overwhelming blackness of a deep, dreamless sleep.
To be sure, I had brought this exile upon myself. Yet, I never deliberately wanted to defy Odin. My impulsive actions were born of my natural spirit, and I could not change the essence of that spirit. I had displeased Odin once again, and this exile from Asgard was the consequence.
Asgard was splendid. The gods were continually celebrating earthly feats of war and valor. Odin held a gala event every night for all the fallen heroes, a magnificent feast that always took place at Valhalla, which was indeed Odin’s favorite hall. These festivities were, without exaggeration, divine—we danced as if we were drunk with ecstasy, drunk with the music that captivated the body like a snake subdued by a snake charmer. Odin encouraged the participation of all the gods and goddesses, while he himself discarded his usual reserve and allowed himself to fall under the tantalizing spell of the music he so loved. The twelve principal gods of the Aesir, the chief race of gods under Odin’s leadership, were always in attendance, including Thor, Balder, Heimdall, Freyr, Tyr, Vili, Ve, Vidar, Sif, Freyja, and Idunn. Odin’s wife, Frigg, was almost always conspicuously absent.
Odin would stroll up and down the long rows of tables, passionately playing his violin, and stopping occasionally to lavish his sweet kisses upon any Valkyrie in sight. “Dance, dance, all of you!” Odin would yell out for all to hear. “There is nothing to fear, nothing to be anxious about. All is well with the universe, and all problems will reach a happy conclusion. Drink until you are senseless. For this one night, I give you my permission. Asgard is the safe zone of the universe, where no ills can befall you.”
He did not eat; wine was both food and drink for him although he often accepted a cup of mead, akin to wine but sweetened with honey. Odin was handsome beyond measure, with thick, dark curls flopping over his face and the bluest eyes in the universe deeply penetrating those of anyone he even glanced at. By the end of the evening, Odin would be in quite a state of agitation. Looking wild-eyed and obviously drunk, his insatiable lust could no longer be hidden with decorum or polite gestures. And it was on such evenings that I was always called upon to follow Odin back to his private chambers and gratify his sensual compulsions, which were of the most ardent and frenetic nature.
Frigg was the only principal goddess who did not attend the nightly festivities since Odin discouraged it. Later Frigg would hear from the others that her husband had left the banquet at Valhalla with me, and she would give him hell about it. It was no small feat to give someone hell in heaven, but Frigg had successfully devised her own methods with her constant invectives. Odin bore these tirades with patience and stoicism. The All-Father was aware of the contradictions in his behavior; he would always insist he was taking his cue from human practices regarding romance and fidelity. Odin excused himself with his desire to mimic humans and understand these difficult creatures a little better. Frigg, however, was not mollified by her husband’s concern for the human plight.
While lying in Odin’s arms and indulging his amorous inclinations, I would argue with him about our ethical predicament. “It is a burden to be the object of Frigg’s resentment,” I would constantly lament. Odin would not pay much heed to such complaints.
“Never mind Frigg. I can handle her,” he would always insist.
“Can you really? The moment you turn your back, she is glowering at me and constantly telling the others how lazy and incompetent I am. She never gives me any credit at all for my performance as head of the Valkyries, and when I enter the room, she sticks her nose up in the air. Her contempt is palpable.”
“I will speak to her,” Odin would promise lamely. Speaking to Frigg never did much good.
Frigg, queen of the heavens and the protector of the Northern housewife, with her homespun gowns, which were famous for their inlaid gemstones (she made her own jewelry for the adornment of both herself and her elaborate costumes), and her long copper hair, which became dark purple under the ethereal lights of Valhalla—Frigg was the bane of my existence. Frigg was unusually plain for a goddess. Most notably, she was remarkably overweight. The wife of the All-Father was hysterical and insecure about her inconstant husband, and her perpetual disquietude was such that she was constantly eating.
Frigg’s ungainly appearance provided for her the underlying motive for protecting housewives. She sympathized with the plain, middle-aged wife, especially those who were casually abandoned and left by the wayside when a husband moved on to someone a bit younger and more interesting, not to mention more sensually appealing. “For all her harangues against Odin about marital infidelity, there are rumors Frigg once slept with both of Odin’s brothers, the rather influential gods Vili and Ve, at the same time and in the same bed,” Thor once confided to me one night when he got drunk at Valhalla.
“Really?” I noted with interest, wondering if I could ever use that fascinating piece of information to embarrass Frigg. But very few dared to speak of that ancient offense.
Frigg was the cause of much mischief on Earth. Because she could not stand to see a desirable husband tempted away from a middle-aged wife by some young seductress, Frigg had declared herself to be the champion of all such wives of the Nordic lands, who had been deserted and cast off by unfaithful mates. Frigg created much trouble for errant husbands, who after leaving their spouses for another woman, suddenly would be embroiled in difficulties such as a bizarre turn of luck or extremely perverse circumstances, which would drive them to reconcile with their forsaken wives. Frigg’s defense of the typical housewife was, of course, related to her resentment toward me. I was considered to be one of the raving beauties at Asgard, positively quintessential in my classic elegance. I had long, flowing dark ringlets of hair, tigerlike green eyes, an alabaster complexion, and an almost perfect, hourglass figure.
Frigg, on the other hand, was a stout, matronly woman with a giant bosom, enormous hips, hair that was too colored, and lipstick that was too bold. She had a winding, pointed nose and a jutting chin. Surprisingly, the wife of the All-Father could be positively vulgar. Frigg enjoyed coarse jokes; she had a loud, raucous laugh, and her table manners left much to be desired as she devoured her food using her fingers to push tarts and other delicacies into her mouth. Her personality was such that she did not make for charming company. Frigg was sullen and austere a good part of the time. Her lack of wit and intellect highlighted the contrast between the two of us. I was pleasant and amicable, a much sought-after dinner companion, who could enliven any table with congenial society and amusing conversation.
Speaking to Frigg about her animosity toward me never did much good, although Odin did not suffer Frigg’s jealousy and possessiveness gladly. But no matter how often she was reproached by her husband for the rude behavior I had to endure, Frigg was continually snubbing me in the winding, infinite corridors of Asgard and, whenever possible, making innuendos and sly remarks. Odin thought he had his spoiled wife under control, but no one had complete control over Frigg. It was tiresome to deal with Odin’s wife. In spite of my devotion to Odin, I protested being the favored goddess, who had captured the All-Father’s heart. “We must break off this affair, Sire,” I finally pleaded with him in earnest. “Your wife works herself into a frenzy over it.”
“I know. She is suspicious of every goddess who even comes near me. She does not even want you to bring me a cup of mead anymore. That’s why I stopped drinking mead for a long while,” Odin confessed.
“You agreed to such a condition?” I asked in bewilderment.
“Yes, because she danced naked for me in the bedroom in exchange for that promise,” he admitted with reluctance. “I was a little drunk that night.”
“Preposterous!” I countered with indignation. “Such petty jealousy is unseemly for the queen of the gods. This is...ach, it’s just all too human!” My protests, however, were almost always in vain. I was still Odin’s favorite goddess in the bedroom, a role I relished in spite of my misgivings about his wife. My ability to comfort him in this way was, of course, part of the reason I had been promoted to Head Valkyrie. And it was the fuel for Frigg’s ire. Odin and I indulged savage lovemaking for hours; he was indefatigable. His physique drove women, and goddesses, mad with desire. I protested, but I was addicted to him. He teased me, taunted me, and drove me insane in bed. When he climaxed, the entire universe trembled. Of course, he was supposed to be above all this. And as the All-Father, he was elevated far beyond the mundane needs of mortal beings, including sex, food, water, shelter, and sleep. But his excuse, as always, was that he was merely parodying the flaws and weaknesses of his human subjects in order to better understand their true nature.
“Why are mortals not perfection incarnate as you intended them to be?” I once asked him in earnest during a brief respite in the bedroom.
“Alas,” Odin reminisced as he lay back exhausted with his head against a pillow, “there was that nasty little business about me killing Ymir in order to construct the physical universe. Ymir was the first being, the first consciousness; he woke up only to create my grandparents and then went back to sleep. I, his great-grandson, was far more ambitious than he. I could not assume power as the prevailing god or put my ambitious blueprint into effect until I did away with him. It was for the good of all, but the first crime I committed by killing Ymir, in his sleep, caused a lasting impression upon my human work of art, and it appears every last human has to get past that first sin before they even think about beginning the path to true enlightenment. This is why at this stage in the evolution of human civilization, they are dealing for the most part with their murderous instincts.”
“And it is precisely at those moments,” I noted, “when living souls indulge the highest evil that they are often seeking the greatest good. Yet it is scandalous. Humans kill, they maim, and they plunder.”
“Oh, please.” Odin sighed with genuine weariness in his voice. “Do you think I, of all entities, am not painfully aware of all the contradictions? I invented contradictions. Without knowing the opposite of what they seek, these fragile yet surprisingly durable earthly creatures would never find what it is they seek. Thus, humans live in a perpetual state of contradiction. Of course, most of them assume that with all the evil lurking on Earth, I do not exist. If I existed, why would there be evil? How could a Perfect Being allow such gross imperfections?” Odin shook his head sadly. “It will be a long time before my favorite sons and daughters finally understand me.”
Because humans did not believe Odin existed, life on Earth was in quite a state of chaos. Disputes were constant, and when whole regions disputed, wars got started. Odin had mixed feelings about war. The general impression at Asgard was that the All-Father was glorifying the art of combat, given Valhalla was the Hall of the Slain, which meant, of course, slain heroically in battle because these brave soldiers had gone to war.
“Yes, my dear Brynhild,” he would say to me when I questioned him, “I am fully aware that war is not the ideal way to find the divinity within oneself. Nonetheless, right now on Earth, humans, in their desperate quest to find truth, can only react in the most primitive and savage way. It will be many eons from now before they know their true state of divinity, their true power, without having to prove themselves in the bloody arena of a battle.
“It is not my will that my cherished mortals begin their search thus. I am continually struck by the absurdity of this dilemma. But, I will not interfere with the quest of these divine souls housed in beastly bodies. This is where humans have decided to begin. As long as they are headed toward the ultimate goal, paradise and true enlightenment, I celebrate those exquisite moments when humans discover the godliness within themselves. I exist for such moments, and only then am I triumphant. Only then do I know myself in all my splendor and all my glory.” Odin would become so emotional with such words, he often pounded the table with his fist for emphasis. The agonizing and slow evolution of the human soul was a touchy subject. At Asgard we did not bring it up too often.
Nevertheless, in spite of the antithetical aspects of war, Valhalla had become the most distinguished dwelling at Asgard, and it was here that Odin spent most of his free time. Hence, the mission of the Valkyries, which was to collect the most honorable souls who had perished in battle and transport them in our arms back to Valhalla, was no trifling matter in Odin’s sphere of influence. And I, as the head of the Valkyries, held a position of extremely high rank and stature. My influence was incalculable, and Odin had tremendous faith in me. This made my transgression with Agnar on the battlefield all the more heinous in Odin’s eyes.
Certain souls were slated for arrival at Valhalla at certain times; these souls needed to rest and recuperate after leading lives of exceptional valor. For me to interfere with Odin’s prearranged schedule was insufferable. Odin’s forgiveness would not come quickly or easily. My exile to Earth was only a small penalty in Odin’s eyes. Of course, for me it was an untimely event and an imposition of consequence. In accordance with the established viewpoint of every other god and goddess at Valhalla, I felt I had paid my dues on the physical plane. It was a place I did not want to revisit. Earth was swirling with the densest of energies such that it was a realm filled with peril and savagery. Indeed, it was the sound and the fury one of their beloved bards would later remark upon, and yes, it signified nothing. And someone like me, fresh from the heavens, would be bound to get Odin’s still unrefined humans very annoyed, if not enraged. Humans sensed the superiority of divine beings dwelling amongst them. Their envy and resentment would be extreme; it was positively ungodly.
I need not discuss how I felt about my exile. I was most put out.
I was also piqued that Odin did not give more consideration to the fact that prior to the unfortunate episode where I defied his will, I had carried out my duties almost to perfection. I was reliable, exceedingly trustworthy, and only on occasion did I deviate from the agreed-upon plan. The most elaborate military maneuvers were for me just a matter of routine. I had an army of war maidens under my command. Odin and I spent long hours in the war chamber, usually with some input from the war council, headed by Tyr, the Norse god of war. It was our assignment to help humans plan their military strategy in such a way that a particularly courageous soul could exit in a burst of glory.
Working with Odin and the gods of the war council, I did my part to ensure the triumph of justice and good in every battle, but desirable outcomes could not be guaranteed. Free will was a powerful capacity, and even though free will was generously granted to humans by Odin, it often worked against the gods and their preferences. Thus, we could not always intervene, but we could induce favorable circumstances and try to tip the balance of the battle in the direction of those warring parties who fought for the highest ideals. And we could whisper into their ears.
Sometimes Odin sent his pet ravens Hugin and Munin, or Thought and Memory, to do such whispering for him, trying to warn and prepare the combatants who were Odin’s true favorites. This was useful at times, but there were remarkable incidents where it was ineffective, and we would wait anxiously all day for the ravens to return. As Odin would say at such times, “I fear for Thought, lest he come not back, yet I am afraid more for Memory.”
On a typical day at Valhalla, the Valkyries played war games, and we feasted. However, when there was a significant battle in progress on the earthly plane, the war games were canceled. With the trumpets blaring and the martial beat of the war drums in our ears, Odin would march the Valkyries, with me at their head, out the doors of Valhalla and into the open, misty fields of Glasir. The wondrous, green meadows were blanketed with flowers under an infinite sky, which was continually filled with innumerable rainbows and exquisite cloud formations, courtesy of Frigg, who had a subspecialty in clouds and atmospheric conditions.
There Odin would escort us to the last and final passage, Bifröst, the rainbow bridge leading to the material realm. At the end of the bridge, my army of handmaidens would pause in formation at the last and final doorway before entering the tangible world. With thousands of Valkyries awaiting this final, ceremonial juncture and the drums rolling away, Odin would invoke the magical powers of the runes he had acquired on Earth so many years earlier while hanging upside down in a tree for nine days, a sacrificial act he carried out in exchange for the wisdom of the runes. He whispered his eccentric incantations, circling his hands repeatedly over the top of our heads, and then like the absolute magician he was, Odin opened for my warrior maids the gateway to his masterpiece—the physical universe.
The Valkyries and I would descend in waves on ladders made of light beams, which led us directly to Earth. We were mounted on magnificent fleet horses—white war horses descended from Odin’s godly beast, the eight-legged horse, Sleipnir. When we arrived at the scene, we first watched the raging battle from the sidelines, sometimes seeking to give aid to the noble souls whose cause we supported. “Protect the captain!” I would yell out to my subordinates. “Block that charging horse! The general we favor is about to get knifed in the heart!”
We would join in and enter into the fray whether we were winning or not. When the siege reached its natural conclusion, the Valkyries approached the bodies of those who had died courageously. It was all too often a dreadful sight. Their heads slashed open with a mace or an ax, blood pouring from deep dagger wounds, disfigured in every possible way, the dead soldiers lay with an expression of pure horror on their contorted faces. The deafening silence of a battlefield littered with thousands of bodies, the gruesome death, and the gore we confronted were foreign and disturbing. Yet we paid no mind to these frightful scenarios; for human eyes, the scene was a grisly reality, but for the Valkyries of Asgard, it was just an illusion.
Lifting the prone bodies gently from underneath, we raised their souls, an exact replica of the body lying on the ground, into our arms. When every Valkyrie had collected her charge from the bloodstained field, and when we were all in readiness, we took our cargo and mounted our fallen heroes behind us on our divine stallions. Then I, the Head Valkyrie, using the horn of a ram, sounded the high, piercing note of the Valkyries, a shrill cry, which could be heard even in Asgard.
“Prepare for the ascent!” I would yell out in tones that commanded authority.
My orders were echoed among the lieutenant Valkyries, until every last Valkryie reined in her horse for the proper position to return to the heavens. Now anticipating the wondrous event, the entire legion waited in silence. Sounding the ram’s horn one last time, I would then give the final order, “In the name of Odin, ascend!”
Thus, with whooping war cries, thousands of Valkyries directed their horses to the luminescent stairways that would lead us back to the heavens. And the horses arose majestically as we galloped back to Asgard at the speed of light.
Transporting the slain warriors back to Asgard was problematic. These brave, previously earthbound warriors were still not used to the idea of being separated from their bodies. The shock and trauma the men had suffered in their last moments on Earth had left them with a psychic scar, and they stared ahead with vacant eyes frozen with pain and torment. This was the part of the ritual none of the Valkyries relished. It was an exhausting climb, making our way back to Valhalla, racing our mystical horses up the steps of the ladders of light, which Odin had kept in place in preparation for our return. The entrusted warriors were heavy, each one leaning inertly against a Valkyrie, motionless, yet resisting the will of the Valkyries nonetheless. The brave champions knew they were dead; nevertheless, they retained consciousness of themselves. This contradictory state of affairs confounded them. The dead soldiers still felt their wounds; they still comprehended the horror of their death.
At length we would come to the end of the broad bands of light leading us back to our heavenly dwelling. The gateway to Asgard always remained open until every last Valkyrie had passed through it. After crossing Bifröst once again, we dismounted and reassembled in the empyrean fields, in military formation, each one of us holding a soldier in our arms. We were forced to stand outside of the central portal of the 540 doors and await re-entry to Valhalla.
Usually our clothes were ripped, our faces were smudged, and our hair was completely tangled, tousled, and hanging in our eyes. The wait was interminable. Misty clouds slowly circled around our heads as we stood in a bluish-gray celestial field filled with vacuous emptiness. And we were still carrying our dead soldiers in our arms. Often we were on the verge of collapsing from fatigue. “I hate this part,” someone would invariably whisper from the back.
“Why does he always take so long?” someone else once asked while blowing away a wisp of hair hanging in her face. “Can’t he see we have tortured souls waiting out here?”
“He does this every time,” offered another Valkyrie.
“He drags it out because he loves the pomp and the ceremony. But he has no consideration for the state we are in,” another retorted, and the complaints would continue; our voices would echo strangely in the void until, at last, the thick center door of solid gold, eight hundred soldiers wide, would slowly and magically open.
First came the buglers and the drummers with the resounding beat of victory echoing throughout Asgard. Then came a horde of angels to line up alongside us and accompany us for the final march. Inside Valhalla the gods and goddesses were lining the halls waiting for the grim parade of Valkyries carrying their slaughtered soldiers to begin. The last to appear in front of us were the gods and goddesses of the war council, and then Odin himself. The ceremonies could not begin until Odin appeared in the entryway to greet us.
He was magnificent.
At such times as these, Odin was always dressed in full ceremonial war regalia, with breastplate, crown, high boots, and the spear for which he was renowned throughout the universe. Odin’s armor had never seen a battle, for Odin himself did not participate in such uncultivated forms of conflict. His armor did not rust; it glittered like pure crystal under the translucent blue light of Asgard. Odin was never more beautiful than he was when he was about to receive a new crop of bravehearted souls to Valhalla. His curly, shoulder-length brown hair was always perfectly dressed for such occasions. His divinely dazzling smile showed up the almost imperceptible, crinkly creases around his cobalt blue eyes, so keen and penetrating as he reviewed his fallen troops. Odin was so proud of every one of these heroes. As absurd as the backward and warlike behavior was, Odin’s favorite sons had aspired to godliness, and in so doing, they had sacrificed everything—they had perished.
It was the warrior’s finest hour.
Every material and egotistical concern had been abandoned; the fallen heroes had even abandoned their physical form. Having overcome fear and cowardice, these soldiers had defended the highest ideals. They would be amply rewarded in the heavenly halls of Asgard. Odin venerated such valor to the point of adoration. Such dauntless individuals gave him hope for the rest of his cosmos. Primitive as the slain combatants were in their attempt to promote themselves to their highest spiritual levels, they were Odin’s proof that his messages sometimes got through, however distorted the enactment of such impulses might be. War was savage and most unsophisticated, yet Odin had to be grateful that on occasion mortals fought for that which was good, true, and beautiful.
When Odin emerged from Valhalla’s golden central gateway, the bugles would sound the divine call of triumph, and Odin would raise his hand for silence. The All-Father would lock eyes with me, and bowing slightly while rolling out his hand in a graceful flourish, he would greet me courteously. “Greetings, Brynhild. Congratulations are in order once again. I have been watching your performance. As always, it was perfect.”
“Sire,” I would answer with a curtsy in making my formal presentation, “our mission has been completed. We request re-entry to Valhalla.”
“And so you shall have it.” And waving his hand in the air, Odin would signal the music of the triumphal march to begin. Odin would turn on his heel, and with the war council and a host of angels to accompany us, the army of Valkyries would commence their somber procession into the hallowed quarters of Valhalla. The elegance of the formalities produced the highest wave of euphoria in all the participants. All the gods and goddesses of Asgard were on hand for the spectacle. As with Odin, they were overwhelmed with the pride they felt for these heroic spirits. Odin had once decreed, “All those who fall in battles of honor are my adopted sons!” A great recognition, to be sure.
Yet there we were, the Valkyries, all but myself daughters of Odin, carrying souls whose last moments had been filled with unspeakable agony. Their spiritual condition was deplorable. These noble souls had lived earthly lives seemingly fraught with depth and meaning, but in truth their lives had been senseless and illusory. And they had died in a way that was equally senseless. Even we, the divine inhabitants of Asgard, had trouble grasping this contradictory aspect of the human condition. Odin longed for the spiritual evolution of humans, which would be the cumulative result of their experiences on earth, yet the physical universe was an illusion, and physical matter was merely fluff filled with nothingness. Life as a human was absurd, and death was even more so.
Marching abreast in neat rows of fifty Valkyries each, we carried our slain heroes down the long, spacious corridor into the central banquet room, where the tables had been cleared away for the final act of this immortal drama. The main banquet hall of Valhalla had walls constructed of gold and a roof that was miles high. The roof was comprised of battle shields held up by columns modeled after the spear Odin had used to slay Ymir, who had been the first consciousness of the universe and Odin’s first obstacle to dominion of the universe.
Here we could each lay down our burdens, who were still festering with gaping wounds and sporting twisted expressions of agony on their faces. Odin would stand in front of his throne at the head of the hall with Sage, his chief counselor, at his side and the members of the war council assembled behind him. Each Valkyrie stood over her charge, and with the signal from Odin, the final ceremony would begin. It required the most intense concentration and focus, for as we held healing hands over the prone bodies at our feet, we had only one object in mind. We had to breathe spiritual life into the traumatized souls before us. We had to raise the dead.
It was impossible to kill the gods, but the strength we were obliged to summon up was nearly enough to drain us of our spiritual force. With patience and the deepest level of meditation we were capable of, these supreme efforts were rewarded. The bloody rents in the illusory bodies emulating human form would mend before our very eyes as if by magic. The wide-open stare of the dead man gave way to the blinking, comprehending gaze of the living. The contorted mouths and the twisted faces straightened themselves out into a more peaceful demeanor. Low moaning sounds could be heard, the sound of a soul awakening from a deep sleep.
Eventually, the first slain warrior would tentatively raise himself up. Others would soon follow, groaning and rubbing their arms, necks, and shoulders. They were searching frantically for the deadly wound that had caused the last physical shock in their earthly form, the fatal blow that had hastened their final journey. The bloody rent was gone, now completely healed. The warriors were whole again. There would be gasps of shock and disbelief. Some of the men would laugh out loud.
Even though the warriors were now safe in Asgard, they were still attached to the physical reality they had left behind. It was problematic trying to disabuse humans of their idea of reality. Most significantly, humans believed they could die. And, indeed, the human body could expire very quickly if certain stresses were placed upon it. For humans to see past the illusion of death, they had to believe they would not die after the physical death. This is where human faith in the gods often collapsed. Humans saw others die; thereafter, these mortals were no more. The deceased vanished. The damaged body was left behind and began to deteriorate. Forever after, the dead remained absent, remote, and silent. This was undeniable proof, in human terms, of the reality of the phenomenon of death. This is where faith turned into skepticism. And in order to believe in a deathless eternity, humans had to believe in the existence of Odin.
Faith in that which could not be perceived by the senses was the most difficult sticking point in the human mind. Odin had planned it that way. The Father of the Gods did not wish to be worshiped by sniveling and mindless automatons. He wanted his cherished mortal creatures to come to him on equal terms. Humans had to believe because they chose to believe. Odin gave humankind much room for doubt. The illusion looked real. Reality was Odin’s ultimate deception.
Odin was a liar.
But he was an honest liar. His physical universe, made for the physical body as a playground is made for children, seduced the senses. The physical body was a sensuous organism; Odin wanted humans to take pleasure in the contemplation of such a reality. He created a Shangri-La filled with every conceivable form of abundance—fruits, herbs, precious metals, flora, and fauna. He molded the human body to be strong, healthy, and of almost unutterable beauty. The idea was for the spirit to know true exaltation in terms of the physical. Nonetheless, the Garden of Eden could not be sustained if the spirit did not will it thus. And beings-in-bodies continually willed into their reality the most negative perceptual experience they could conjure.
“Perhaps you went too far,” I once gently suggested, when it was becoming evident it was taking much longer than Odin had predicted it would for mortal creatures to achieve true enlightenment.
“I do not make mistakes,” Odin reminded me sternly, when I uttered those words. “Or, let me put it this way, I do not make mistakes that cannot be corrected. I gave all mortal beings the capacity to create the worst possible world so they would know the true exaltation of living in the best possible world. It is every earthling’s birthright to be a dullard or a maniac who reacts irrationally and who perpetually succumbs to the most undesirable human emotions—anger, jealousy, fear, and hatred, to name just a few of the most popular.
“Due to such ungodly impatience, humans strike back at the slightest provocation, without thought, without reflection, and without care. Such is their choice, unintelligent as this choice may be. Such is the privilege of humans, as they would probably insist, a privilege mortals embrace with a peculiar ardor. Humans must choose to comprehend with all their being that this world is the best of all possible worlds. I cannot make that choice for them. I wanted my earthly creatures to choose paradise, not hell. But to choose hell only means the taste of paradise will be that much sweeter when each individual finally arrives there.”
“You created a reality that defies all the senses. Its substance is of the very same substance human bodies are made of,” I argued. “You want humans to understand that this implacable physical reality each one of them confronts is in truth an illusion, as are the very bodies they inhabit. Then you, who can take any conceivable form you wish and play it to perfection, marvel at how easily your favorite creatures are fooled. And you sigh eternally at human skepticism, when you have only yourself to blame. To make sure newly born mortals do not take with them any hints from their heavenly domain, you strike amnesia into every soul with your infernal thorn of sleep. Sire, you leave mortals with only the suggestion of the vaguest memory of their true origin, which at best, manifests itself in mythology. You chuckle when they stumble around in human bodies on Earth, not recognizing your handprint and not even recognizing each other. You have outdone yourself. I stand on my observation that perhaps you have duped these earthly wretches with such mastery that they will never discover your true purpose and intent. They are doomed.”
Odin was hard put to receive such overt criticism. I was very nearly the only goddess at Asgard who could speak to him with such frankness. He walked over to one of his high cathedral windows overlooking the infinite fields of Asgard, and stared out the window for a long time without saying anything. “I have faith in their genius,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “I confess it was difficult to foresee that human genius would be used to create such a brilliant vision of evil, based on destruction and chaos. Nevertheless, these formidable creatures could turn it all around. They could turn it all around in one day.”
“Yes, yes.” I laughed ironically. “So simple and straightforward. So easy. Just the same, you know very well that seeing past the illusion is the one thing humans cannot do. They are fooled by the utter perfection of your work. You have created the perfect illusion. And only you have the power to fool these physical beings. Humans are experiencing misery, lack, and even death—this is their reality.”
“This is not true,” Odin said quite emphatically. “I gave them absolute freedom. They have the power to create a paradise, not a hell.”
“I know, and you know, but your beloved earthlings are without a clue.”
“If it goes on for too long, I will give them that clue,” Odin granted under the pressure I was exerting.
“Oh, my, what’s this? You’re going to tell human beings the truth? Are we talking a bona fide revelation, or will this just be another visit to Earth in cape, tricorn hat, and eye patch?” I inquired, making reference to his famed appearances in human guise. Odin had descended many times, most notably when he became infatuated with beautiful human females. Such visits were almost always a fiasco, for Frigg in her jealousy would wreak revenge on any human rival.
There was the famous case where Odin descended, and his ravishing blond escort fell face down in a pile of horse manure, courtesy of Frigg, who tripped her just as Odin was taking the beauty home to bed. Odin had to help the devastated dame wipe the gooey mess off her face. And we all knew the story of the chocolate-skinned exotic dancer, with whom Odin was smitten. She experienced a humiliating wave of uncontrollable gas because Frigg, who had disguised herself as a serving girl, poured a potent chemical into the wine of the unsuspecting lovely. Odin took the poor windy waif to a royal banquet, where the first violent bouts of gaseous emission were met with astonishment and then laughter around the table. The mortified girl ran out of the room screaming while noisily discharging the digestive vapors. Naturally, Odin quickly lost interest in the hapless lasses, and Frigg received only a slap on the wrist.
But now Odin was squirming under my sarcasm.
“I will do whatever I have to do to lead earthbound creatures to the paradise I always intended for them to have,” Odin said quietly. “But first I must give my human subjects a chance to resolve this existential conundrum. I do not make mistakes. The flaws and the weaknesses in their perception are an inherent part of the perfection. I impart that perfection to my cosmos—I, the all-pervading spirit of the universe, the personification of the air, water, fire, and earth, the god of universal wisdom and victory, and the leader and protector of princes and heroes. My dear earthlings will discover the perfection within themselves, they will penetrate the veil of illusion, and they will find paradise.”
“The process is taking millennia,” I remarked.
“I know. But we gods and goddesses have millennia,” Odin said softly. “As a matter of fact, we have all the time in the world.” Odin turned on his heel and slammed the door, leaving me alone in the viewing room, where the screen showed Earth continuing its eternal revolution around its precious, life-sustaining sun.
I exhaled with relief after I heard the door slam shut. “He is hard put to take any criticism,” I whispered into the empty room. I left Odin alone for the time being, but I was not finished with him. The ability to rile the All-Father probably did not serve me well on the fateful day Odin banished me to another lifetime on Earth. I paid dearly for my merciless scrutiny of Odin’s good judgment in the physical realm. But in truth, physical reality was an illusion, a rearrangement of nothingness, filled with atoms, which were in turn filled with nothingness. Odin kept these bits of nothingness in place through the sheer force of his will, otherwise such microscopic particles would have started spinning away into a swirling tunnel of chaos.
But my story is restricted to the year 450 A.D., when I, giving in to human inclinations, fell in love with a handsome warrior who was to be accompanied to Valhalla that fateful day after the battle. I let him live, and Odin banished me. And there I was, unconscious and moaning in my sleep on a mountaintop, waiting for Sigurd, the most illustrious warrior who had ever lived, to rescue me. Sigurd was supposed to be my intended, my great love, and my future husband. Odin had promised me the most brilliant of all knights to compensate me for having to dilly-dally with a human male. As a goddess, I could accept nothing less than the most distinguished warrior of all time.
And so my personal saga was about to begin.
Sigurd was about to arrive.
But not right away. Sigurd was being unavoidably detained. I was lying on the top of Mount Hindarfiall, rumored to be somewhere in Frankland, but in fact was in the area later to be known as Sweden. As I lay there, a tortuous circle of flames angrily reached for the sky at hellish temperatures. The walls of a small golden castle had magically appeared, and within its circular rotunda, I lay on a bier as if I were dead and lying in state. The thunder and lightning, which had accompanied my arrival, were rolling away in the distance. The setting sun hung wanly in the metallic blue sky like a thin sheet of orange paper pasted against the pale background. It was quiet. It was eerie.
What was I doing here? My thoughts wandered in my state of what was quickly becoming semiconsciousness. Earth was a dangerous planet. Humans lived in fear, and their very fears created the dangers they dreaded so much, resulting in chaos and disruptive forces. A primitive place, this planet Earth. Women were denigrated, reduced to mere consorts. Men feared the power of a woman, a fear harking back to a primordial era when women reigned as goddesses on Earth before they were usurped by men. And I was the most powerful woman of them all.
I was a true goddess.
But how did I know that? Odin’s thorn of sleep apparently had a faulty mechanism. It was not working properly. I remembered everything from my previous life as a goddess. Odin had said to expect partial amnesia, but instead, I could recall every detail of the heavens and my former persona as the head of the Valkyries. This realization was a small comfort. There was a chance I would be leading a double life—part human living in the physical reality and part goddess psychically attuned to life in Valhalla. Maybe Odin had second thoughts at the last possible moment and decided to restore my memory. In any case, I knew who I really was. I had to consider myself to be fortunate. But on this planet, having your divine memory intact could be both a bonus and a burden.
Sigurd was slightly delayed in his arrival at Mount Hindarfiall because a previous commitment had diverted him. His mission to rescue me was only one of three divinely decreed missions Sigurd had to execute within the short stretch of a few months. Before Sigurd could even consider the prospect of rescuing me, he had first to avenge the death of his famous father, King Sigmund, and thereafter slay a repulsive, wormlike beast named Fafnir. Only then would Sigurd proceed to Mount Hindarfiall. These orders were from Odin, passed along to Sigurd via the High Priestess of the Faeroe Islands, whom Sigurd visited annually. Sigurd was the greatest knight who would ever live in his day and age, but at this stage in his life, in his late thirties, he still had not known his greatest moments.
Indeed, there were a number of battles where Sigurd had shown a spark of the genius and the courage he would later be known for, and everyone presumed Sigurd was the greatest knight who had ever lived if only because he had inherited this mantle from his saintly father, the great and beloved King Sigmund. But Sigurd was a bit complacent, and at this point in his life, his mother had not yet even given Sigurd his father’s sword, known as Gram. The magical sword had become part of King Sigmund’s legend when he was still a youth, for Sigmund was the only one who was able to pull the sword out of the oak tree, having been planted there by Odin himself.
Sigurd, the son of a legend, the son in whom so much hope was invested, had always to await his assignments from Odin, which he received through the High Priestess, and such assignments were few and far between. Yet Sigurd now stood before the priestess in amazement, for he had been given three significant missions in one day.
The High Priestess had emerged from the depths of her cave, standing on a high platform with bonfires lit on tall, marble columns to provide some light in the gloom. In the shadows of the cave stood detailed and bejeweled sculptures of Odin and the other gods and goddesses. The sibyl had long, straight black hair, dark skin, and an intensely wild look in her eyes. Sigurd sometimes wondered what potions this prophetess of Odin took to enter into her mystical trances. Nevertheless, the High Priestess rarely misguided him, so he listened to her attentively as he watched her long gown clinging to her voluptuous curves.
“You have three missions, Sigurd,” the High Priestess told him.
“Three?” Sigud repeated. “How strange. More than one mission is rather exceptional.”
“You must avenge the death of your father, the good King Sigmund, by attacking the castle of his murderer, King Lygni of the Hunding race,” she announced. “After you are finished with Lygni, you must then proceed to the cave known as Glittering Heath where you will slay Fafnir, the beast. He is a murderous creature who will attack anyone who comes near the treasure he guards. And after you have slain Fafnir and the treasure is secured, you must proceed to Mount Hindarfiall, where a sleeping goddess awaits you, having been newly evicted from the heavens. You are the only one who can revive her.”
“Say what?” Sigurd exclaimed as he stared up at the High Priestess, who had finished her proclamation and was now distracted by her makeup, which she was dabbing at in a large mirror. “I beg you, tell me you jest! I might die in battle with Lygni, and if I survive, Fafnir will crush me like a worthless insect. I will never live to see Mount Hindarfiall.”
“These orders are directly from Odin,” the oracle announced while picking up a white powder from a shelf and sniffing something Sigurd suspected was some kind of drug. “Odin will protect you.”
“In the name of all the heavens,” Sigurd exhorted the High Priestess, “I am not prepared for such dangerous undertakings. My mother, the Queen Hjordis, has not yet even seen fit to give me my father’s sword.”
“The time has come for you to inherit the sword,” said the prophetess. “You must insist your mother give it to you. Your father, King Sigmund, paid a high price the day he pulled the sword out of the oak tree in the home of Volsung, your grandfather. The conflict and the sibling rivalry produced by the gift of the sword destroyed your father's entire family. It is your destiny to inherit the sacred weapon, and the time has come.”
Sigurd was crestfallen at these words. This was not the crusade the son of Sigmund had planned to undertake during this particularly felicitous interval in his life. Sigurd was engaged to be married to a most desirable princess named Gudrun. Deeply in love, Sigurd’s disposition was presently a cheery one; the lovelorn swain had intended to enjoy an imminent visit to the palace of his future in-laws, where he would presumably spend some time stealing kisses from the lovely waif with whom he was about to be wed. Risking his life at such an inopportune time did not appeal to Sigurd in the least.
A battle with King Lygni, the man who had murdered his father, Sigmund, was enough in itself to inspire dread in Sigurd’s heart. But the idea of facing Fafnir, the gargantuan worm that had brutally slaughtered many a renowned knight who had sought to liberate the treasure from Fafnir’s lair, truly unnerved Sigurd and caused him unspeakable misgivings. And if the reluctant man-at-arms survived both these trials, Sigurd had to concern himself with a sleeping goddess on a mountaintop. Who then knew what obstacles lay in store for him there?
“It is said no knight can approach Fafnir without being viciously torn apart by those beastly jaws. Is that true?” Sigurd entreated the High Priestess, his alarm growing. The High Priestess of Faeroe sighed with resignation and for a rare moment, there was a doleful expression of profound sorrow in her eyes, and she replied in a melancholy tone.
“Yes, it is true,” the seer confessed. “Fafnir was once devastatingly handsome. He was destined to be a fearless and mighty warrior. One of three brothers fathered by Hreidmar, King of the Dwarfs, Fafnir was the one to be most envied. Fafnir had two talented brothers, Otter, who could change form from human to animal at will, and the magnificent Regin, who was a brilliant metalsmith, linguist, and scholar, as well as shipbuilder and architect.”
“Yes, I know of Regin’s plight,” Sigurd commented promptly. “He later left his homeland and arrived at court in Denmark, where my mother rules with her second husband, King Alf. My mother employed Regin as my tutor. Regin has been with me since childhood, and he has often spoken with great bitterness and consternation about his brother, Fafnir, and the fabulous loot the beast safeguards with such murderous intent. I never dared to ask Regin the question I will now ask you. For the sake of Odin, how did Fafnir’s shocking transformation from beautiful warrior to grisly monster come about?” Sigurd queried the High Priestess in earnest.
“Ach, it is a dreadful story, one whose retelling I do not relish.” The seer moaned softly and passed her hand in front of her eyes in pure anguish. The oracle took a deep breath to steel her nerves in order to relate the tale. “Hreidmar, King of the Dwarfs, was a wealthy monarch, unfortunately known for being greedy and miserly. But Hreidmar’s already prodigious fortune was destined to increase a hundredfold because of a terrible tragedy—a woeful mishap, entirely Odin’s fault.”
“Odin’s fault?” Sigurd parroted in disbelief. “How is that possible?” The High Priestess stared fixedly into the distance and answered Sigurd in a monotone devoid of all emotion.
“Odin had impulsively decided to descend to Earth one day with two other gods, Loki and Hoenir. On the way to pay a visit to Hreidmar’s abode, Loki, a bit of a dullard, saw Hreidmar’s son Otter lying about in the form of a seal, as was Otter’s wont. Loki decided Otter looked like some delectable form of meat. Having lagged behind Odin, who was not paying much attention to his two companions, Loki proceeded to slay Otter and carry the dead mammal around his neck as he followed Odin back to Hreidmar’s home. Odin was completely unaware of the contemptible act. When Loki arrived, Hreidmar saw his slain son, Otter, casually tossed over the shoulders of Odin’s dimwitted companion.”
“Valhalla be damned!” Sigurd exclaimed. “What a horrific shock for a father!”
“Indeed,” the High Priestess continued. “Hreidmar fainted. Odin decided to compensate Hreidmar for his loss by giving the bereaved father a fabulous treasure, which Odin had to procure on very short notice. It was a treasure trove kept by a dwarf named Andvari, who lived in the area. The treasure included the legendary Helmet of Dread, which allows the wearer to assume the identity of another, and the magical ring, Andvaranaut, which attracts more treasures for the possessor of the ring. Odin sent Loki to retrieve the treasure as compensation for the grieving Hreidmar. Loki took it all.”
Sigurd listened with rapt attentiveness, as parts of the story were familiar to him. Everyone in the kingdom knew the legend of Andvaranaut, the ring that attracted gold and valuables from every corner of the globe. Andvari did not take kindly to having this ring taken from him. The dwarf had hexed it with the words, “A curse on that ring and all who come to possess it!” The cursed ring would, unfortunately, be the cause of much grief in the future.
“The ring was cursed,” Sigurd remarked tersely as he recalled the details of the legend.
“Indeed, it was,” the High Priestess agreed. “The ring lost its power to attract wealth, and the curse caused Hreidmar to undergo a change in his character. After acquiring the treasure, Hreidmar became increasingly bitter. The King of the Dwarfs hoarded his jewels, but the jewels could not console him, and Hreidmar was drowning in self-pity over the death of his son. And with Otter gone, Regin and Fafnir, the remaining sons, began to covet their father’s newly acquired riches. Regin, the more reasonable son, controlled his own selfish instincts. But Fafnir wanted his share of the goods forthwith, for he was too impatient to wait for the gems and precious objects to become his rightful inheritance. And so Fafnir did the unthinkable. The son murdered the father in his own bed, while the father slept.”
“In the name of Odin and all the gods and goddesses of Asgard!” Sigurd cried out in his distress. “How could any son commit such a deed?”
“The lust for wealth plagues humankind and can manifest itself in perverse and unpredictable forms,” the oracle said, a note of defeat marking her utterance.
“Did Fafnir suffer any remorse for the disgraceful wrongdoing?” Sigurd wanted to know.
“Alas, no,” the High Priestess continued. “Fafnir gathered up the entire chest of valuables and made off with it to a secluded cave called Glittering Heath, where he took up residence. Here the dastardly criminal thought he would live out his life enjoying the loot he had obtained with his father’s blood. But Odin had loved Hreidmar, and the All-Father was devastated when he saw Fafnir carry out his hateful act. Odin turned Fafnir into a slimy, oozing reptile with the head of a dragon and the body of a worm. In this monstrous state, the once handsome and princely young man now attacks and devours anyone who approaches his lair. Fafnir’s only animal instinct is to protect the treasure, which can no longer serve him now that he has metamorphosed into such an unsightly and hellish creature.”
“I know the rest of the saga,” Sigurd observed quietly. “That is how Regin, in his suffering over his family’s woes, found his way to the court of my mother, Queen Hjordis, and my stepfather, King Alf.”
“Yes, to be sure,” the High Priestess concurred, “your mother became Regin’s patroness, and Regin has served you well since earliest childhood as both tutor and friend, as has your stepfather, King Alf. You never knew your true father, King Sigmund, for you were still in the womb on the day King Lygni slew him. Your mother hid in the bushes on the day of the unpropitious battle, knowing full well Lygni had always lusted for her, and she was sickened at the thought of being claimed a prize to the man who would murder her beloved Sigmund. But Odin intervened on your mother’s behalf the day Sigmund was slain. King Alf, the Viking, had just docked his ship at a nearby harbor, and becoming aware of a dreadful duel between two kings, he investigated and found your desperate mother weeping in the bushes. Alf carried your mother back to his vessel and back to Denmark. Your mother, Queen Hjordis, married Alf out of gratitude.”
“I know,” Sigurd responded softly. His mother had recounted the woeful tale of Sigmund’s death many times. And Regin, too, would spend many long hours telling his young charge the story of the injustice Regin had suffered at the hands of his ill-fated brother, Fafnir. Knowing Sigurd would someday inherit Gram, Sigmund’s sacred sword, Regin hoped the young boy he tutored would grow up to confront Fafnir with his diabolical past. And now at last the day had arrived in the torchlit caverns of the High Priestess of the Faeroe Islands. Sigurd’s protests about the onerous tasks assigned to him fell by the wayside, for a sense of destiny had won the day. The son of Sigmund fell to his knees, and he humbly accepted his mission. “I will do everything the gods have asked of me. I will avenge my father’s death, I will slay Fafnir and recover the treasure for the kingdom, and I will rescue the fallen goddess from Mount Hindarfiall.”
“The gods have spoken!” the High Priestess pronounced, flinging her head back wildly as she turned on her heel to exit her majestic podium.
Sigurd, at times still a rather weak and wavering warrior, was most disheartened at the thought of having to slay Fafnir, the bloodthirsty beast. Sigurd would need Regin to accompany him, since Regin, as Fafnir’s true brother, understood Fafnir’s history and nature better than any other mortal. And more important, the time had come for Sigurd to approach his mother, Queen Hjordis, and ask her for his rightful inheritance from his true father, King Sigmund. The time had come for Sigurd to inherit the sword.
The sword was now broken into pieces, having thus been damaged by Odin himself on the day Sigmund died. It was Sigmund’s destiny to die on the battlefield at the hands of King Lygni, and Odin had descended on the day of the event with one purpose in mind—to destroy the consecrated sword, which would have ensured Sigmund’s victory. Without the protective powers of the divine weapon, Sigmund’s fate at Lygni's hands was sealed. Odin himself had fixed the day of Sigmund’s death, and King Lygni was merely Odin’s instrument. Yet Odin resented Lygni just the same. The All-Father knew justice had to prevail, and Sigmund’s death would someday have to be avenged. And now it was time for Sigurd to confront his mother with her reluctance to relinquish the sword. Hjordis had always dreaded this moment, for she knew Sigurd would be obliged to risk his life to avenge the death of his father, King Sigmund. Back in Denmark, Sigurd demanded an audience with the queen.
“Mother,” Sigurd pleaded, “the time has come. You must give me Gram, the sword Odin gave father that portentous day in my grandfather’s house, the day Odin planted the sword in the trunk of the oak tree, and my father was the only one present who was able to remove it with ease.”
Hjordis complied with a heavy heart as she unlocked Gram’s hiding place in a secret cupboard, presenting the broken fragments to her son with tears streaming down her face. Regin, the metalsmith, whose mastery was inspired by the gods, worked on the sword all night using every ounce of his skill and talent to weld the broken pieces back into one unit. Having done so, the next morning Regin presented Sigurd with the legendary weapon. The sword sprang to life in Sigurd’s hands, for Gram clearly recognized its new master.
The sword was invincible. It could not be broken by human hands.
Thus, Regin and Sigurd set sail for the exploits that would make Sigurd known far and wide and to all posterity. Sigurd went to Lygni’s kingdom and appeared at dawn outside the castle walls. Mustering up his courage and all the oratory eloquence Regin had taught his illustrious pupil, Sigurd called out for all to hear, “Let he who dared to slay the great King Sigmund, father to Sigurd and husband to Hjordis, show his face and announce to all that what he did that woeful day so many years ago was right and just, and I shall challenge him to do battle with me, and thereby avenge the death of the wisest and most beloved king in all the Northern lands. I dare you to defend your deed! I dare you to defend the death of Sigmund!” Sigurd uttered his request in his deepest and most heartfelt voice. The white-haired King Lygni accepted the challenge and promptly rode out on his war horse to meet Sigurd. After a harrowing and exhausting clash between the two warriors, Sigurd triumphed and slew Lygni.
And there was still much peril ahead.
Regin and Sigurd continued on their way high into the mountains to Glittering Heath, the home of the ghastly and repulsive Fafnir. This was the most dreaded assignment of all. The truth was Sigurd would cringe at the sight of Fafnir, and the son of Sigmund feared he would be vanquished in a matter of minutes. But Sigurd had faith in the magical sword that had been bequeathed to him and trusted he would plunge Gram into Fafnir’s jugular. The blood that would spurt would be almost enough to fill up a lake, Sigurd did not doubt it for a moment. The most pressing objective was to redeem the treasure from Fafnir’s lair. It would be enough to feed the Nibelungs, the kingdom of his fiancée, Gudrun, for generations to come.
Sigurd was not conventionally handsome. The son of Sigmund had a thick, curly head of dark red tresses, and he had a thick, short beard. The nose was long and patrician, with a sensuous mouth disclosing a beautiful smile. Sigurd had a sculpted face with a strong, square chin and high cheekbones. His reddish eyebrows shaded merry blue eyes, the bluest of blue eyes anywhere to be seen. Sigurd was a little on the short side for a man of such power and strength, and he was built square and stocky. In his late thirties, Sigurd was already starting to sport gray hairs and laugh lines. But there was the healthy look of the Viking about him. Sigurd was a Scandinavian hero with short legs, a largish nose, a slightly protruding belly, and a suggestion of stooped shoulders.
Sigurd was a warrior who dedicated himself to his kinsmen and his liege lord. He disdained the concerns of the rich and the privileged, and he dutifully defended the weak and the poor. Sigurd had performed in minor battles many times. The son of the great King Sigmund was not always so graceful about it. There was a clumsiness about him. Sigurd made mistakes. He was fearless in battle, but in between such feats, he was prone to anxiety. At times Sigurd panicked at the mere thought of combat. Sweat poured profusely down his face when this reluctant knight saw the whites of the enemy’s eyes. Yet, at the last possible moment, Odin always came to the rescue and gave Sigurd the courage he needed to persevere. Awkward though he might be, Sigurd was still Odin’s favorite. At these moments when Sigurd was infused with divine grace, usually at the eleventh hour, he would be filled with a force that came from he knew not where. This mysterious energy charged his entire body and flowed through his blood vessels like a raging current. At such times Sigurd snapped his visor into place, and he felt the strength of the gods pouring into every muscle and every limb. Lifting his face up to the heavens, clenching his teeth, and holding his sword high in the air, the undaunted defender of the gods would emit the shrieking war cry for which he was so famed. Not many people had ever hearkened to that cry. And for those who did, it was often the last sound they ever heard before being whisked away to Valhalla.
Such was the cry of rage and triumph Fafnir heard just before Sigurd charged at him with King Sigmund’s sword. I will not embellish the story, for Sigurd did not achieve the required level of courage and daring too swiftly. When Sigurd caught his first glimpse of Fafnir, he trembled with terror. “Let me control the fear raging like a demon in my blood,” he prayed to Odin.
Sigurd himself never knew how he actually subdued his shameful insecurity and paralysis. This chevalier did not know from whence the hero’s daring and determination came or how it overwhelmed him so suddenly and pervasively. One moment Sigurd was shaking like the most disgraceful coward, who was ready to break ranks and dive into the brush until the battle was over, and the next moment he rose to immeasurable heights of valor. Sigurd could not perform in this fashion too often; he could not know for sure if the strength would be given to him at the crucial moment. Thus, Sigurd could only pray to Odin. The son of Sigmund could only throw himself down on his knees and beg for the gods to deliver him at the difficult hour. Nevertheless, Sigurd had to demonstrate to the gods the courage he had inherited from his father; he had first to stare into the eyeballs of fate and sneer in the face of its capricious whims to prove his sincere intentions to the gods.
And then Sigurd had to joust with death as though he thought his opponent a fool.
As for Fafnir, where did he get his strength? And to what purpose did this repulsive beast ceaselessly guard the fortune that could bring him no pleasure? A gory death by the jaws of the malevolent Fafnir was no way for a hero to die. It revolted Sigurd to expose himself to this detestable monster. But the son of Sigmund could procrastinate no longer. Sigurd had stealthily approached the den of the creature. The fire-breathing worm snarled like a lion, and there was venom frothing out of the sides of his enormous mouth. Sigurd had sneaked down to Fafnir’s watering hole and had hidden behind a large boulder, while he observed his prey and tried to determine what to do next.
The ghastly sight of Fafnir defied the imagination. Such an apparition as this far exceeds the limitations of the human mind, thought Sigurd. Fafnir had horns, huge ragged teeth capable of tearing the strongest man from limb to limb, and scaly skin, which seemed to be covered with a thick green slime. Fafnir’s huge eyes bulged out of his head, and they were the color of dark blood. Even a casual twitch of his long tail knocked major branch systems off trees.
Sigurd was not feeling like his legendary old self. He was shaking from head to toe. “Damn,” Sigurd whispered. This time the gods had gone too far. Sigurd could not face the embodiment of such all-encompassing evil. Odin had assigned this perilous task to the wrong man. Sigurd put his shaking hand on his trusted sword as he tried in vain to recall the ritualistic prayers he knew by heart. Ach, in the name of all the gods and goddesses of Asgard, I am terrified, he thought. Suddenly, a breeze rustled the branches, and it sounded like the wind was speaking.
You will prevail, the trees seemed to say, it must be done.
“Why have I been chosen for this task?” Sigurd asked the trees. “I want to live my life in peace.”
It must be done, was the only answer the trees could give him.
Sigurd exhaled deeply, and he secretly cursed Odin. I don’t see you down here facing this eternally damned beast, the renowned champion thought in accusation to the Chief of the Gods. But as the trees swayed in the wind and appeared to laugh, there from the other side of Fafnir’s water pond, something caught Sigurd’s eye. A dark figure in hat and cloak waved to him. The figure quickly disappeared. And the trees spoke again—don’t be so sure, the trees swayed back and forth, how would you know?
Sigurd now felt the unknowable strength streaming through his body, the unmistakable sign of assistance from above. Sigurd lowered his visor, and he touched his sword for reassurance. He was breathing heavily, and the sweat was pouring down the sides of his face. “Then it will be done!” Sigurd yelled out in a loud and clear voice.
And Fafnir, who had been lapping up gallons of water at the water hole, looked up in surprise.
Precisely then Sigurd emitted his bloodcurdling war cry, and he raised his sword high over his head. Fafnir, caught off guard, froze. The next moment Sigurd was upon the loathsome animal, and the sword was plunged into the neck of the beast. Fafnir barely had time to react. The hideous giant knew it was useless. The cursed son of Hreidmar was dying of his wound. “Who are you?” Fafnir gasped in his death throes.
“I am Sigurd.”
“And who was your father? From whence do you come with such strength that could smite me?” Fafnir asked in a dying voice.
“I am fatherless. My father is dead,” Sigurd explained tersely.
“Who was he?” Fafnir asked again.
“He was Sigmund. And all my strength comes from the gods,” was Sigurd’s reply.
“Why did you do this to me? Who put you up to it? Did you not know there is no human alive who would even wish to gaze upon my dreadful countenance? Ah, but the son of Sigmund would have no fear, for Sigmund was great and mighty.” Fafnir’s eyes rolled about in his head.
“You have hoarded the treasure for too long,” Sigurd replied. “It was never yours to begin with. You killed your own father and acquired it unjustly. And you guard over it to no purpose. You merely want to count your gold and admire your jewels. This treasure belongs to the kingdom. You have slaughtered many an honorable warrior. Now it is your turn to die. Did you think you could go on like this forever? Justice will be done.”
And Fafnir growled in resentment, but the death rattle was in his throat. The beast closed his large, scaly eyelids, and he succumbed to the bloody wound in his neck. Sigurd reclaimed the riches from the back of the cavernous lair. Priceless jewels, golden coins that had claimed the life of many a pirate—the huge wooden chest was filled to overflowing. Sigurd recovered the Helmet of Dread and the legendary ring that attracted all riches, Andvaranaut.
Soon after came an unexpected twist in the plot, a twist that nearly undid Sigurd. His trusted counselor, Regin, who had accompanied Sigurd on this mission, inexplicably let his treacherous side overtake him. Regin was, after all, related to Fafnir by blood, and some of the family insanity lay dormant in the last son of Hreidmar. The sight of the wealth that had once been Regin’s rightful legacy incited a rapacity that brought out the treason in him. “You murdered my brother,” Regin told Sigurd in tones remarkable for their severity.
“What? What concern is that to you?” Sigurd asked him in bewilderment. “The heart of your brother has long been dead. Only oozing slime remained. Since my earliest childhood, you have been praying to the gods I would one day achieve knighthood and come galloping to Glittering Heath to slay Fafnir and recover the treasure. What objection could you possibly have now?”
“Nevertheless, I am suddenly overwhelmed with memories, which are the source of much grief. You murdered my brother. I demand restitution,” Regin replied.
“And exactly what kind of restitution were you thinking of?” Sigurd inquired.
Regin demanded Sigurd atone for the deed by performing a gruesome task. He bade Sigurd to cut out Fafnir’s heart and roast it over the campfire. Sigurd did not argue with Regin any further, for technically Sigurd had murdered Regin’s brother, and according to the Norse code of honor, Regin had a right to demand compensation. Even though Regin had wished for the murderous deed to come to pass, and Odin had commanded it, Sigurd did as Regin asked while Regin slept. It was a repulsive act for Sigurd to rip open the guts of the dead monster and retrieve the heart with his own hands. Sigurd was disgusted as he went about his work. Later, as Sigurd turned the heart of Fafnir slowly on the spit over the campfire, he touched it to see if it was thoroughly cooked and thereby burned his finger. Immediately sticking the burnt finger in his mouth, Sigurd inadvertently ingested some of Fafnir’s blood, and he unexpectedly acquired the power to understand the language of the birds.
The birds were shrieking hysterically.
“You must not allow yourself to go to sleep,” the birds babbled to the son of Sigmund in great consternation. “Regin will awaken and murder you in your sleep in order to lay claim to the treasure. Your trusted tutor from your earliest childhood will never allow the jewels to be taken back to your fiancée’s kingdom. Regin wants only to assert his ancient claim of ownership, and he will strangle you in your sleep, if necessary.”
“What should I do?” Sigurd asked in dismay. Regin had been his beloved mentor all his life. Sigurd was stunned by this shattering news.
“You have Odin’s permission to murder Regin, and to eat part of Fafnir’s heart and acquire even more strength from it,” was the answer Sigurd received from the birds. But Sigurd could not harm the guiding light and beloved guardian of his childhood, and he spent two hours praying fervently to Odin for help. Odin, in sympathy for Sigurd’s condition as a human, held an emergency meeting of his council at Asgard, and he chose to intervene. Thor’s lightning struck a thick branch from a tree that hit Regin’s head, splitting it open; thus, Regin died while napping. In a later era, legend would have it Sigurd had answered the call of the birds and murdered Regin while he slept, but Sigurd was not capable of harming the companion of his youth, and the legend was untrue. Indeed, Sigurd wept pathetically over the body of Regin.
“My friend, my comrade,” the son of Sigmund sobbed uncontrollably.
Sigurd ate part of Fafnir’s heart to acquire even greater supernatural strength, and he stored the rest of Fafnir’s heart away for a future time. Sigurd, now alone on his journey, loaded the gems and the magical helmet into numerous bags, which his horse, Grani, had to carry on his back. Grani had no problem with the heavy load. The horse, like the steeds of the Valkyries, was of a divine race descended from Odin’s magnificent eight-legged creature, Sleipnir.
Now Sigurd was so spent he was on the verge of a nervous collapse. He had slain King Lygni, his father’s murderer, the man Sigurd had vowed to kill with his bare hands since boyhood. And Sigurd had slaughtered the deadliest and most revolting beast of them all, Fafnir, and in the process had lost Regin, his mentor and best friend, who had been prepared to murder Sigurd for the sake of a few precious gems. “For the love of the gods,” Sigurd muttered, “now I have to go rescue a fallen goddess. The gods and their demands will be the death of me.”
But Sigurd’s highest vision of himself was at last beginning to be manifest. Sigurd shook off the weariness from his travails and his depression over the death of Regin. He jumped on Grani’s back, kicked the horse’s sides to signal to Grani that the last part of the journey had begun, and proclaimed in a loud and commanding voice filled with the assurance of a master, “Take me to Mount Hindarfiall!”
It was time for Sigurd’s destiny to become even more complicated.
I needed Sigurd at my side, for he had to escort me to Iceland, the home Odin had established for me in my earthly identity as the Princess Brynhild. I was to arrive at Isenstein, the Icelandic castle of the wise and venerable King Budli, now eighty years of age, who would act as my earthly father. As a goddess who had materialized on Earth in human form, I did not want to attract too much attention or rouse suspicions about my origins. I was to assume the role of the long-lost daughter of King Budli, the alias Odin had chosen for me. Conscientious All-Father that he was, Odin had arranged for all the details before I arrived.
I would take up residence in Budli’s castle, a modest affair comprising thirty-five rooms with various apartments sectioned off as royal suites, which was nothing compared to the glory of Asgard with its empyrean hues, cosmic spaces, and monumental structures. Asgard was made of brilliant gemstones, which combined with illumination from incandescent suns and moons to produce an ambiance that took one’s breath away. But on Earth, the massive, gloomy fortresses occupied by royals were deemed opulent and counted for being symbols of supreme status. I cared nothing for status, for I could discern the true nature of material objects.
There was no time for further reflection on the primitive dwellings of earthlings. I was still awaiting my rescue, still confined by a human body that had to be roused by the ministrations of one celebrated individual. The high flames encircling the mountaintop, devised by Odin as a form of protection, had suddenly been reduced to almost nothingness. Although I could not open my eyes, and I was presumably unconscious, I was now aware of everything going on around me. Sigurd had arrived. There could be no mistaking the receding fire, an important sign, for Odin had decreed the fire would recede for Sigurd alone. As if on cue, I heard the neighing of a horse not wanting to get too close to the residual flames. I also heard the gruff cursing of a knight errant, who was probably now at the limits of human endurance, and who would have preferred to go straight home to his fiancée rather than taking a significant detour to awaken a goddess from her entranced sleep.
This last leg of the journey was almost too much for Sigurd to bear. After killing King Lygni, slaying Fafnir, and witnessing the traumatic death of Regin, he still had me left as the last item on his mythological agenda. A fallen goddess was sleeping on top of Mount Hindarfiall, and someone had to set her free from her mountaintop prison. The deadly flames surrounding the goddess in question could turn a knight into a living torch in a few seconds. Only Sigurd would be allowed to approach since he was the prince of knights. Only Sigurd had the strength, the purpose, and the divine inspiration endowed by Odin. This son of Sigmund was a sensitive and beautiful man, and he would gaze upon my sleeping countenance with love and tender longing. Only this chosen champion was capable of displaying toward me the one human trait even the gods in their unceasing composure and aloofness could not achieve, and that was passion.
The gods and goddesses of Asgard both pitied and envied humans for this unfortunate, yet sublime, state of mind. Passion uplifted mere mortals to their most noble and stunning moments, and it also defeated them in the most daunting and humiliating way. Passion was everything for humans. Without it, there was no world, there was no love; there was just brute force, survival instincts, and sensual pleasures. Yet the passionate inclinations often led humans astray, much to Odin’s chagrin and the consternation of all the gods and goddesses of Asgard. And this is what Sigurd would bring to me—the most magnificent passion harbored by the most illustrious knight in the world.
But this was not to be a sleeping beauty fairy tale. This prince was already engaged to a petite blond with long-lashed eyes and an ivory complexion, whose name was Gudrun. Sigurd fervently wished he could be on his way home to his fiancée, a conquering hero, with his treasure in tow. The last task, which was to liberate me from my plight, was not necessarily important to Sigurd, but it was important to the gods. Amid blazing torches and magnificent statues, the wild-eyed High Priestess had instructed the son of Sigmund in impervious tones to awaken the goddess on the top of Mount Hindarfiall. Sigurd was the only human who could accomplish this feat, and he had no choice but to go.
Sigurd was still cursing. His divinely descended horse, Grani, was not happy about having to leap over the now greatly diminished circle of fire. Grani was kicking his front legs up in the air in fear and agitation, as Sigurd coaxed the reluctant stallion to make the dramatic vault and enter the scorched grounds left by the torrid flames. Having defeated the flames, Sigurd advanced to approach the minuscule castle, which had mysteriously erected itself around me. The small structure consisted mostly of a circular hall on the top of the mountain with a couple of turrets rising out of the rooftop. A red banner fluttered from one of the turrets. A shield with my insignia hung on the front door of this small and stately enclosure. Sigurd stood and stared at the scene in silent contemplation. Illustrious knight that he was destined to be, he was not sure of the best angle for access. Sigurd was ever so slightly mystified.
And, indeed, Sigurd had to wonder. Why had Odin chosen him?
Odin had decreed this task to be Sigurd’s mission, but unfortunately, Odin’s mandates were often attended by complicated difficulties. After all, Sigurd knew well the story of how Sigmund, his father, had suffered after receiving the highest honor and the most significant mandate from Odin, the responsibility conferred by the gift of the sword, a gift that would transform the young Sigmund into a mighty warrior. The All-Father had descended personally to bestow the gift upon Sigmund at a public event, the wedding of Sigmund’s sister, Signy, to Siggeir, King of the Goths. Odin announced his presence with his traditional costume, including the eye patch he always wore even though he had perfect vision (there was a legend that Odin had once lost an eye, and Odin liked to dramatize all legends). Odin merely crashed the wedding reception, walked right into the residence of Volsung, father of Sigmund and the future grandfather of Sigurd, and planted the divine sword in the oak tree, which grew in the middle of Volsung’s living room and went straight through the roof. Having done so, Odin declared, “Whosoever has the strength to remove this sword will forevermore be the victor in battle!” Sigmund, man who would later be king and father to Sigurd, pulled the sword out of the tree and became the rightful inheritor of this divine legacy, the sword that would one day be passed on to Sigurd.
But at a dreadful cost.
The young Sigmund had effortlessly pulled the sword from the tree trunk. The jealousy this caused in Siggeir, Sigmund’s newly wed brother-in-law, led to the murder of every one of Sigmund’s brothers and the murder of Sigmund’s father, Volsung. The entire family was taken prisoner by Siggeir, who bound his in-laws in the woods and let them be devoured, one by one, by famished wolves. Sigmund’s sister, Signy, strove to oppose her evil husband and save her family, but she was only able to release Sigmund, her twin, from his dire predicament.
I will never forget the day I observed this scenario from the screening room. Sigmund, having narrowly escaped his own death and still grieving over the gruesome manner in which his father and brothers had died, put his brother-in-law’s castle to torch and killed everyone in sight. I could only watch in horror as Sigmund tried to save his sister, Signy, who chose to remain in the burning castle to die at the side of her treacherous husband. I could not believe so much grief and chaos had been caused by the simple act of presenting the sword to Sigmund. “Could you not have devised a less calamitous scenario for handing over the sword?” I remember asking Odin, as we watched the ghastly drama unfold in his private theater in the clouds. (This, naturally, all happened before my eviction from Asgard.)
“Humans enjoy drama.” Odin’s tone of voice remained flat and unemotional. “History is drama. Otherwise, history is boring.”
“And this explanation is the best you can offer for having set into process this disaster, which caused so much grief, loss, and horror?” I asked him incredulously.
“The existing evil in the universe is unfortunately necessary, and when all is said and done, evil is not so terrible.” Odin shrugged again.
“Not so terrible?” I fairly screamed. “Murder, betrayal, revenge—what other horrors have you forgotten to include in this episode? There was no exploding volcano, but then again, Pompeii is out of your jurisdiction.”
“Nothing is out of my jurisdiction, my dear,” Odin responded wryly as he extended his magnificent toga-clad physique across a divan and lazily sipped a goblet of wine, the drink that eternally nourished him when he was not drinking mead. “It’s not my fault humans take existence so seriously.”
“Are they not to take existence so seriously?” I inquired.
“Now, look, you know as well as I do none of this is real. The experienced reality on Earth is an illusion.”
“Sire, your beloved human creatures think what they are experiencing is real,” I retorted.
“Yes, of course. But this is the challenge. Mortals have to fathom for themselves that the reality perceived by the five senses is not real. Once humans see the illusion for what it is, they can manipulate the illusion any way they choose and turn the cauldron of evil called Earth into the Garden of Eden it was intended to be.”
“But the disaster with Sigmund and his whole family...,” I said, getting back to the point, “handing off the exalted sword in Volsung’s home caused a dreadful tragedy resulting in the death of Sigmund’s father, all nine of Sigmund’s brothers, and Sigmund’s sister. Was such a cataclysmic fate for Sigmund’s family really necessary?”
“Yes, I confess, it was a fiasco. But, you know, this is such stuff as mythology is made of. Humans will be talking about the sword in the tree until the end of time.” Odin was losing interest in the discussion.
Whenever I asked too many questions, Odin got restless and impatient. As if I was the All-Father and not him, and I was supposed to know everything as well. Odin could be a bit of a narcissist at times. The All-Father was the supreme authority, so naturally he could be opinionated, difficult, and willful. But Odin was also conceited, and he was constantly primping those dark brown curls in the mirror. Odin was worse than a woman. But so beautiful—the most beautiful blue eyes in the universe and the most radiant smile—Odin with his long, elegant hands, arms, and legs. Every move he made was as graceful as the measured steps of a ballet dancer. Sometimes I thought Odin was so effeminate that he preferred men. But such suspicions were always banished after the Father of the Gods kept me up all night with his incessant demands, which I publicly protested but secretly relished.
And so, like the rest of the gods and goddesses, I accepted Odin’s bewildering explanation for the contradictions of life on Earth. I continued to carry out my duties, for war was constant and so was my service to Odin. And while I was working myself into a state of exhaustion as the Chief Valkyrie, Odin was holding court with his trusted advisers, who pontificated for hours, arguing about the fine line between human free will and divine intervention. And when Odin was not in conference, he was busy practicing the violin in his music room, since he was convinced goddesses were more easily seduced when he played for them. Odin had a golden voice, and he sang every day at Valhalla; he also danced like a dream. Such entertainment, however, was kept to a minimum, for Odin took his work seriously even though he toiled at a leisurely pace. More often than not, Odin was relaxing on a divan in the theater room, sipping wine, observing the earthly creatures he found so endearing, and presumably trying not to intervene. After all, humans had to resolve their earthly dilemmas on their own.
And naturally, there were always the constant nocturnal intrigues in the bedroom with Odin, whenever Odin felt like it. If I protested, as I sometimes did when I found it wearisome, Odin carried on something awful until I finally relented. Without exception, he exhausted me with his love-making, which went on until the first rays of dawn showed themselves. He was insatiable, and he demanded my complete attention through every minute of it and in every conceivable position. I loved Odin deeply, but the intimacy was oppressive because I always had to face the enmity of Odin’s wife afterwards. Frigg loathed me. Frigg would have liked nothing better than to see me humiliated and evicted from Asgard, a wish that eventually came to pass. For there came the day of that inauspicious battle when, at the last possible moment, I fell hopelessly in love with the youthful general who was due to return to Valhalla in a matter of minutes, and I decided to improvise. I changed the script. And as a result of my indiscretion, there I was lying in full armor on a slab of concrete in a tiny castle on a place called Mount Hindarfiall. Outside the castle entrance, Sigurd, to my horror, was knocking at the door.
Sigurd was knocking at the door. This was too ludicrous for words. I could not move, at least not until Sigurd woke me up. And there he was, my redeemer, pounding away at the door, becoming increasingly annoyed because no one was answering. He tried the door handle. It was not locked but it was stuck. I could not see Sigurd as he walked around the entire castle, at times pulling thoughtfully at his beard or scratching his head. At last, Sigurd remembered he was in possession of a powerful sword, the sword that had been the gift to Sigmund from Odin, the sword Sigurd had rightfully inherited after Regin had welded the broken shards back into one again.
Sigurd unsheathed the sword, and he slashed his way through the door with difficulty, constantly cursing under his breath. In the middle of the grand hall, I was laid out like a corpse. Over my filmy, white gown I was dressed in a full suit of armor, including a helmet. Hence, the operatic versions of later centuries where I am continually depicted, much to my chagrin, as a fat opera singer with two thick braids and a helmet with horns coming out of it. My mane of dark hair was pulled back underneath the helmet so that Sigurd at first thought I was a man. The son of Sigmund stepped through the castle entrance, having destroyed the door, and he looked around in a rather bewildered sort of way.
Was this what the Priestess had been mumbling about when she was intoxicated? Sigurd thought.
The High Priestess had told my knightly adventurer he would find a goddess sleeping on the mountaintop; the prophetess was apparently mistaken. Instead of finding an apotheosis of a woman, Sigurd found a man in full armor. It is a wonder Sigurd did not abandon the mission right there, as the task had suddenly become so dreary to him. As usual, the first thought Sigurd entertained was to assume the gods had made a mistake. Sigurd was always quick to believe the gods were incompetent; his faith wore thin very quickly when put to the test.
Sometimes I wondered if Sigurd really believed in Odin. Sigurd took all his orders from the High Priestess, who lived in isolated splendor on the Faeroe Islands. It was generally accepted that the oracle enjoyed a direct communication with the gods. Sigurd was respectful and obedient whenever he met the High Priestess at the temple, and he dutifully carried out every task assigned to him. Nevertheless, the son of Sigmund was quick to deny Odin’s existence every time a mission proved to be more difficult than he had anticipated and every time he thought he was on the verge of failure. For after all, Sigurd reasoned, what kind of All-Father would tolerate such problematic spectacles based on chaos, disaster, and evil? And not just a little of it. Evil seemed to predominate every place Sigurd looked. Evil was by far more the norm than the exception. Most of the population on Earth lived in abject poverty and had to work like slaves just to survive. The aristocracy, a small fraction of the entire population, lived like the royalty they presumed they were. Was such inequality just? Obviously not. What kind of god would tolerate such injustice?
Yet Sigurd did not consider himself an atheist, because he instinctively knew there was a higher power present in the universe. Sigurd felt Odin’s presence on a very deep level, one which he could not articulate. There was an inner voice, a profound intuition, which helped the son of Sigmund in times of need. Odin was, Sigurd often said, the “dear thing” that guided him. Nevertheless, the favored hero of the gods had a multitude of questions. And whenever Sigurd asked for answers to his impenetrable questions, Odin remained silent. The silence vexed Sigurd. It was clear Odin was not going to assist his esteemed knight in resolving the apparent contradiction between Odin’s ability to eradicate evil and Odin’s obvious failure to do so. Sigurd was left to himself to grapple with what was a serious crisis of faith.
Odin existed, yet he tolerated evil. The planet was a miserable place to live. As far as Sigurd was concerned, the existence of Odin and the existence of evil presented a logical incompatibility. Odin was good, and he was all-powerful. An all-powerful god would create a world without evil, or having inadvertently overlooked evil, would wipe out such evil from the face of the earth. Odin had done neither. Therefore, Sigurd had good reason to believe Odin did not exist. Sigurd had already known much evil. Sigurd knew the story of Volsung, his grandfather, who died at the hands of a malevolent son-in-law; Sigurd sensed his mother’s eternal grief over the death of Sigmund, her husband and Sigurd’s father; and most recently, Sigurd had seen his lifelong mentor and teacher, Regin, turn against him and plan to murder his own beloved student out of a lust for wealth.
Sigurd had seen enough moral evil to last a lifetime. From my command post at Asgard, I too was often struck by the incongruity between the goodness of Odin and the evil on Earth. “What is the answer to this philosophical dilemma?” I often asked Odin out of curiosity.
“It’s very simple.” Odin would sound resigned because he had explained the dichotomy between good and evil so many times, and I was still perplexed. “I permit evil. I need it to maximize the presence of good. Without the contrast, good has no meaning for civilization. Humans have to experience evil to know good. The citizens of Earth have to choose to be good. I cannot impose it upon them. If it is too easy for humans to achieve the good, or too facile, too effortless, then the effect is negligible. Mortals have to struggle with good and evil.”
“Evil is the antithesis of godliness,” I pointed out to him. “You present a complex network of evil, yet you want humans to believe in the gods. Humans have a right to be confused.”
“Ah, but evil is godliness,” Odin contended. “Given its purpose, to contrast with the good, the most profane and evil object is the most holy. The farther away from me an object falls, the holier it becomes because the more material the object and the more wicked it is, the more different the object from the very stuff of which I am made. And such was the point, to create a material world fraught with contrasting evils, a world that is not of the same stuff as Asgard, a world that is the antithesis of everything I personify. Yet I am there; I am part of that world, and I exist in every cell. The quest of all human creatures is to find me within the world and within themselves. I am everywhere, yet I am hidden. The quest is sacred. Earth is the most sacred place. It is more sacred than Asgard.”
This explanation regarding the nature of evil confused even me, and I was a goddess, so indeed, poor Sigurd was truly confused. Sigurd concluded by believing in Odin, but for reasons that were rather mundane. Sigurd was no spiritual master. I rather think Sigurd, clever in his own bumbling way, had favored the wager recommended centuries later by Blaise Pascal, the father of decision theory. Sigurd’s wager, in anticipation of Pascal’s wager, reckoned there was probably a fifty-percent chance Odin existed. But believing in Odin’s existence made life far easier for Sigurd, that is to say, everything proceeded more smoothly. When Sigurd convinced himself Odin existed, he received constant assignments from Odin’s High Priestess, which kept the son of Sigmund professionally employed, not to mention wealthy, given his personal fortune now included the treasure chest from Fafnir’s lair, of which Sigurd’s take was ten percent. Odin’s favor shone on Sigurd continually. Sigurd had never surrendered a battle, was world famous (at least from a Scandinavian point of view), and would be mythologized and sung by the bards for generations to come.
On the other hand, not believing in Odin meant Sigurd did not have such exulted employment and would probably have ended up begging for work as a court juggler. Sigurd’s experience indicated that believing in Odin produced desirable results, while not believing caused fundamental problems, so it followed it was a safer bet to believe than not to believe. If, indeed, it turned out Odin did not exist, Sigurd would still have an illustrious career behind him, and he would be likely to retire a wealthy man. Yes, believing in Odin was by far the safer bet for a man who was as cautious and as prudent as Sigurd. He might not win, but he could not lose. Sigurd was ultraconservative, politic, and shrewdly calculating. He was quietly understated, always gave polite answers, and avoided confrontations, especially with women. Sigurd’s brand of faith suited his personality.
In the meantime, this proud warrior of wavering faith and dubious appeal had at last decided to approach what appeared to be a man lying in full armor on the bier. When he drew closer to me, Sigurd was still rubbing his beard in deep thought. This is a short man. Delicate bone structure. It must be a young boy, maybe eighteen years old.
Sigurd’s objective, he had been told, was to rescue a fallen goddess from the top of Mount Hindarfiall. The boy lying in front of him in a suit of armor did not seem to fit the description. But since there was no one else around bearing even a slight resemblance to a fallen goddess, this had to be the one he was to save. Sigurd proceeded gingerly to open the visor of my helmet. When my liberator saw my rosy, sensuous mouth and my creamy complexion, he began to take a renewed interest in the dilemma. With some difficulty, Sigurd removed the helmet, whereupon my thick head of curly, dark hair loosened itself and cascaded around my face and shoulders. Now Sigurd knew for sure I was not a man. And his mouth fell open, for Sigurd had no idea I was going to turn out to be so appealing to the human eye. Heaven only knows what my hesitant hero was expecting, given all goddesses were eternally youthful, and we were all, with the possible exception of Frigg, endowed with a beauty of such ideal dimensions that Plato would have been pleased to have his theory of forms so nicely corroborated.
Now positively enthusiastic about his sacred mission, Sigurd proceeded to use his trusted sword to rip off the rest of my armor, revealing a heavenly being in an airy, translucent white gown, which clung to the voluptuous curves of my well-rounded body. Far from being a delicate boy, I was indeed the classic vision of a sleeping beauty the Brothers Grimm would later portray in their folksy, romantic version of the tale.
But Sigurd was now at a loss as to what to do about me.
I was still unconscious. It occurred to my wandering knight that perhaps the best plan was to carry me off on his horse, somehow securing me into position, and with such a plan in mind, he slipped his arms underneath me in an attempt to pick me up. Sigurd’s strength in battle was celebrated in song and lore, but his exhaustion resulting from his travails had drained away some of his best energies. Sigurd could not lift me. Now for certain he did not know what to do.
My valiant savior once again thought about just leaving me there since it all seemed like too much trouble, and he had an irrepressible desire to abandon this pursuit. His fiancée was waiting for him, and Sigurd was moreover eager to deliver the treasure to his future father-in-law, Giuki, King of the Nibelungs. It would have been much easier to leave me for dead. But Sigurd had taken a solemn oath with the High Priestess as his witness. Indeed, my renowned rescuer was mesmerized by my delicate features and my alabaster skin, and gazing at me in an almost enraptured state (inspired by Odin, no doubt), Sigurd impulsively leaned over and planted a light kiss on my mouth. The kiss was mandatory in order to break the spell of my enchanted sleep. Finally, I was invigorated with the human energy required to move my limbs. I had gained control of the human body I now occupied. I could open my eyes at last.
When I saw Sigurd in the flesh, now imprisoned in my own flesh-and-blood body, I nearly gasped. Modest in stature and not overtly handsome, Sigurd’s visage and form were not exactly what I was expecting. This was the man I had to serve as my husband and master, according to what Odin had outlined before I was sent reeling to Earth, and I was not overly impressed. Sigurd was a little too short, with shoulders a little too hunched over, and a sagging abdomen, which was not flattering. Sigurd’s hair was a reddish brown with a healthy mix of gray, and he sported a ragged beard. Intellectually, Sigurd had his moments of brilliance, but in between such illumined episodes, he could be rather dull company. He was a little older than I expected, but Odin preferred not to be bested by a young, earthly rival, even though Odin was immortal and always looked like an athletic thirty.
Sigurd was not terribly witty or charming in conversation. Renowned for excellent performance in minor battles, Sigurd’s most illustrious feats were the ones he had just recently carried out—killing King Lygni in battle, slaying Fafnir, and now rescuing me—the son of Sigmund had just begun to aspire to new heights of glory and to establish his true reputation. The hero of such perfect lineage was leaning over me and staring at me with a love-struck expression on his face. Indeed, Sigurd sounded like he was panting. “Greetings, Sigurd,” I said smiling at him. “Please step back so I can get up. You are obstructing my path.”
Sigurd’s mouth fell open once again as he registered the shock, since it had never occurred to him I would awaken and actually speak. He had presumed I was in some kind of god-induced and perpetual coma. “The gods be damned!” Sigurd exclaimed in utter stupefaction, and he immediately jumped back to let me pass. I swung my sore legs out over the edge of the bier, and I stretched my arms. I had bruises induced by the fall from Asgard, and I ached all over.
“We had better leave immediately.” I smiled at him again.
“Why is it so urgent?” Sigurd inquired, content to stand there ogling my breasts, which I found to be particularly annoying.
“The castle is an illusion. Now that I’ve been revived, it will turn to dust. Shall we?” I asked as I took Sigurd’s arm and led him out the door.
Sigurd stared at me, still overwhelmed by some odd mixture of reverence, awe, and worshipful lust, but like the courtly knight he was, he slipped his arm through mine and stepped through the door. The castle crumbled to pieces behind us, and the magical molecules of the crumbled stone instantly vanished before our eyes. “The gods be damned,” Sigurd repeated as he looked on in astonishment.
“Please watch your language,” I chastised my armored protector. “The gods are not particularly pleased when they are damned, even if the damnation is merely a colloquial expression of no particular import.” Sigurd said nothing; he merely stared at me quizzically, his lucid blue eyes narrowed somewhat, his reddish eyebrows wrinkled as he contemplated my words and tried to grasp their significance. The apparent lack of comprehension along with his enthusiastic lust compelled me to take a deep breath, as I sighed with the undeniable realization of my plight.
It was evident that the sacred mission Odin had conferred upon me was going to be more difficult than even I could have predicted.
Now that I was awake and Sigurd was quickly becoming smitten with me, he was still not quite sure how to proceed. I gently led Sigurd away from Mount Hindarfiall and the castle, which had been reduced to misty vapors and a foundation of blackened ruins. His horse, terrified by the bizarre events taking place at the summit, was nervously awaiting us on the path about halfway down the mountain. Sigurd took Grani’s harness, patted him on the head, and spoke to him soothingly. Somewhat mollified, the animal of divine lineage willingly followed his master on the path leading to the bottom of the mountain. “What now?” Sigurd asked, his face screwed up in a hard squint under the bright sunlight.
“Now you take me back to my father’s castle in Iceland,” I replied while looking around at the unfamiliar terrain. We were not in Frankland, later to be known as France, where Hindarfiall was rumored to be, but somewhere in the west of Sweden. We first had to make our way back to Sigurd’s boat on the Norwegian coast.
“Iceland?” Sigurd repeated. His blue eyes narrowed with curiosity, and he said nothing more. He was at a loss for words.
Sigurd’s consternation was understandable. Iceland was for the most part unpopulated at this stage in history, except for the tiny, secluded kingdom where my earthly father, King Budli, ruled. Indeed, like the Nibelungs and their tiny kingdom in Norway, Budli’s domain and his court at the castle of Isenstein were of almost mythical origin. The history books would pass over it unnoticed and undocumented, as the Icelandic settlements were to have started another four hundred years after Budli’s time.
“Yes, I am, after all, the warrior-princess, Brynhild of Isenstein, which happens to be in Iceland. How long will it take us to journey there?” I inquired of my famous seafarer. The technical question forced him to stop staring at me in a blithely stupefied way.
“It will be a couple of days to return to the coast on horseback, and thereafter, about five days by boat, unless the winds are good and the weather is perfect, in which case, it will be about three days or less. My extremely seaworthy ship can travel at ten or fifteen knots in perfect weather.” Sigurd winced with pain as he said this, because he was reminded it was the nautical brilliance of Regin that had allowed Sigurd’s stepfather, the Danish King Alf, to commission a ship hundreds of years ahead of its time.
“Perfect,” I replied. “And when we arrive at my father’s kingdom, you can spend some time visiting at the palace.”
“For the love of the gods! At this rate, I will never return home to Gudrun,” Sigurd protested.
“Do not fret about Gudrun—there will be plenty of time for her,” I said coldly, for Gudrun was, of course, my rival for Sigurd’s affections.
Gudrun was clearly never far from Sigurd’s mind. Was I jealous of Gudrun? It was rather difficult for me to be jealous of any human female. The women of Sigurd’s day and age obviously could not compete with me in any arena. I, who was Odin’s favorite, had rivals in heaven, but it should have been impossible for me to find a rival who might make me feel threatened on Earth. Even Frigg, goddess of the Northern housewife and herself wife to Odin, was not much of a rival. Frigg’s primitive habit of throwing jealous fits, her lack of godly serenity and composure, and the gluttonous habit of overeating, which she apparently picked up from one of her incarnations on Earth, did not exactly qualify her for being in true competition with me.
Gudrun, on the other hand, was another story. Prized for her blond hair and blue eyes, her petite figure, and her ivory skin, she was much sought after by the strongest and most illustrious warriors in the land. Sigurd’s beloved was no great intellectual, but she had a down-to-earth, folksy kind of wisdom, which needless to say, was not exactly something to which I aspired. I was a scholar, a philosopher, and a goddess. Gudrun hoped to have children, and she prided herself on being a good household administrator.
The daughter of King Giuki ran her father’s castle, and she gave daily orders to the kitchen crew, the cleaning crew, and the palace guards. Gudrun played the harp, painted a little, and sang with a pleasant but not exactly well-trained voice; she was amicable and made endless small talk. In short, she was everything a woman was supposed to be without straining herself too much. And Gudrun did not have an athletic bone in her body, whereas I had the strength and the skills of a warrior. Gudrun also had a tendency to be an emotional weakling. The future wife of Sigurd was edgy and easily upset by trivial matters, appallingly neurotic, but this she hid well from male suitors.
Gudrun played her male admirers beautifully; she played them like a harp.
Sigurd was completely besotted with Gudrun. The first time he met her, he was dumbfounded. He could not think of a thing to say, which humbled him, since he was supposed to be a hero, distinguished and celebrated, not to mention the son of Sigmund. As for Gudrun, the first time she met Sigurd’s dreadful warrior gaze with her own gentle, childlike eyes, she gasped and nearly fainted dead away. Although Sigurd was not as handsome as other suitors who had sought her out, the pure force of his will was enough to thrill her. But Gudrun thought she saw only hostile aversion in Sigurd’s eyes at the moment of their first encounter. Sigurd wanted to apologize forthwith, but he was bound by rigid social conventions. Instead, he watched helplessly as the flustered Gudrun muttered a few incomprehensible words, curtsied briefly, and made a quick and agitated exit.
After this initial meeting with Gudrun, as unsatisfactory as it was, Sigurd could think of nothing else. The image of Gudrun’s beautiful eyes was branded on his heart, but he sought his beloved in vain since she was very much protected and sheltered by her royal parents and chaperones. At last Sigurd chanced upon the daughter of Giuki again on a walk through the palace gardens. The two of them did not say much to each other at this second meeting either. Sigurd asked Gudrun for the time. Within the strict etiquette of courtship in this particular era, asking a woman for the time of day was possibly the only question a man could ask without leaving the realm of the proper and the decent.
Gudrun replied with a few soft words. The two infatuated associates parted. Yet this was the beginning of the romance. The pair reunited and danced at a castle ball a few nights later under the rigorous supervision of King Giuki and the Queen Grimhild, Gudrun’s royal bloodline. Sigurd’s gaze always hung on Gudrun like a dog following his mistress. He was not permitted to be alone with his inamorata, but Sigurd relished any chance he could have to catch even a glimpse of her. Finally, Gudrun’s chaperone permitted Sigurd to accompany the object of his affections to the royal wine cellar to pick up several jugs of wine for the dinner table. When they were completely alone and out of earshot, Sigurd could not contain himself.
“My darling Gudrun, you are the light of my life,” he professed as he enveloped her in his arms and kissed her deeply on the mouth. Though this was highly inappropriate behavior, Gudrun did not resist, a fact Sigurd noted with ecstasy.
Being alone with Gudrun for the short space of a few minutes had the son of Sigmund in ecstasy for weeks afterward. To enjoy Gudrun’s company even in a semiprivate setting was just a suggestion of intimacy, yet Sigurd was profoundly affected by the nearness of his beloved.
This was true passion. Sigurd had been struck with one of Thor’s lightning bolts, and it was only a few months before he was ready to declare his intentions. Sigurd put his proposal of marriage before his future father-in-law, King Giuki, as was the custom, and afterwards prayed fervently to Odin that he would be accepted. The engagement became official at last, and Sigurd was transported with joy to the highest of the seven heavens. Now, however, because of the assignments from the High Priestess, Sigurd was forced to separate from his adored fiancée, which caused him tremendous pain from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning until the moment he at last relinquished his thoughts late at night, when the unconsciousness of sleep was a welcome relief compared to his highly aroused sensibilities. Sigurd’s bond with Gudrun was of necessity simple and pure, based mostly on dreams and gazing into each other’s eyes.
Sigurd’s romance with Gudrun was straightforward and chaste compared to the complications, prevarications, and subterfuges that I had to endure with Odin. Yet, in spite of his innocence, Sigurd had started falling in love with me from the very first moment his eyes traveled the length of me, when he tore the armor away from my delicate skin. Sigurd’s fate was to love two women, and his innate honesty would somehow have to be reconciled with the difficulties that would be the result of all the lies.
Lying, as surprising as it may be, was a normal part of my interaction with Odin. Odin was fickle, and loving Odin meant giving him his complete freedom; it meant tolerating everything. Loving Odin meant knowing every facet of his truth and accepting it unquestioningly. But Odin did not want to hurt anyone with his emotional vacillations, so he created illusions of fidelity that were basically lies. I cherished the illusion of Odin’s faithfulness. The illusion sustained me. The treasured deception gave me my inspiration; whether Odin’s devotion was a lie or not was really of no consequence. At Asgard loving Odin meant acceptance of a basic contradiction—Odin was eternally faithful, yet Odin could never love just one woman.
These irreconcilable truths coexisted in Odin’s mind. Loving Odin meant experiencing both truths simultaneously. Even a goddess with infinite wisdom occasionally had a problem trying to resolve this paradox. And for humans it was even more difficult. Humans could find no resolution at all to the paradox presented by loving only one and still loving all. And the sensuous lust of the physical body made the paradox even more confounding. Humans had, as a result, devised an elaborate myriad of rules and laws governing marital obligations and sexual practices, yet the concept of fidelity continued to bewilder and elude Odin’s creatures of consciousness.
The inhabitants of Earth tried to own each other, and they were not ready to admit the unfeasibility of possessing another person. Unconditional love was, according to Odin, the equivalent of unconditional freedom, but humans thought love and freedom were mutually exclusive. Love was imposed upon each other as a mutual bond, a lifetime of restrictive practices, even though the bonds had been imposed voluntarily. On the wedding day, everlasting union was what a man and a woman wanted above all else. The enraptured couple entered into matrimony willingly, never anticipating the day when the bonds they had so desired would be the very bonds of which they longed to be free. No matter how many times humans fell out of love, they cherished the elusive ideal of being eternally bound in wedlock.
When humans invented the institution of marriage, Odin was mystified.
“My somewhat misguided mortals are trying to marry each other for eternity,” Odin would note with bitter irony, “but the only eternal relationship they have is with me.” In his perplexity, Odin, as always, tried to emulate humans in his attempt to understand them. A good example was the marriage Odin himself had entered into for all eternity.
His wife, Frigg, was insecure, jealous, and demanding. She was grasping and suspicious, continually asking questions of others to find out what Odin had been up to. The model for Frigg’s behavior was the typical Northern housewife, whom she championed with such sympathy that she had adopted the same point of view as her subjects. Like a frustrated, menopausal housewife, Frigg ate nervously and chose the worst foods, even by heavenly standards, and blew up to the size of a baby whale. The wife of Odin had an enormous bust and a huge derrière. Her dark, oddly red tresses hung in ringlets all the way down her back, and she applied dark red lipstick to her mouth and dramatic black lines to her eyes. She dressed in the finest gowns, and she was dripping with necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and other rings. And there I sat, pale without makeup, wearing a simple white dress of diaphanous veils. My long hair fell in casual waves in front of my eyes, tousled, almost unkempt, yet everyone thought I was the epitome of empyrean beauty.
Frigg hated me. She was green with envy.
Frigg hated me, even though she could not prove there was any impropriety between me and her husband. And Odin demanded from me a perfect demeanor. I could never let on that the All-Father and I were eternally engaged in an affair based mostly on carnal lust and pleasure. My behavior, designed to conceal my feelings, was a lie. I had to be a good actress. After all, he was Odin, the All-Father. He had to keep up appearances.
Odin was always nervous and awkward about having an affair with me, for he was timid and shy. Sometimes I had to suppress a giggle when he barged into my room, walked right up to me, and stared at my breasts with an expression of pure awe on his face. Suaveness and sophistication regarding amorous matters were not his forte. Odin was no playboy. He had much more in common with the naiveté and enthusiasm of an adolescent boy who gawked at women with hopeless longing. But there was something touching about catching the Father of Battle staring at me with his mouth agape, and such ingenuousness forced my heart to go out to him.
To be sure, divine entity or not, Odin was starved for a little bit of aesthetic pleasure. He loved to see a shapely but still slender figure. As a dutiful spouse, Odin carried out his marital obligations to Frigg at intermittent intervals. But because of the preponderant fat, this was not always an easy task to engineer logistically. Variety was not really an option when lying in bed with Frigg. Odin always turned his rotund mate over on her stomach, proceeding to climb on her back after propping Frigg up with pillows. He always said it was the easiest way to mount his wife. In this manner, the All-Father would perform his husbandly duties with his eyes closed while he tried to think about something else. But when Odin was with me, matters were quite different. When Odin was with me, he was passionate, tender, and romantic.
This, of course, only made Frigg resent me even more.
Sometimes I had to throw the Father of the Gods out of my bedchamber, for there were times that all I wanted was to obtain a good night’s sleep. There were days I really just wanted to end the affair, no matter how sexually infatuated I was with the most devastatingly handsome god in the universe. But how does anyone break up with Odin? Even a goddess could not break up with Odin. Not until the day I grew so cocky that I disobeyed my orders on the battlefield, was I able to extricate myself from that celestial triangle, whether I intended to or not.
Frigg was constantly complaining about me to the other residents of Asgard. The First Wife harassed Odin day and night, often screaming in rage about his alleged infidelity. “You are engaged in intimate relations with Brynhild—admit it!” she would scream at Odin, who would simply walk out of the room and slam the door. It was not uncommon for Frigg to throw vases, pillows, statuettes and other small objects at Odin’s retreating back.
She could not prove anything, but as is always the case with such matters, everybody knew. In her frustration, Frigg would go on eating binges, devouring cakes lathered with whipped cream, or sit watching the jugglers while snacking on whole trays of chocolate truffles. Indeed, this was just aggravating the problem, not to mention making her feel worse than ever. Frigg blamed me for her unsightly bulges, her misery, and her frustration. Frigg blamed me for the unfortunate truth that her influential and omnipotent husband had a cosmic libido he could not control and did not even attempt to control. The wife of Odin wanted to dishonor me; she wanted to humiliate me in the same manner she felt she had been humiliated. Frigg knew Odin was lying to her, and I was the accomplice. Such lies did not suit me, but Odin demanded “discretion,” which was his way of working around the ugly fact that he was lying to his wife.
Lies were an uncomfortable subject with Odin, given the contradictions in his own personal life. Odin always maintained existence on Earth was based on truth-seeking. Living in a complete state of truth was tantamount to living in a complete state of bliss. Humans thought lying was easy, but they were always taken aback by the repercussions. Lying was deceptively easy. Merely speak the words and deny the truth. Talk is cheap. One can say anything one pleases. The mouth moves, the words are emitted, and the sound waves vibrate the inner ear of the Other. The liar and the one lied to were two people engaged in a simple transaction.
“But physical existence itself is a lie, nonetheless,” I once argued with Odin. “So is lying so terribly wrong, when you examine the process at the most basic level? Naturally, lying complicates matters in a rather unpleasant fashion, but there are degrees of lies and valid reasons for lies, and then there are mere delusions, which often give people hope, so these are not exactly lies. In the end, it seems humans must be allowed to lie. Why do we keep making them feel so guilty about it?”
“Why, indeed?” Odin lamented. “I would prefer humans did not lie. It is not always so reprehensible to lie under certain circumstances, and I have a code book about a thousand pages long in small print explaining such circumstances, but believe me, at this stage earthbound entities are not prepared for all the ramifications. There are multiple levels of nuance and profound philosophical implications. Humans are helpless in the face of such complex and contradictory instructions. They are not quite ready for what I would have to call ‘beneficial lying.’”
“So you decree all lying to be regrettable and to be avoided at all costs?” I asked.
“At this time, such a philosophy would be the most desirable point of view,” Odin responded decisively.
“You know, Sire, such is the message you are whispering in human ears, and humans are being driven to distraction with guilt and self-condemnation. The best people think they have committed wicked sins and reproach themselves severely for lying. Many fine individuals are overwhelmed with remorse in a thousand different ways,” I argued.
“You want me to declare a free-for-all on lying?” countered Odin. “I told you, not all lying is bad, but the countless restrictions and clauses are too much for humans to assimilate. How are you defining a ‘lie,’ by the way?”
I had to think about Odin’s question for a moment.
“I suppose a lie is a deliberate intention to mislead someone and have them believe something that is not valid or not true.”
“How does one mislead then?” Odin queried.
“By stating something verbally or in writing that is not valid or not true,” I answered.
“Very interesting,” Odin commented, “because more than half of all lies are nonverbal. Such lies are communicated with a nod of the head, a smile, or a knowing glance. The worst lies are committed in complete silence—the sin of omission. No one told a lie; they just never mentioned it.”
“Hmm,” I murmured thoughtfully. “I see what you mean...you can’t exactly accuse a person of lying because they seemed to indicate something with a knowing glance, can you?”
“Precisely. And if you accuse the guilty party of lying because the offender gave you a certain look at a certain moment, the said party will only vehemently deny it. It is virtually impossible to prove someone misled you by saying nothing. You were not lied to; you merely misunderstood,” Odin explained.
“Indeed. Such a dilemma is not easy to resolve,” I admitted. My eyebrows knitted together, and the corners of my mouth turned down in a frown.
“Now you see the cause of my dissatisfaction?” Odin looked downcast. “Mortals are constantly lying. My ban on lies is merely applied to the most overt form of lying, as you defined it. Even then, my capricious creatures are hard put to follow my instructions. And yes, you are right, some forms of lying are necessary because it would cause too much heartache to tell the truth. These are the minor lies—telling someone you liked their gift, when you really wanted just to throw it out, or telling someone they were fabulous in bed, when you were appalled at how boring it was, and so on. Many lies at the individual level are to protect people from getting hurt over both trivial and serious matters. And many people say they want to know the truth when, in fact, they want to be lied to.”
“What are you going to do about this theoretical muddle?” I inquired. My head was spinning with all the implications of what Odin had just told me.
“For now, I just issue a blanket statement, do not lie. This general mandate will have to do, for what it’s worth, since humans never listen to me anyway. The fact is, many lies are beneficial and promote self-esteem and harmonious relationships. Can you imagine always being completely frank and direct every minute of the day—telling people they look terrible, that the progress they’re making is pathetically slow, that they’re bullheaded, inconsiderate, and rude—where will this lead us, even if all of it is true? Many people become enraged if you do not endorse their self-deceptions. Much lying is merely a form of politeness,” Odin rationalized.
“But some of it is merely a matter of choosing your words correctly,” I mused. “You can tell someone they are beautiful, but today they look tired rather than terrible. Or you can say they have not yet reached the highest level of skill, but every day there are small improvements, rather than saying the progress is pathetically slow. This is telling the truth in a gentle way.”
“Ah, yes, the gentle truth,” Odin said softly and with mild exasperation. “But right now such nuance and subtlety are beyond my cherished souls-in-bodies. It is much easier just to put a ban on overt lying. Even though everyone is lying about the same issues, and if everyone knew everyone else was lying, the world would change overnight. For sure, there would be fewer romantic illusions about marriage. Marriage might be abolished if everyone stopped lying. And one must also take into account institutional lying, such as when governments lie, but that is another kettle of fish.”
“The truth is an absolute,” I told the All-Father. “And absolutes imply perfection. Humans do not deal with absolutes.”
“Exactly,” Odin agreed, “which is why they do not deal with me. I know mortals are flawed, and it is my fault they are flawed. But I wanted it that way so I could give my cherished creatures the challenge of overcoming the flaws and perhaps better understand myself as a result. But I am perfection, so how could I not have understood myself? There is the implication of flaw in the idea of a perfect being who does not understand his own perfection. Does perfection not imply a perfect understanding of everything as well, since perfection must be perfect in every conceivable way? Yes, there was a flaw, one divine flaw. In my loneliness, I sought to know myself, but I could not know myself without being contemplated by the Other. So my human creation has assuaged my lonely plight. My masterpiece, filled with ambiguities and contradictions, struggles to evolve. In my weakest moment, I discovered my finest hour—I created the universe. Cheers.”
And Odin drained still another goblet of the heavenly wine that simulated all foods, all flavors, and the most exquisite of culinary experiences.
As my thoughts dwelled on such discussions with Odin, I continued down the mountain path with Sigurd as he led Grani away from the scene of my dramatic rescue. Here on Earth, I was going to have to direct myself to my primary interest, Sigurd, who happened to be an unusually good example of human imperfection, and who, destined to be in love with two women at once, was going to have to habituate himself to telling a lot of lies.
Sigurd was anxious to go home to his fiancée, Gudrun. In Nibelungenland, where Gudrun’s father, King Giuki, reigned with his wife, Queen Grimhild, Gudrun was spending much of the day pining for Sigurd. With my telepathic inner eye, I could see Gudrun holed up in her rooms, sitting by the window of a favorite turret in the castle, where she was embroidering a large tapestry illustrating some of Sigurd’s military feats and those of his father, Sigmund. Like most cultivated women of her day and age, embroidery was a special area of expertise for Gudrun. I was also skilled at this art, but I preferred not to waste too much time with such feminine pursuits. But Gudrun was striving to be the ultimate portrait of sublime femininity, finding a hundred small ways to be true to Sigurd during his prolonged absence.
In the meantime, Sigurd and I had reached the foot of Mount Hindarfiall, where I observed him with interest knowing he was my intended. Having been banished from Asgard and made human again, Odin had decreed I would have to marry on Earth, a thought repugnant to me. As a small consolation prize, Odin had provided an addendum to the decree, advising the gods that the man who was so privileged would have to be the greatest warrior in the world, such as it was around the year 450 A.D. That man was undoubtedly Sigurd. Odin had guaranteed there could be no mistaking him since only Sigurd had the power to quell the flames surrounding me on the mountaintop.
I was admiring Sigurd’s thick head of copper red curls. Now a safe distance from the collapsed castle, with his faithful horse, Grani, somewhat soothed and under control, Sigurd in his turn took me in with a pair of keen and intelligent blue eyes. He continued to stare insistently at my breasts, and he looked positively anguished. My filmy white gown was an exact copy of what I wore all the time in Valhalla, but when translated from the realm of the ideal to the realm of the physical, the dress was slightly transparent. I had not noticed the earthly stuff was almost see-through, but Sigurd was thunderstruck by the translucent nudity. Sigurd’s naive state of lust reminded me of Odin. In a halfhearted attempt to disguise his unabashed state of desire, Sigurd had pretended to keep his eyes downcast, demurely staring at the ground as we were making our way down the mountain with Grani. But now I could not help but notice he was gawking at me with open lechery, apparently unable even to consider the prospect of closing his mouth. This irked me no end, and I confronted him.
“Enough!” I ordered. “You’re supposed to be engaged. Not to mention one does not expect such behavior from an honorable knight of good reputation, who has just rescued a damsel in distress. You’re supposed to be carrying out your divine duties as decreed by the High Priestess of the Islands of Faeroe and not indulging egotistical concerns because you perceive me to be helpless, which appeals to you in a rather unnatural way. Isn’t there some kind of knightly code of ethics being violated here? This is unseemly behavior. You are far too preoccupied with my breasts.”
Sigurd gasped, turned beet red, and finally tore his eyes away from me.
“I, uh, indeed, I apologize, my dear lady,” he offered in a lamely defensive way. “You’re not what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?” I demanded.
“I’m not sure. For a moment there, with the armor to confuse me, I was afraid you were going to turn out to be a man. It quickly became apparent you were a woman, after all, but I was expecting a goddess, presumably with superhuman strength,” Sigurd clarified, still apologetic. “At least, this is what the High Priestess over at the islands implied.”
“I am Brynhild, daughter of King Budli,” I said curtly, not wanting to delve too deeply into my true origins and determined to establish the human identity Odin had set up for me. “I’m a good athlete, but superhuman is a relative term. Compared to the average woman of this day and age, I suppose my strength is superhuman, if you want to exaggerate a little.”
“I see,” Sigurd replied, having now fully recovered his composure. “Are you a goddess?”
“I’m the daughter of King Budli of Iceland,” I repeated. “How I ended up on the mountaintop is a mystery for the gods to ponder. This is all you need to know for now.”
“Of course,” Sigurd replied. With downcast eyes, the son of Sigmund bowed before me, and he indicated his obsequiousness with the elaborate gesture of the hand ending in a flourish. He was now the perfect picture of courtly politeness. Removing his cloak, he gently wrapped the warm garment around my shoulders to protect me from the spring chill and to cover me up. When Sigurd put his mind to it, he could exhibit a gracious charm, an impeccable show of good manners and courtly consideration of which only a knight from antiquity was capable. His behavior at such times was perfect, and from a woman’s point of view, quite disarming.
We continued along on our walk. When Grani had completely recovered from his scare, Sigurd mounted him, pausing to help me climb on the animal’s back in order to sit behind my infatuated knight with my arms around his waist. Thus, with Fafnir’s treasure packed in side bags, we began the journey that would take me back to Iceland and reunite me with my earthly father, the kind and aged King Budli. During the land journey, we stopped at waterfalls to refresh ourselves.
Sigurd had packed away on Grani’s sturdy back enough provisions to last the trip. We nourished ourselves with smoked fish and dried fruit. We harvested wild berries and other fruits, when we could find them. We dined on edible flowers and mushrooms. Certain insects we were able to cook over an open fire and devour as if they were delicacies. And an even rarer treat, Sigurd would occasionally catch freshwater fish in a pond or a lake, where we would stop to bathe or relax. Sigurd had no lust for the hunt. The shadows and the blood of Glittering Heath, where both Fafnir and Regin lay dead, still left Sigurd sweating in terror during the night when he awoke from troubled dreams. We slept on thin, course mats, which had been tightly rolled up and faithfully transported by Sigurd’s tireless beast of burden, Grani.
Legend has it that I imparted great wisdom to Sigurd during this journey. Knowing in his heart I really was a goddess, for indeed the High Priestess had told him so, and Sigurd had seen bizarre events with his own eyes on the mountaintop, Sigurd sought to avail himself of all the sagacity and good counsel he could. So he asked me to edify him with my pearls of knowledge. According to the myth, I sounded positively preachy. The story claims I told Sigurd to be kind to his friends but not to tolerate any disloyal words or treacherous acts. I supposedly told him to beware of the hidden evil in the most innocuous situations, such as a seemingly harmless flirtation in May or the alluring eyes of another man’s wife. I allegedly said, “For oft thereof doth great calamity befall the mightiest of men!”
I was also presumed to have told my chosen knight to be careful at public meetings in the marketplace, where angry men say the stupidest things without mindfully considering their words. My advice was to remain silent unless, of course, someone called my illustrious cavalier a dastard, in which case I advised that Sigurd speak up and protest in a mild-mannered fashion; he should then wait for a more opportune time on another day to slay the brute who made him look bad in public. I allegedly told Sigurd to be very careful when passing through areas known to be dangerous, and when traveling, never to spend the night sleeping too close to the highway, since this was only asking for trouble.
My favorite little story is that I supposedly told Sigurd not to be beguiled by fair women and not to obsess with a woman in a way that might rob him of sleep or peace of mind. “Indulge them not with kisses, hugs, or other sweet things and words of love,” I was to have said. (This was obviously untrue, and in any event, it was certainly not a piece of advice Sigurd ever heeded.) According to the myth, I warned Sigurd against fighting with drunkards, told him never to break a promise of marriage, and not to raise a child whose father or brother he had slain, no matter how young the child for “very often a wolf is hidden in the youngling.”
To this great and knowledgeable tirade, Sigurd was to have replied, “None can be found in heaven or on earth who is as wise and as sagacious as you, Brynhild; therefore, I must have thee at my side as my beloved and my wedded wife for all of time.”
All of this was pure nonsense. I never made such pompous pronouncements, but coincidentally, all these homilies happened to reflect the prevailing wisdom of the age. Morality imposed extensive restrictions, and most of the restrictions applied exclusively to women. But Sigurd did not want me to preach foolish words of dubious wisdom; he wanted desperately to demonstrate he was not a typical murderous cad who happened to have been born during the dark ages.
Thus, our talk turned to Greek philosophy. Sigurd was a bit of an odd man out in this respect, since the Greek tradition of philosophy and art was generally unknown to Scandinavia at this time. My knightly companion was particularly enamored of Plato’s cosmology and theory of ideas, which he wanted to discuss with me at length. This proved to be more trying than it should have been since Sigurd’s knowledge was often superficial and dilettantish. Because Sigurd was an acclaimed and fearful warrior, too many people pandered to this prominent knight, and they made him think he was exceptional in areas where he was not. But even when Sigurd was being mediocre, he was well above the average person of his civilization, such as it was.
Sigurd was keen on Plato’s ontology, and he insisted on arguing about it. He pointed to a raven in the sky, asking, “How do you know such a creature is a raven?”
“Because it looks like a raven?” I attempted halfheartedly.
“Yes, but it’s just a reflection of a raven. It’s a good imitation of the ideal raven that must reside somewhere in heaven. Somewhere in heaven is a perfect form of a raven, and the physical ravens in this world are only participating in the heavenly form, portraying at best a weak reflection of it.”
“Hmm. An interesting theory,” I muttered, thinking about Odin’s two pet ravens who always sat on either side of the throne, Hugin and Munin, which translates roughly as Thought and Memory. Thought and memory were the two most divine aspects of physical incarnation. It was through thought Odin spoke to all earthlings. The All-Father planted thoughts in the heads of humans, and as a result, they experienced the phenomenon of thought as something arising in their minds of its own accord. Most humans heard their thoughts as having the sound of their own voices, and true, some thoughts belonged to the individual, but others belonged to Odin.
Thought, however, was only one of the two divine ravens and only half of the divinity in every human. The other half was Memory. Memory was the most sacred gift Odin gave to humans. Humans experienced this gift mostly as poignant memories acquired within the context of one lifetime. Humans mistakenly thought their memories could only take them back to the day they were born, if even that, since no one could remember back that far. Odin meant for humans to cherish the memories accumulated within a lifetime.
But the challenge Odin gave physical beings was to try to remember what they had known before they were born since, as always, every soul received the gift, or perhaps the burden, of amnesia before re-entering physical reality. Unfortunately, this was the biggest pitfall from a purely human point of view. The average earthling did not even try to remember what had happened before birth. Humans were so sure the physical body embraced both the beginning and the end of a lifetime that they could not believe there was anything to remember outside the limitations of the present life.
Thus, mortals experienced only the vaguest and haziest recollections, a minute fraction of the soul’s wealth of knowledge and wisdom. And even when it came to the dimmest prenatal memories, humans were mistrustful. They questioned the source and the nature of such a priori knowledge, examining every aspect of the soul’s acquired knowledge and doubting the very linguistic structures devised to describe it. Thus, philosophy was born. And what a fine mess the philosophers made of it. Countless tomes were written with such arrogance and opaqueness that such texts were barely intelligible to the average human. Odin did not make out well with the philosophers. Unable to prove the existence of the All-Father with either logic or mathematical proofs, the philosophers often dismissed Odin out of hand. In this manner, atheism spread like wildfire.
Plato, among others, had suspected the truth, but the Platonic truth was perceived by posterity as being rather quaint and idiosyncratic. Plato knew the soul had beheld all the great truths of the universe before becoming incarnated, but the trauma of birth had caused some kind of amnesia to set in. This renowned philosopher observed that humans spent a lifetime pursuing the senseless task of remembering what they already knew. The search for knowledge was therefore merely the difficult process of retrieving one’s memory. Plato said all knowledge was recollection. He was right. And no one believed him even though countless scholars became experts on the interpretation of Plato. Not only did no one believe Plato, but very few individuals even tried to remember what they already knew.
“Do you believe the ideal raven resides in heaven?” Sigurd interrupted my reverie.
“Ah, yes, perhaps. I think you might have an interesting theory there,” I replied with a slightly patronizing tone.
“So what we are seeing is an imitation of beauty, just a fraction of the perfection the gods gaze upon in the heavens. The absolute form for the ideal raven must be a thousand times more beautiful than what we are looking at right now. The perfect raven must dazzle the eyes and delight the mind with its sublime form, color, and texture. That which we call an earthly raven is just a poor copy—fuzzy, vague, indistinct, but still worthy of awe, for even that which only imitates the divine is still participating in the perfection of divinity.”
“Yes, but let us not exaggerate,” I cautioned. “The raven you’ve sighted might be closer to the ideal than you think.” I did not want to tell him that although Odin’s two pet ravens were handsome enough, there was not a remarkable difference between them and what I was seeing on Earth.
“What do you call him?” Sigurd asked out of the blue.
“What do I call whom?” I returned.
“The All-Father,” Sigurd answered.
“What makes you think I have a pet name for him?” I replied, my voice becoming a little edgy.
“Do not misunderstand me, dear lady. You’re a goddess, and you must have a special rapport with the All-Father. So what do you call him? Odin, Wuoton, or Woden? Or is there another name I don’t know about?”
“I would call him Odin, but what makes you so sure I’m a goddess?” I inquired.
“Oh, please, my dear and exquisite Brynhild, you did not just wander up to the top of the mountain and lose yourself up there. I saw miracles that defied all rationality. From a great distance, I saw magnificent lightning bolts, which struck out of nowhere with no storm cloud in sight, then a ring of fire, which miraculously died away when I approached, and a castle, which simply materialized before crumbling to dust before my very eyes. Even the High Priestess told me Odin had evicted a goddess, and I was the only one who could bring her back to life. So don’t be so coy about it. Did you think you were going to keep it a secret?” Sigurd confronted me boldly.
“Indeed, no, not at all. But on the other hand, there is certainly no reason to shout it from the mountain peaks and attract a lot of unwanted attention, now, is there?” I retorted. “Besides, under normal circumstances, I shouldn’t even remember I’m a goddess. It’s not my fault—there was a malfunction.”
“A malfunction?” parroted Sigurd.
“Yes, a defect, a flaw, something was not working the way it was supposed to,” I stammered with an embarrassing inarticulateness.
“And what was that?” Sigurd asked with curiosity.
“Odin’s thorn of sleep,” I replied.
“Odin’s what?”
“His thorn of sleep,” I repeated. “The amnesia rays. When a soul reincarnates on planet Earth, Odin stings it with the thorn of sleep. In truth, it’s just the index finger of his right hand, and the newly born individual is hit with a lightning bolt obliterating all memories of previous existence in Asgard and any prior physical existence. Odin made an adjustment for me in order to induce only partial amnesia, but he somehow misestimated. I remember everything.”
“For the love of Thor. That sounds outlandish. How long does the amnesia last?” Sigurd wanted to know.
“For the course of one entire lifetime.” My reply was terse and matter-of-fact.
“What?” Sigurd exclaimed in disbelief. “What a shocking waste of all knowledge and experience, hard won in previous lifetimes, lessons learned at the point of death in some cases! This means you never quite remember who and what you were before the present lifetime.”
“Exactly. Alas, it’s more difficult to understand than that.” I sighed deeply because this lecture did not sit well with humans. “You can remember who and what you were in previous lifetimes, as well as recollecting some of the eternal wisdom at your disposal when you resided in Asgard and dwelt with the gods, but only with the greatest effort. You have to have the most sincere faith in a realm you can neither see, hear, feel, nor touch. You have to believe in a realm existing only in the murky mists of your unconscious mind. This realm makes its presence known to you in dreams, fleeting wisps of intuition, and wayward thoughts planted by Odin himself. But if you don’t struggle to recognize these hints, if you don’t recognize the voice of Odin, or if you recognize Odin’s voice but don’t listen, you will remain in your blessed state of forgetfulness until the day you die.”
“That sounds like a fate worse than death,” Sigurd commented soberly.
“Yes, but it’s good for a laugh or two when you are watching humans from Odin’s amphitheater in Asgard,” I noted wryly.
“Why? What exactly is the source of the merriment? Is it not pathetic, tragic, and a travesty of human life?” Sigurd was serious about his concern. I tried not to smile.
“Oh, you know, everybody stumbling around, bumping into each other, and not recognizing each other. After a while, it starts to look like a brothel patronized by drunkards,” I said dryly.
“And such scenarios amuse you?” Sigurd’s implicit disapproval was irritating me.
“Never mind,” I said, disregarding his reproachful air. “I think we’ve rested enough. Let’s saddle up Grani. My father, King Budli, awaits me.”
And Sigurd and I rode for several more hours before letting Grani rest and drink at a freshwater lake. Sigurd napped along the banks of the lake, and I lazily sat on a large rock, dipping my feet into the cool water. Tiny waves lapped around the sandy ledge, and I amused myself by skipping an occasional stone on the water and watching the concentric circles expand in perfect geometrical form. The concentric circles of the rippling water was the metaphor most often used by Odin to describe the effect all gods and humans have on others. Even the tiniest good deeds expand to reach countless others, most of whom we are completely unaware. The same was true of even the smallest evils. Odin never tired of the ripple analogy.
The lake mesmerized me, but I was not pleased with the rippling circles of water, which had reminded me once again of Odin’s presence and the former life I led in Asgard, and most particularly, my role at Valhalla. My old apartments in the residence of the gods, my duties as head Valkyrie, and the constant lovemaking and bickering with Odin, all of which was now at an end. I was stuck in the physical realm on Earth, one of the more primitive places in the universe, but the one Odin doted on and fretted about more so than any other.
Odin had punished me with this harsh sentence, but it was also an honor. These humans needed a tremendous amount of assistance; I was supposed to give them a celestial nudge to help redirect them from the current destructive path they pursued with such ardor and determination. Odin had faith in me. He also wanted to rid himself of me for about forty earth-years or so. Our liaison had become ever so complicated, and Frigg had grown so hysterical about it, even Odin could no longer maintain his godly serenity about this involvement. The All-Father seriously needed a break from the melodrama.
The thought of Odin subdued me. He was my mentor, my friend, my lover, my brother, and my priest. Odin was the center of the universe. I loved him, and through him I was eternally in the process of evolving into something even higher and more perfect than I had ever imagined. Under Odin’s watchful eye, I was constantly changing. Not just from year to year, but from day to day and hour to hour, to put it in terms of the physical world. My gaze roamed over the landscape and rested on Sigurd, who lay sleeping in his armor and his boots. In my earthly form, I was supposed to find Sigurd irresistible. And I did feel an attraction, one which made no sense to me. He had an odd charm about him.
Sigurd was not conventionally handsome. But there was something oddly appealing about him, especially when observing the son of Sigmund closely. There was an agility, a graceful step, which came to him naturally. Sigurd’s crooked smile was boyish and naive, and his bad posture was noticeable, but his mind was sharp, and his body was rugged. I felt the physical attraction I had been destined to feel, but unfortunately, there was the problem of my memory having been fully retained. I still had all my old feelings for Odin, and comparisons were inevitable. How could any mortal compare with Odin? But on the other hand, I was now embodied in my physical form, and Odin, unless he chose to descend, was of a completely different form not comprehensible when one inhabited a human body. Sigurd’s physical presence was gradually making inroads. I was feeling closer to him; I was developing a very human affection.
Sigurd’s eyelids fluttered, and he awoke. Remembering where he was, he immediately lifted his head in alarm and looked around for me. I waved and smiled from my vantage point on the rock, and he looked relieved. It was time to move on. We loaded up our provisions and mounted Grani once again. Thus, we continued as we headed for the coast, and finally, after two days we found Sigurd’s ship nicely hidden in a secluded cove. The crew Sigurd left behind had waited patiently for their captain to return. These hardy sailors were saddened at the news of Regin’s death, and all had to be consoled. They gazed with wonder at the large sacks nearly bursting with the precious objects Sigurd had retrieved from Fafnir’s lair. We unloaded the goods and boarded without further delay, and soon we struck sail and headed out to open sea for Iceland.
This comforted me marvelous much. At last, I was going home.
King Budli was a continual source of astonishment for me. At the age of eighty, this beloved patriarch had retained much of the handsomeness of his youth. His dark hair had long since turned white, but his gray eyes pierced another’s in an eaglelike fashion demonstrating their keen vivacity. As a warrior, the reigning monarch had enjoyed an illustrious history, and he had proved his valor in battle many times over. Odin had rooted for Budli countless times. It was one of Odin’s favorite scenarios—the handsome young warrior who was courageous, strong, and passionate.
Too many times, such beautiful young men met their heroic death on the bloodiest of battlefields. And, inevitably, there would follow the ocean of tears shed in their memories. The bards took up the baleful song time and again. This was the sentimental ballad of the fallen hero, a ballad cherished by Odin, who had a predilection for such romantic narrative. But on occasion Odin tired of the repetitive lament, and he would change the script regarding some individual chronicles to give such a woeful tale a different ending. Now the headstrong youth filled with spirit and skill at war, instead of meeting an early and tragic death, lives a long and fruitful life. This warrior ages, his hair turns gray, his children grow up and have children of their own, and he becomes gentle and kind with the passage of the decades. The murderous ferociousness of youth becomes but a low flicker in the enduring flame of a long life.
My earthly father, King Budli, had re-established a life for himself back in his kingdom. Budli’s warrior days had ended when he turned fifty-five; at first, he felt lost, restless, and at odds with himself. But slowly, over the passing years, the kind ruler found a mission to be conducted in peacetime. Budli looked after his kingdom, and he became the wisest and most just leader known to Scandinavian civilization. The white-haired king collected taxes not to fill his own coffers, but to provide food, clothing, and shelter to the sick, the aged, and the orphaned of his kingdom. Budli provided free education so that all citizens could learn to read and write. The king took popular votes on critical issues. The realm started to take on the resemblance of a democracy. Budli had been married and widowed twice, and he had fathered six children. All the royal offspring were married and successful.
“I have extinguished the aggressive fires of my soul,” Budli told his trusted counselors. “War no longer appeals to me. Now I only want peace and security for the subjects of my kingdom.”
The sons of King Budli were the noblest knights in the land, with the exception of one putative son, and that was Atli of Hunaland, also known as Attila the Hun, who was disturbingly rumored to be related to Budli. How such a gentle king could have fathered a lunatic barbarian was a source of eternal agony for Budli, as he sought to understand the divine plan for this improbable occurrence. It was said Budli had fathered Atli accidentally, in his heyday, after a victorious battle when, overwhelmed with wine and the passion of song and dance, the king had bedded down with an exotic-looking Mongolian woman. The Asian hetaera allegedly gave birth back in her native land and raised her son to be wild and hedonistic, always quick to tell others the child was the true son of an Icelandic king.
“It is a constant bane of my existence to hear the rumors that I have fathered this monstrous invader,” Budli often lamented. And there I was, now purported to be the daughter of Budli, and perhaps half sister to the crazed and raging Atli.
But Budli did not know of my existence, and Odin had to alter Budli’s consciousness and memory to make the king aware of me. To prepare for my arrival, Odin had whispered a fictitious story to Budli one afternoon as the venerable king napped soundly in the garden. Odin told Budli in a dream how the king had once fallen in love with a beautiful young girl named Gwendyl, a maid whose meager living was to make artificial flowers out of silks and other fabrics. In the dream, walking down the garden path one day, Budli had stumbled across the lovely waif as she made her way home, and he was captivated by her at once.
Having just been widowed, the good king was deeply affected by the girl’s appeal, and he could not turn his back on Gwendyl’s youthful charms and virginal beauty. After speaking to her and sharing his walk with her, the dream continued, Budli took Gwendyl to a small guesthouse on the castle grounds where, acting upon impulse, the king surrendered to her innocent allure. The dream told Budli the brief affair was very intense and lasted but a few months. It broke the king’s heart to end this intimate association, but duty demanded Budli find a mature woman to reign at his side. He sent the young Gwendyl to Denmark, where she was given a free education backed by Budli’s funding and generosity, and she became a skilled and prosperous artist.
Unknown to the king, the dream narrative went on, the lovely damsel gave birth six months after she was banished from Budli’s presence. Vague rumors from a messenger passing through the region told of a beautiful child-princess, who had been fathered by a noble king and whose mother was an artist. Budli had always suspected, the dream told him, the story was about him and Gwendyl, and the child in question was his own. The princess had grown up to be a great beauty, a scholar, and an athlete with many talents. In time the mother of the child died, and the daughter ventured into the world, where she earned a living as a nurse who tended to wounded soldiers. Eventually Budli’s daughter decided to enter into the service of Odin as a teacher and nurse at a religious cloister. Having made her way to a secluded monastery located on a mountaintop, the daughter was found there by Sigurd, who knew her true parentage, having been told by the High Priestess of Faeroe, and the well-known knight had come to restore the princess to her true station in life. At the end of the king’s dream, the child, now a grown woman, was revealed to be Princess Brynhild, who was returning to Iceland to find her true father, King Budli.
Budli awoke from his nap believing Odin’s fictitious tale to be true. The dream became implanted in the king’s consciousness as if it had really happened. He arose and ran to the royal kitchen. “My long lost daughter will be arriving shortly!” he yelled to the mystified cooks. “We must begin preparing a great feast in her honor.”
The royal monarch was now waiting with trepidation for the arrival of a daughter he had never met, sincerely believing in a reality quite literally dreamed up by Odin. A mortal often could not tell the difference between physical reality and the dreamlike reality of the soul. How many times has the question been asked, “Did I dream that or did it really happen?” The ancient Chinese philosopher Chuang Tzu once dreamed he was a butterfly. When he awoke he realized he was Chuang Tzu dreaming he was a butterfly, but was it not possible that in his true waking state, he was a butterfly dreaming he was Chuang Tzu? This was called the transformation of things by the Chinese philosopher, and such transformations were, indeed, engineered by Odin.
After reaching the coast of Iceland and docking the ship, Sigurd and I disembarked. We could see Budli’s castle shimmering in the distance. Nestled in the Icelandic hills and seemingly lit up with the spectral rays of the crepuscular sky, the mythical realm of Budli almost reminded me of the beauty of Asgard, my heavenly home. But nothing on Earth could compare to Odin’s heavenly abode. The richest king lived in poverty when contrasted to the magnificence of Odin’s infinite labyrinth of halls and palaces gleaming in the celestial realm of the highest of all the heavens. Odin’s architectural structures glistened with rubies, emeralds, and crystals. The divine bluish-white light bathing every building and every room in Asgard was the most magnificent translucence I had ever seen.
The lights of Asgard were magic. Everything in Odin’s realm was pure magic.
And Earth had just a fraction of this magic, even though Odin had meant for Earth to be a paradise and to be the physical materialization of heaven. But the evil and the negativity emanating in such strong doses from every human being had almost succeeded in turning the planet into a hellish cauldron. Indeed, as Odin always lamented, it was as if his cherished creatures were trying to kill him. Yet the All-Father tried not to intervene; he would not intervene. Such was the strength of Odin’s conviction. Such was the tenacity of Odin’s promise to grant free will to every creature on Earth. Even if earthlings were trying to kill him, Odin would willingly die for them. Such was the true nature of divine love. Odin could never turn against his own masterpiece. The Father of the Gods would have rather destroyed himself.
After a speedy journey, our ship finally docked on the Icelandic coast. Sigurd and I made our way up the winding path to the castle drawbridge, followed by our entourage. The sentinel had already announced the arrival of Sigurd’s ship to Budli. The majestic leader awaited us on the other side of the moat. I felt a surge of human pride at the sight of my earthly father in full royal regalia and mounted on his best Arabian horse. There I was, only a putative daughter at best, but the beloved, white-headed king of Noachian stature was welcoming me to his home, as if I were a favorite child whom he had cherished all his life. Budli was radiating genuine fondness and sentiment as he watched our horse cross the drawbridge, and when those intelligent gray eyes met mine, they glistened with tears. “Greetings, Brynhild,” Budli spoke, his voice cracking with emotion. “I have been expecting you. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, dear father, ” I replied softly as Sigurd and I dismounted.
My kind and dear father watched every move Sigurd made with fierce interest. Budli knew well who Sigurd was, and the idea of having Sigurd for a son-in-law appealed to him mightily. After the king dismounted, he embraced me, and with our arms entwined about each other’s waists, we wended our way through the courtyard while Sigurd followed behind us with Grani, who had been transported with us on the boat.
“I apologize, my dear daughter,” Budli began, “for it took too long for us to be reunited. I had heard only the faintest rumors of your existence, and I did not know for sure if such rumors could be heeded. But there came a mysterious communication from a messenger telling of an impoverished princess who was the daughter of Gwendyl, the artist, and fathered by a warrior-king, who knew her not. How could I then continue to deceive myself? I knew the rumors had to be true, and my daughter needed me. May Odin forgive me for my neglect and my ignorance.”
“Fear not, dear father, for Odin forgives you. Believe me when I tell you it was not your fault.”
It was a ruse, which had to be preserved. Odin demanded it.
The patriarchal king proceeded to give us a tour of his imposing palace, and I was shown to my rooms, a huge apartment with its own turret. Sigurd was given quarters in another wing of the castle. Sigurd was exhausted from his long journey, which had included the attack on Lygni’s castle, the deadly struggle with Fafnir, and the lonely trip to Mount Hindarfiall followed by our voyage to Iceland. Sigurd’s nerves were frayed, and he needed rest and repose. My rescuer agreed to stay with us for a while to recover his strength. After being shown to his room, Sigurd removed his armor, bathed, and collapsed on the soft bed with its clean, silky linen. In no time at all, the son of Sigmund had fallen into the arms of the gods and goddesses who protect those who sleep.
I retreated to my rooms, where my new lady-in-waiting poured a bath for me. My servant had collected the most fragrant herbs and blossoms from Budli’s gardens. These were placed in a large wicker basket on the table alongside my bed. The delicate aromas of the bouquet and the warm water doused with healing salts relaxed me, and I sank into a deep reverie that included thoughts of both Sigurd and Odin. A hint of a breeze rustled the white lace curtains hanging in front of the ornately sculptured windows. The spring air still had enough of a chill to be invigorating. I did not mind the briskness; it was good to air out the rooms. I longed for Odin, but I was already falling in love with Sigurd. The spiritual love and the earthly love were diametrically opposed, yet not necessarily in contradiction to each other. One did not exclude the other, but it was disturbing to synthesize the two of them into the psyche of one very complicated woman, who happened to be a goddess.
I, too, was wearied and spent from the long journey to reunite with my earthly father. After the relaxing bath, I lay down on the rich tapestry of the divan in my bedchamber. My eyelids began to close slowly as the heaviness of sleep forced itself upon me, and I was conscious of drifting in and out of my thoughts. And just at the moment when sleep overtakes, it happened. I became aware of a blue-white ball of light shimmering in my room. It was so luminous that it blocked out the sun, and the glorious day reigning outside the castle walls looked dark and ominous in comparison to the light streaming into my room.
I was too drained of my best energies to react. My limbs would not obey me; I could not move. With eyelids only half open, I saw him there, watching me with an expression of the most exquisite love. It was Odin, just as he had looked when I last saw him in Asgard. He was so gloriously splendid to the eye, with his dark tresses lying in ringlets on his shoulders and his translucent blue eyes filled with gentleness and understanding. I tried to smile back, but my mouth muscles were too exhausted to move. I could not keep my eyes open. In my heart I called out the All-Father’s name, just before I was catapulted into the depths of a sound sleep.
I was loathe to relinquish this precious vision of Odin, but it was Odin himself who had forced the drowsiness upon my fatigued mind, despite my resistance. He knew I longed to commune with him, but he would not allow it. The All-Father was not ready to commune with me. I dreamed of Odin and Valhalla all night. Within the illogical framework of the dream, I saw myself wandering around in the labyrinth of hallways. I argued with Odin about nonsensical subjects using logic that was pure drivel. I spoke gibberish with strangers. I walked into familiar rooms where suddenly the ceiling rose to an infinite height, and I stood dwarfed in the midst of an unearthly space. I lost Odin in my dream and searched for him everywhere. He could not be found.
I pounded on Odin’s door, and he would not answer. You know why you’re there, Brynhild, the familiar tones berated me with the air of a stern father. Odin’s voice echoed strangely, and I could not tell from whence it came. I ran down elaborate mazes of corridors, which seemingly had no end. I turned in confusion to talk to strangers, who passed me by unseeingly. The strange entities were in a daze, sleepwalkers going about mundane business, which they thought was of the utmost importance. My quest for Odin was urgent, yet I could not be heard. The beings who populated my dream world babbled at each other, thinking they were making sense. These strangers stared straight ahead and moved from one insignificant spot to another. They never made any progress, and they never arrived at any true understanding. They were lost. My dream was, indeed, a nightmare.
When I awoke, shafts of flaxen sunshine were streaming through the open windows. The perfume of the spring lilacs wafted gently into the room. The birds resonated clear and sharp in the crispness of the morning air. My lady-in-waiting was bustling about, sweeping the planked wooden floor, beating the dust out of velvet cushions, and rearranging freshly cut blossoms.
“G’mornin,’ my lady.” She curtsied briefly but did not presume to converse with me. Just as well, for I was not fit for any kind of society, not even that of a servant. A glance in the mirror told the story of my difficult night. There were dark half-moons under my eyes and pronounced lines around my mouth. I looked as though I had not slept at all. I was not at peace with Odin’s decision to banish me to this unsophisticated wasteland, where he intended to leave me for the course of a human lifetime. I was still fighting with him. My rebellious nature was unaffected by my fall from favor.
I desperately wanted to argue with Odin.
But my desires were naught. No one could argue with Odin. In his infinite wisdom, Odin knew what was best for the cosmos, even at those moments when he stumbled. The All-Father would say, of course, he never stumbled but was simply imitating his favorite creatures. “Merely,” he would declare with a sniff, “to see what all the tomfoolery feels like. They make such a din over every minute obstacle—sometimes you have to wonder.”
Still, if anyone called upon Odin, he often could not resist. The Father of the Gods was a sentimental, old fool, even though very often the poor earthlings did not recognize a gift from the gods when it was sitting right under their noses, having very nearly been delivered by Odin himself. Upon a sincere request from humans embroiled in great difficulties, Odin often intervened in spite of himself, even if such divine intervention was not always immediate. I only had to think of how many times I stumbled upon Odin in his chambers with his hands clasped over his ears, trying to drown out the cries of despair coming from Earth. “Will you not do something?” I would ask.
“I have,” he would say, “but it takes a little while for my decree and the human experience to catch up with each other. There is always a small time lapse.”
Time was Odin’s greatest area of confusion. He created a linear sense of time for earthlings because only heavenly deities could bear the blurry timelessness of present, past, and future mixed up together. The human brain was not equipped for Odin’s experience of eternity. Even in Asgard, sometimes the gods and goddesses milled around the vast salons a little bit bewildered about the temporal state they were in. So when Odin intervened, which happened more often than he cared to admit, humans did not experience the intervention instantaneously. When humans did receive instant assistance from above, the chain of events would unfurl like lightning and straight away be pronounced a miracle. So to integrate Odin’s helping hand into the logical order of things, there had to be cause and effect, action and consequence. Everything would be set right again, whatever the crisis, but it always took a little time.
But I was trying not to think about Odin. I had been temporarily relieved of all my celestial responsibilities. I was no longer the head of the Valkyries, nor was I Odin’s lover. I had been exiled to this place, one of the most elemental and uncultivated spheres in Odin’s universe, where I was to exert my influence and hopefully change the course of a primitive history. I had to ease these human souls along in their spiritual evolution, which was a daunting task, to say the least. My dear father had organized a great feast to be held in the castle that evening in honor of my arrival. Budli was trying hard to make up the lost time to me. I felt sorry for the dear king, for indeed, the whole story of my relation to him was a fiction Odin had necessitated in order to find me a proper home in my human incarnation. I was living in regal splendor here on Earth, but compared to my chambers at Asgard, I was tolerating circumstances of a barren and miserable nature.
In the closets of my rooms in Budli’s palace, I retrieved exquisite gowns for every kind of royal event. My father had thought of everything. These magnificent dresses had been made by the finest tailors in the land. Not knowing my size was at first a bit of a problem, until the correct measurements were whispered in the ears of the dressmakers by Odin’s pet ravens, Hugin and Munin. The tailors fashioned everything to fit me perfectly, knowing not where the inspiration had come from.
I sighed as I laid these fabulous creations of silk and taffeta out on the bed before me. I was perfectly content to wear my simple white gown every day. The human preoccupation with protocol and dress was just another sign of how primitive existence was on this planet. Ironically, humans thought the more complicated the protocol and the more elaborate the dress, the more sophisticated such manners and customs were. It was really just the opposite. Hiding behind elaborate costumes to denote what role they were playing and acting out little ceremonial rites were merely ways to avoid being natural, honest, and unaffected. Truly enlightened beings wore the minimal amount of clothing needed to protect their sensitive skin. It almost overwhelmed me to realize just how little progress civilization had made on Earth over the millennia. To a certain extent, humans had actually lost some of the intuitive wisdom that had been theirs from the earliest days.
Nevertheless, I donned one of the plainer dresses I assumed was meant for daily activity, such as pleasant walks in the garden. I dismissed my lady-in-waiting for the day, for her state of servitude irritated me. There was no such thing as a servant in Asgard. I took to the garden paths and the fields beyond the castle walls. Sigurd was in another wing of the castle, and I did not know if he had arisen yet. The problem of Sigurd’s engagement to Gudrun was still very much on my mind. But I breathed in the fragrant waves of wildflowers in the field, and I took heart. Had not Odin appeared to me the previous night, just before I had fallen into the deepest, most refreshing sleep? Surely, the All-Father had been trying to tell me something with his electrifying presence. If Odin was with me, then truly there was nothing to worry about. I was reminded of Odin’s words concerning human worries, which replayed themselves in my head.
“When mortals worry, it is a form of idolatry,” he once confessed to me.
“How is that?” I wondered.
“Because it means no one believes I am present every moment or that I am involved in every event, every detail, which affects them in every way. Humans think they are the gods of the earth, the masters of the universe, and that they control everything. This produces an anxiety so severe, it can kill them.”
“I see,” I said thoughtfully, “although you have to admit, Sire, when you observe some of the earthly events going on, and considering you profess your involvement down to the most minute detail, surely you must be aware there is some cause for anxiety. Who would suspect that a loving god was behind it all?”
“My flawed creatures have to have faith,” Odin returned solemnly. “And they have to assist by willing the paradisiacal vision to materialize. This is the most contentious area of concern. Humans have to help me. They are not helping me.”
And it was not easy to refute that godly perception.