Part 6

Presently, in his wanderings, Loki passed by the house of Fensalir, in the doorway of which sat Frigga, at her spinning-wheel. She did not recognize Red Loki, but greeted him kindly and asked:

“Old woman, dost thou know why the gods are so merry this evening?”

And Loki answered: “They are casting stones and throwing sharp knives and great clubs at Balder the Beautiful, who stands smiling in their midst, daring them to hurt him.”

Then Frigga smiled tranquilly and turned again to her wheel, saying:

“Let them play on, for no harm will come to him whom all things in heaven and earth have sworn not to hurt.”

“Art thou sure, good mother, that _all_ things in heaven and earth have taken this vow?”

“Ay, indeed,” replied Frigga, “all save a harmless little plant, the mistletoe, which grows on the oak by Valhalla, and this is far too small and weak to be feared.”

And to this Loki replied in musing voice, nodding his head as he spoke: “Yea, thou art right, great Mother of Gods and Men.”

But the wicked Asa had learnt what he desired to know. The instrument by which he might bring harm to Balder the Beautiful was now awaiting him, and he determined to use it, to the dire sorrow of Asgard.

Hastening to the western gate of Valhalla, he pulled a clump of the mistletoe from the oak, and fashioned therefrom a little wand, or stick, and with this in his hand he returned to the plain of Idavold. He was far too cunning, however, to attempt to carry out his wicked design himself. His malicious heart was too well known to the Asa folk. But he soon found an innocent tool. Leaning against a tree, and taking no part in the game, was Hoder, the blind god, the twin brother of Balder, and to him he began:

“Hark to the Asas—how they laugh! Do you take no share in the game, good Hoder?”

“Not I,” said Hoder gloomily, “for I am blind, and know not where to throw.”

“I could show you that,” said Loki, assuming a pleasant tone; “’tis no hard matter, Hoder, and methinks the Asas will call you proud and haughty if you take no share in the fun.”

“But I have nothing to throw,” said poor blind Hoder.

Then Loki said: “Here, at least, is a small shaft, ’twill serve your purpose,” and leading innocent Hoder into the ring he cunningly guided his aim. Hoder, well pleased to be able to share in a game with his beloved brother, boldly sped the shaft, expecting to hear the usual shout of joyous laughter which greeted all such attempts. There fell instead dead silence on his ear, and immediately on this followed a wail of bitter agony. For Balder the Beautiful had fallen dead without a groan, his heart transfixed by the little dart of mistletoe.

“So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears, Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove; But in his breast stood fixed the fatal bough Of mistletoe, which Loki the Accuser gave To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw— ’Gainst that alone had Balder’s life no charm.”

Dreading he knew not what, Hoder stood in doubt for some moments. But soon the meaning of that bitter wail was borne in upon him, piercing the cloud of darkness in which he always moved. He opened wide his arms as though to clasp the beloved form, and then with: “I have slain thee, my brother,” despair seized him and he fell prostrate in utter grief.

Meantime, the Asa folk crowded round the silent form of Balder, weeping and wailing; but, alas! their moans and tears could not bring Balder back. At length, All-Father Odin, whose grief was too deep for lamentations, bade them be silent and prepare to bear the body of the dead Asa to the seashore.

The unhappy Hoder, unable to take part in these last offices, made his way sadly through Asgard, beyond the walls and along the seashore, until he came to the house Fensalir.

Frigga was seated upon her seat of honor before the fire against the inner wall, and standing before her, with bent head and woeful, sightless gaze, Hoder told her of the dread mishap that had befallen.

“Tell me, O mother,” he cried in ending, and his voice sounded like the wail of the wind on stormy nights, “Tell me, is there aught I can do to bring my brother back? Or can I make agreement with the dread mother of the Underworld, giving my life in exchange for his?”

Woe crowded upon woe in the heart of Frigga as she listened to the story. The doom was wrought that she had tried so vainly to avert, and not even her mother’s love had availed to safeguard the son so dearly cherished.

“On Balder Death hath laid her hand, not thee, my son,” she said, “yet though we fail in the end, there is much that may be tried before all hope is lost.”

Then she told Hoder of a road by which the abode of Hela could be reached, one which had been travelled by none living save Odin himself.

“Who goes that way must take no other horse To ride, but Sleipnir, Odin’s horse, alone. Nor must he choose that common path of gods Which every day they come and go in heaven, O’er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall’s watch.

“But he must tread a dark untravelled road Which branches from the north of heaven, and ride Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice, Through valleys deep engulfed, with roaring streams. And he will reach on the tenth morn a bridge Which spans with golden arches Giöll’s stream. Then he will journey through no lighted land, Nor see the sun arise, nor see it set;

“And he must fare across the dismal ice Northward, until he meets a stretching wall Barring his way, and in the wall a grate, But then he must dismount and on the ice, Tighten the girths of Sleipnir, Odin’s horse, And make him leap the grate, and come within.”

There in that cheerless abode dead Balder was enthroned, but, said Frigga, he who braves that dread journey must take no heed of him, nor of the sad ghosts flitting to and fro, like eddying leaves. First he must accost their gloomy queen and entreat her with prayers:

“Telling her all that grief they have in heaven For Balder, whom she holds by right below.”

A bitter groan of anguish escaped from Hoder when Frigga had finished her recital of the trials which must be undergone:

“Mother, a dreadful way is this thou showest; No journey for a sightless god to go.”

And she replied:

“… Thyself thou shalt not go, my son; But he whom first thou meetest when thou com’st To Asgard and declar’st this hidden way, Shall go; and I will be his guide unseen.”

Meantime the Asa folk had felled trees and had carried to the seashore outside the walls of Asgard a great pile of fuel, which they laid upon the deck of Balder’s great ship, _Ringhorn_, as it lay stranded high upon the beach.

“Seventy ells and four extended On the grass the vessel’s keel; High above it, gilt and splendid, Rose the figurehead ferocious With its crest of steel.”

Then they adorned the funeral pyre with garlands of flowers, with golden vessels and rings, with finely wrought weapons and rich necklets and armlets; and when this was done they carried out the fair body of Balder the Beautiful, and bearing it reverently upon their shields they laid it upon the pyre.

Then they tried to launch the good ship, but so heavily laden was she that they could not stir her an inch.

The Mountain-Giants, from their heights afar, had watched the tragedy with eyes that were not unpitying, for even they had no ill-will for Balder and they sent and told of a giantess called Hyrroken, who was so strong that she could launch any vessel whatever its weight might be.

So the Asas sent to fetch her from Giantland, and she soon came, riding a wolf for steed and twisted serpents for reins.

When she alighted, Odin ordered four of his mightiest warriors to hold the wolf, but he was so strong that they could do nothing until the giantess had thrown him down and bound him fast.

Then with a few enormous strides, Hyrroken reached the great vessel, and set her shoulder against the prow, sending the ship rolling into the deep.

The earth shook with the force of the movement as though with an earthquake, and the Asa folk collided with one another like pine-trees during a storm. The ship, too, with its precious weight, was well-nigh lost. At this Thor was wroth and, seizing his hammer, would have slain the giantess had not the other Asas held him back, bidding him not forget the last duty to the dead god. So Thor hallowed the pyre with a touch of his sacred hammer and kindled it with a thorn twig, which is the emblem of sleep.

Last of all, before the pyre blazed up, All-Father Odin added to the pile of offerings his magic ring, from which fell eight new rings every ninth night, and bending he whispered in Balder’s ear.

But none to this day know the words that Odin spake thus in the ear of his dead son.

Then the flames from the pyre rose high and the great ship drifted out to sea, and the wind caught the sails and fanned the flames till it seemed as though sky and sea were wrapped in golden flame.

“And while they gazed, the sun went lurid down Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on. But through the dark they watched the burning ship Still carried o’er the distant waters.… But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared; And as, in a decaying winter fire, A charr’d log, falling, makes a shower of sparks— So, with a shower of sparks, the pile fell in, Reddening the sea around; and all was dark.”

And thus did Balder the Beautiful pass from the peaceful steads of Asgard, as passes the sun when he paints the evening clouds with the glory of his setting.

_Note._—Most of the poetical extracts throughout this chapter are taken from Matthew Arnold’s “Balder Dead.”

THE WONDERFUL QUERN STONES

By Julia Goddard

Once upon a time there was a king of Denmark, or Gotland, as it was then called, whose name was Frothi. He was a great-grandson of the god Thor, and a very mighty king, and wherever the Danish language was spoken there was Frothi’s name honored and respected.

Among his treasures were two quern stones; nothing much to look at, simply two common millstones in appearance, and no one who did not know what they could do would think of taking any notice of them. Nevertheless these quern stones were of more worth than anything that King Frothi had, for they could produce anything that the grinder of the quern or hand-mill wished for. They would bring gold, silver, precious stones, anything and everything; and besides this they could grind love, joy, peace; therefore it is not too much to say that these stones were worth more than all the treasures of the king put together.

At least they would have been if he could have made use of them, but they were so heavy that few could be found to turn the quern, and just at the time of which I am speaking there was no one at all in the land of Gotland able to work away at the quern handle.

Now the more King Frothi pondered over his wonderful quern stones, the greater became his desire to use them, and he sought throughout the land from north to south, from east to west, if perchance he might find someone strong enough to help him in his need. But all to no purpose, and he was utterly in despair when, by good luck he happened to go on a visit to Fiölnir, King of Sweden, and to hear of two slave-women of great size and strength. Surely, thought Frothi, these are just the women to grind at my quern Grotti (for so it was called), and he asked King Fiölnir to be allowed to see them.

So King Fiölnir ordered the slaves to be brought before Frothi, and when Frothi saw them his spirits rose, for certainly Menia and Fenia were strong-looking women. They were eight feet in height, and broader across the shoulders than any of Frothi’s warriors, and the muscles of their arms stood out like cords. And they lifted heavy weights, threw heavy javelins, and did so many feats of strength that Frothi felt quite sure that they would be able to turn the quern handle.

“I will buy these slaves,” said he, “and take them with me to Gotland.”

Menia and Fenia stood with their arms folded and their proud heads bowed down, while Frothi counted out the gold to the seller. They were slaves; with money had they been bought, with money were they sold again. What cared Frothi who was their father, or how they had come into the land of Sweden?

And he took them home with him and bade them grind at the quern. Now he should be able to test the power of the wonderful stones.

“Grind, grind, Menia and Fenia, let me see whether you have strength for the work.”

So spake the King Frothi, and the huge women lifted the heavy stones as though they had been pebbles.

“What shall we grind?” asked the slaves.

“Gold, gold, peace and wealth for Frothi.”

Gold! gold! the land was filled with riches. Treasure in the king’s palace, treasure in the coffers of his subjects—gold! gold! There were no poor in the land, no beggars in the streets, no children crying for bread. All honor to the quern stones!

Peace! peace! no more war in the land. Frothi is at peace with everyone. And more than that, there was peace in all countries where Frothi’s name was known, even to the far south; and everyone talked of Frothi’s peace. Praise be to the quern stones! Wealth! yes, everything went well. Not one of the counsels of King Frothi failed. There was not a green field that did not yield a rich crop; not a tree but bent beneath its weight of fruit; not a stream that ran dry; not a vessel that sailed from the harbors of Gotland that came not back, after a fair voyage, in safety to its haven. There was good luck everywhere.

“Grind on, grind on, Menia and Fenia! good fortune is mine,” said King Frothi.

And the slaves ground on.

“When shall we rest, when may we rest, King Frothi? It is weary work toiling day and night.”

“No longer than whilst the cuckoo is silent in the spring.”

“Never ceasing is the cry of the cuckoo in the groves; may we not rest longer?”

“Not longer,” answered King Frothi, “than whilst the verse of a song is sung.”

“That is but little!” sighed Menia and Fenia, and they toiled on. Their arms were weary and their eyes heavy; they would fain have slept, but Frothi would not let them have any sleep. They were but slaves who must obey their master, so they toiled on, still grinding peace and wealth to Frothi:

“To Frothi and his queen Joy and peace— May plenty in the land Still increase. Frothi and his queen From dangers keep; May they on beds of down Sweetly sleep. No sword be drawn In Gotland old, By murderer bold. No harm befall The high or low— To none be woe, Good luck to all, Good luck to all. We grind, we grind, No rest we find, For rest we call.”

Thus sang the two giant women; then they begged again: “Give us rest, O Frothi!”

But still Frothi answered: “Rest whilst the verse of a song is sung, or as long as the cuckoo is silent in the spring.”

No longer would the king give them.

Yet Frothi was deemed a good king, but gold and good luck were hardening his heart.

Menia and Fenia went on grinding, and their wrath grew deeper and deeper, and thus at last they spoke.

First said Fenia: “Thou wert not wise, O Frothi. Thou didst buy us because like giants we towered above the other slaves, because we were strong and hardy and could lift heavy burdens.”

And Menia took up the wail: “Are we not of the race of the mountain giants? Are not our kindred greater than thine, O Frothi? The quern had never left the gray fell but for the giants’ daughters. Never, never should we have ground as we have done had it not been that we remembered from what race we sprang.”

Then answered Menia: “Nine long winters saw us training to feats of strength, nine long winters of wearisome labor. Deep down in the earth we toiled and toiled until we could move the high mountain from its foundations. We are weird women, O Frothi. We can see far into the future. Our eyes have looked upon the quern before. In the giants’ house we whirled it until the earth shook, and hoarse thunder resounded through the caverns. Thou art not wise, O Frothi! O Frothi; thou art not wise!”

But Frothi heard them not; he was sleeping the sweet sleep that the quern stones had ground for him.

“Strong are we indeed,” laughed Fenia sorrowfully, “strong to contend with the puny men—we whose pastime in Sweden was to tame the fiercest bears, so that they ate from our hands; we who fought with mighty warriors and came off conquerors; we who helped one prince and put down another. Well we fought, and many were the wounds we received from sharp spears and flashing swords. Frothi knows not our power or he would scarce have brought us to his palace to treat us thus. Here no one has compassion upon us. Cold are the skies above us, and the pitiless wind beats on our breasts. Cold is the ground on which we stand, and the keen frost bites our feet. Ah, there are none to pity us. No one cares for the slaves. We grind forever an enemy’s quern, and he gives us no rest. Grind, grind; I am weary of grinding; I must have rest.”

“Nay,” returned Menia, “talk not of rest until Frothi is content with what we bring him.”

Then Fenia started: “If he gives us no rest, let us take it ourselves. Why should we any longer grind good for him who only gives us evil? We can grind what we please. Let us revenge ourselves.”

Then Menia turned the handle quicker than ever, and in a wild voice she sang:

“I see a ship comes sailing With warriors bold aboard, There’s many a one that in Danish blood Would be glad to dip his sword. Say, shall we grind them hither? Say, shall they land to-night? Say, shall they set the palace afire? Say, shall they win the fight?”

Then called Fenia in a voice of thunder through the midnight air: “Frothi, Frothi, awake, awake! Wilt thou not listen to us? Have mercy and let us rest our weary limbs.” But all was still, and Frothi gave no answer to the cry.

“Nay,” answered Menia, “he will not hearken. Little he cares for the worn-out slaves. Revenge, revenge!”

And Frothi slept, not dreaming of the evil that was coming upon him.

And again Fenia shouted: “Frothi, Frothi, awake! The beacon is blazing. Danger is nigh. Wilt thou not spare?”

But Frothi gave no answer, and the giant women toiled on.

“O Frothi, Frothi, we cannot bear our weariness.” And still no answer came.

“Frothi, Frothi, danger is nigh thee. Well-manned ships are gliding over the sea. It is Mysingr who comes; his white sail flutters in the wind; his flag is unfurled. Frothi, Frothi, awake, awake; thou shalt be king no longer.”

And as the giant women ground, the words they spake came to pass—they were grinding revenge for themselves and brought the enemy nearer and nearer.

“Ho! hearken to the herald! Frothi, Frothi, the town is on fire. The palaces will soon be ruined heaps. Grind, Menia, ever more swiftly, until we grind death to Frothi.”

And Menia and Fenia ground and ground till Mysingr and his followers landed from the ships. They ground until they had reached the palace.

“To arms, to arms!” shouted the warder, but it was too late. The Gotlanders armed themselves; but who could stand against the army that the slave women were grinding against them?

Not long did the struggle last. Frothi and his Gotlanders fought bravely, but the sea-king and his allies were mightier, for the giantesses were in giant mood, and turned the handle faster and faster, until down fell the quern stones. Then sank Frothi pierced with wounds, and the fight was over. The army that Menia and Fenia had ground to help Mysingr vanished; and Mysingr and his men alone were left conquerors on the bloody field.

They loaded their ships with treasure, and Mysingr took with him Menia, Fenia, and the quern stones.

But, alas! Mysingr was no wiser than King Frothi had been.

Gold, however, was not his first thought; he had enough of that, but he wanted something else that just then was more to him than gold.

There was no salt on board the sea-king’s vessels; so he said: “Grind salt.”

And Menia and Fenia ground salt for Mysingr.

At midnight they asked if they had ground enough.

And Mysingr bade them grind on.

And so they ground and ground until the ship was so heavy with salt that it sank, and the sea-king and all his men were drowned.

Where the quern stones went down there is to this day a great whirlpool, and the waters of the sea have been salt ever since.

BRUNHILDA AND THE MAGIC SWORD

By Constance Maud

On the summit of a rocky mountain peak a beautiful maiden lay sleeping. On every side rose the tall dark pine trees, like huge giants on guard. A circle of magic fire formed a glowing wall around her rocky couch.

The sun rose and set, night succeeded day, winter and summer came and went, but the maiden slept on still.

From head to foot she was encased in shining armor. On her breast lay a shield, on her head glistened a warrior’s helmet, and at her side a spear. For on a day long past it had been decreed that thus this maiden should sleep, till awakened by the kiss of one who would dare the flames for her sake, and claim her as bride.

Many a knight, hearing of the beautiful sleeper, had thought to win his way to her; but no sooner did he see the angry fire darting out on all sides, and feel the scorching heat of the great flames, than the bravest fell back discouraged.

Time was when this fair warrior had dwelt with the gods and goddesses in Valhalla, for she was none other than Brunhilda, favorite daughter of Wotan the king. She had eight sisters, each one beautiful as the dawn, and knowing neither fear nor weakness; but among them all Brunhilda was fairest, bravest, and strongest. These nine maidens were known as the Valkyrie, and each was a warrior perfect in the art of war. Chief among their duties was to attend all battles on earth. Riding on their winged horses, they would hover over the battlefield, and, when a hero fell, swoop down and bear his lifeless body to Valhalla, where he would awaken to live among the gods, and be from henceforth one of the chosen bodyguard of Wotan.

Now it happened on a day in these times long past that Wotan called to him Brunhilda, and charged her that she should defend Siegmund the Volsung in a deadly combat he was about to engage in with the grim and savage Hunding.

Wotan had reasons for wishing to grant Siegmund a special favor. The Father of the Gods had once struck a mighty sword into the heart of an ancient ash tree, decreeing that it should belong to him alone who could pluck it out. Many a valiant knight had tried to win the sword; but all in vain. Buried deep in the ash-stem it remained till Siegmund came and with one powerful wrench drew forth the weapon. Then Wotan rejoiced that a man had been found strong enough to win his sword, and he loved Siegmund the Volsung greatly.

But Wotan hated Hunding, for he was a tyrant and a bully. With all his strength and bluster, he had never been able to pluck out the sword, though many a time had he tried, grinding his teeth savagely over his failure.

Now the cause of strife between Hunding and Siegmund was this—Hunding had a beautiful wife, Sieglinda by name, whom he had married sorely against her will. With her whole soul she loathed and hated the cruel Hunding, and only longed to escape from him. So it befell one day she fled with Siegmund the Volsung; for the first moment they met, these two loved one another, and Sieglinda said to herself: “It were better far to die with Siegmund than to live with Hunding.”