Cycles of Norse Mythology

Glenn Searfoss

Description

These stories are old, old as the Behmer Wold and seldom in life has there been such a brewing...Cycles of Norse Mythology captures the passion, cruelty, and heroism of an ancient world. Encompassing Odin's relentless pursuit of wisdom across the nine worlds, Gullveig's malicious death at the hands of the AEsir that sparks a brutal war with the Vanir, Thor's battles against the giants of Jotunheim, the tragedy of Volund, the many devious machinations of Loki, and the inescapable events of Ragnaroek, this lyrical re-imagining of the Norse myths presents the gripping adventures of the Norse gods and their foes in a style to delight modern readers of all ages.A detailed glossary provides a quick reference to the meaning behind names and terms used in the book.A Source Reference is included for persons who want to delve deeper into the study of Norse mythology.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Sagas
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 11 avril 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789820690
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Cycles of
Norse Mythology
Tales of the Æsir Gods
Glenn Searfoss




First published in 2019 by
Acorn Books
www.acornbooks.co.uk
Acorn Books is an imprint of
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2019 Glenn Searfoss
The right of Glenn Searfoss to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
ISBN of Hardback edition: 9781789820829
ISBN of Paperback edition: 9781789820713
ISBN of ePub edition: 9781789820690
ISBN of PDF edition: 9781789820706




I dedicate this book to my wife, Cynthia, whose constructive criticisms helped drive its scope, and to all our dogs, past and present (Hermes, Bear, Shenoah, Portia, Orchid, Puck, Cruiser, Little Bit, and Buri), whose patient companionship saw me through the project.



Acknowledgements
I gratefully acknowledge the translators, scholars, authors, and artists whose many and varied contributions over the centuries and into the modern day have made the subject of Norse Mythology accessible. Without their efforts and critical interpretations in this field, this book would not have been possible.
A special acknowledgement of the works: The Agricola and the Germainia by Publis Cornelius Tacitus. Translated by H. Mattingly. The Danish History by Saxo Grammaticus. Translated by Oliver Elton. The Heimskringla: A History of Norse Kings by Snorri Sturleson. Translations by Erling Monsen and Samuel Laing. The Poetic Edda / The Elder Edda by Saemund Sigfusson. Translations by Benjamin Thorpe, Lee M. Hollander, and Carloyne Larrington. The Prose Edda / The Younger Edda by Snorri Sturleson. Translations by Rasmus B. Anderson, Jesse L. Byock, Jean I. Young, and I. A. Blackwell. Teutonic Mythology by Jacob Grimm. Translated by James Steven Stallybrass. Teutonic Mythology – Gods and Goddesses of the Northland by Victor Rydberg. Translation by Rasmus B. Anderson. Ibn Fadlān’s Journey to Russia: A Tenth-Century Traveler from Baghdad to the Volga River . Translated by Richard Frye.
Cycles of
Norse Mythology



Cycle 1: Prophecy


In Pursuit of Wisdom
Many paths I traveled, made my road go forth. How the world will be? How the days will be? How to triumph over others? These things I desired to know.
Young I was, fair haired, with smooth cheeks, when first I wandered the long weary ways, eagerly seeking understanding; for wisdom is seldom bound inside four walls. Kin, I visited—those dwelling in far-off lands—that I might profit from their knowledge. The famous son of Bolthor honored my request. He taught me nine spells for free, but I hungered for more.
Now he posited a charge for his wisdom. For the mere price of an eye he offered me a draught from his well that I might see farther, become wiser. Cool was the drink poured from Odrerir that fired my mind with color, inspired my thoughts. Then I began to bloom, to thrive, and to be wise. Word came to me from word, deed came to me from deed; much I came to understand. For a second drink, I found the price he asked too great.
And my wisdom grew.
To test my endurance of mind and body, I hung nine days from the ancient tree. Deprived of food, parched in thirst, I gave myself over to me. With screams on my lips, I drew runes from the depths. Brought to the Æsir the sacred knowledge of how to carve them, how to stain them, and how to work with them.
And my wisdom grew.
Widely I traveled. Much I experienced. Eager to test my power, I challenged wise foes in ancient knowledge, wagered my head in contests of wisdom, and so learned the company kept in far-off halls. The one who knows nothing yet speaks loudly becomes a point of ridicule, a laughing stock when seated among the wise. Cautious, I spoke my knowledge only when needful; otherwise, I remained silent. By such prudence, I preserved my head while others lost theirs.
And my wisdom grew.
In my wanderings, I learned the languages of birds: the wren, the starling, the hawk, the eagle. But the cleverest of all, ravens, the black birds that range across the lands, calling to each other as they wing through the sky, from them I learned the most.
Like men they stand sentries to warn of impending danger. Like men they share knowledge of what they have seen, what they have heard. Like men they feast in the field after a hard-fought battle.
Two I called from the dark flocks circling high above that I might more easily learn from them what happens across the nine worlds. Munin, I called one for the clarity of mind. Hugin, I called the other for the swiftness of thought. Each day they wing across the wide world. Each evening they return to perch on my shoulders and whisper into my ears all they have seen.
And my wisdom grew.
Faring along beaten paths, for fun I hung my clothes on a signpost beside the road. It was reckoned a man by travelers, who dared not approach for fear of the stranger. So, I learned the power of disguise through the wary perceptions of others. Naked, a man is considered naught. The clothes he wears, the actions he takes, the honor he bears, and his conduct among others, are the trappings by which he is perceived, the name by which he becomes known.
And my wisdom grew.
Many roads I traveled into countless lands. Numerous roles I played that I might learn. I became known by various names, some only the winds can pronounce.
Among the gods, I am called Vifud, the wayfarer. Vak is ever alert. Hroptatyr rules as the god over all other gods. Omi heralds the crashing sound of shouted commands. On a whim, Oski grants wishes. Gondlir bears the wand of power. Hâr tells of my one eye. Harbard marks my graybeard. Ud notes my rank.
In assembly, they call me Gagnráth for sage advice given free of guile. Fjolsvith recognizes the wisdom that is mine to share. Thrôr enjoys inciting strife among advisers. At council table, Havi holds the highest seat.
Some Jotun know me as Bolverk, the bale worker, while for others I am Bölverkr, the evildoer.
Mariners, farmers too—for produce must be shipped, call me Ialk, lord of boatloads; Farma-God, the god of cargoes; Kialar, guider of keels; and Farmatýr, the burden god.
Prisoners call me Hapta-God, Hanga-God, and Gallows Lord.
Men know me as Odin, the Alfodur, and Ygg, the terrible one. Ofnir delights in entangling others in a web of words. Sidhott draws attention to my wide-brimmed hat. Sidskegg tells of my broad beard, Bileyg the far sight of my one good eye. Gangleri travels the wide worlds. As Thekk I find welcome in all homes.
In war, I clear the field as Heriar, the leader; Herian, the fighter; and Vidur, the tree of battle. Grímnir, I am called for my battle mask. Hialmberi, the helmet wearer, is found on any field where men contest with weapons. Fimblultyr accounts for my mighty strength that drives foes to their knees.
My delight in battle earned me the names Sigfodur, the war father; Herteit, the war merry; Glapsvid, the maddener; and Báleyg for the flame that burns bright in my eye when the fight is joined—for defeat in battle starts always with the eyes. Hnikar, I hold for my skill with a spear. As Atríth, I charge the field on horseback. Valorous warriors call me, Herfodur, the father of hosts, and Valfodur, father of the slain.
As a seeker of truth, I am Sanngetal. As a speaker of truth, I am Sath. Vegtam clears the way. Fiolnir notes my skill at concealment. Skilfing marks my ability to shake some men awake, while Svafnir lulls others into timeless sleep.
By these and many other names, I accomplished great deeds.
And my wisdom grew.
I listened carefully to the talk of runes, heeded the candid speech of others; good counsel they offer to an open mind capable of discernment. I became careful with words and thoughts, for each have their own power; one long suffers the consequences when either is ill-chosen. So, I learned not to reproach another for what is common among all. Many are made foolish by that mighty desire.
And my wisdom grew.
In my youth, I was quick to give and to forget affronts. As dry straw kindled on a fire flares hot, then dies to a dust of white ash that is carried away by a breath of wind, so, too, flashed my anger. As I grew older I became deliberate in both, measured as red-short iron in the forge: slow to heat, slow to cool, intense in between.
And my wisdom grew.
I sought power that I might direct my fate, to protect my kin and everything we had created. Harsh were the lessons learned. Now my heart is seldom happy. For pain that teaches, falls drop-by-drop on the heart. Endless, remorseless, it erodes shields, eating away reserve until, despite our will, comes the awful grace of wisdom.
To know one’s fate begs caution. The cost of wisdom is more than an eye. Wisdom feeds on that which is within. Innocence falls before its relentless hunger, as does integrity and honor, until all that remains is purpose.


Hlebard’s Hall
“But you just returned,” Frigg sniffed, folding her robes about her legs. With a quick flip of an edge she jerked the pleats straight over her knees. “Must you leave again so soon?”
One eye flared bright over the goblet rim as Odin drained the cup of wine at his side. “I must be certain.” He upended the cup on the table. “She is the only one who can t